 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You are listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano Remote Project, in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in a serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 17. Written by Juhof Reit. Recorded by Juhof Reit. Years of training had taught Tracy to conceal her outward emotions, and as a result, her face didn't falter for even a second from the look of confusion. Inside, on the other hand, she was strengthened. Finally, she had located what she had searched for. All the elaborate lures that she had set up before had failed, but at last, she had managed to draw the red out of hiding. The red? She asked, with a perfectly masqueraded voice of confusion and uncertainty. Eventually, you will know, but not now. The red answered. Tracy let her head drop in a manner that signaled frustration and acknowledgement. Will you contact Trevor for me? I will just let me gather my thoughts for a while. Certainly. I will return in an hour, she said in a gentle tone. As the red exited the room, Tracy stood up and pressed her fingers on her throat. Instantly, she heard the subtle beep in her ear that signaled a successful satellite connection to global HQ. Then, with a perfectly trained technique of vibrating her vocal cords without moving her lips or making a sound, she uttered. This is top. Authorization Gamma Charlie O'Niner. Eliminate T. I repeat, Eliminate T. A black van pulled by the curb outside a hotel. For a while, it idled, until the driver switched off the engine and got out. He was dressed in a full black combat camouflage, bulletproof vest and a military type utility belt. He flipped over his cell phone and hit answer. Sergeant Reynolds here. He listened for a while, without saying a word, then closed the phone, dropped it to the ground and with a violent thrust of his leg, crushed it to pieces. He then banged the side of the van with his fist and said, Move out, we have authorization. The van's back doors opened and men in similar combat outfits burst out, each one carrying a Heclerite Koch MP-35 submachine gun. With a silent efficiency, they all checked their weapons, put on their balaclavas and combat helmets and proceeded to the hotel. Trevor, wake up! Come on, get up! Hazel was shaking Trevor vigorously as he opened his eyes, still too much asleep to understand what was going on. As his brain cleared the fog around his mind, he noticed that Hazel was up, fully dressed with a gun in her hand. The gun got Trevor's mind to clear up in an instant and he jumped up. What's wrong, he asked, now very aware of his surroundings. We're in trouble, she hissed back. Here, take this. She threw Trevor a fully loaded automatic pistol. Trevor had defied the urge to ask more questions, but he realized this certainly wasn't the time for such things. He held up the gun, checked the clip and loaded a bullet into the chamber. Meanwhile, Hazel had moved the bed against the hotel room door, covered the windows and hunched herself in a corner. Now, she whispered, we wait. Outside, the men made little noise as they progressed towards their target. Only the slight sound of their guns hitting against their belts made their presence known. Two of the men took positions behind the hotel room door and rigged the door with an explosive. Meanwhile, three others made their descent along the hotel wall along ropes secured on the roof. Other guests checked in at the hotel had been quietly evacuated, so no one witnessed these men and their actions. Finally, as they all were at their designated positions, their radios crackled to life with the word, go. Second, sticked by as Trevor and Hazel nervously waited for the inevitable. Their eyes were closed and their hands were on their ears to avoid the effects of fast bangs. Tick tock, tick tock, the clocks inside their heads echoed. Tick tock, tick tock, boom. The windows shattered and the door flew in, followed immediately by a bang and a bright white flash as the flashbangs exploded. Laser sights glowed through the smoke in the air as the combat uniformed men searched for their target. Hazel was up in a heartbeat, firing her gun at the nearest assailant. The man dropped as the bullet hit him. Hazel spun around looking for the next target, but as she did this, her body was covered with the bright red dots of the laser sights. Take her down, crackled the earpieces of the attackers, and so they did. They squeezed the triggers of the guns and as the bullets sprouted out, everything just seemed to stop for a moment. Then the bullets hit her, dead on with full power. Trevor watched in horror as the bullet ripped through her body, making the deadly way into her vital organs. Trevor led out an almost animal-like roar as he fired his automatic weapon at the assailants. So fierce was his attack that the men near him were down before they even realized what hit them. In an instant he was out the door and on his way. Do not pursue, do not pursue, roared the attackers' earpieces. As the men lowered their weapons, Sergeant Reynolds entered the room. We will get our chance another time. As efficiently as they had appeared, the men left, leaving only the shattered body of Hazel behind them. For hours Trevor hid in the bushes nearby the hotel. He had seen the men leave but couldn't gather the strength to move a muscle. The image of Hazel's body being struck by bullets kept reappearing in his head. Finally he was able to get himself moving. His mind was telling him to get as far as possible from the hotel but his heart wouldn't let him. He couldn't abandon Hazel. As he entered the room his heart sunk. The first glimpse at Hazel's body told everything. She was dead. Nothing could have saved her from the hail of bullets her body had suffered. Trevor knelt beside her body tears running wildly down his cheeks. Something in her face caught his eyes. Her face was no longer controlled by her training and as Trevor lay his eyes on her now serene face he finally was able to see what had looked so familiar about her. It wasn't the face of Hazel Brown anymore nor the face of the travel agent. It was the face of his wife, the face of Rebecca. A new kind of pain arose from inside. The pain of finding something you had lost before only to lose it again. As the first rays of the morning sun made their way into the room Trevor lay down his head on her cold chest and wept. End of Chapter 17 Recorded on 18th of November 2006 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 18 Written and recorded by Betsy Bush Wiping away the tears, Trevor suddenly realized that he would need to get himself together. As deep as his grief ran, he knew that he had no choice but to leave the hotel as quickly and carefully as possible. Hazel, or Rebecca rather, had been counting on him to help the order take down the global database. He could not waste time by being caught at a gruesome crime scene. Hastily surveying the room, Trevor picked up some shattered laptop computer pieces. He was disappointed to find it had been shot to bits in the firefight, but decided it was probably for the best. I suppose it wouldn't have been of any use with everything being monitored by global anyway, he thought to himself. Trevor had had the manuscript on the floor under the table with him last night, and it remained intact in its yellow envelope. He gathered it up with a few other non-technology items and stuffed them into his duffel bag. Clean underwear, toothbrush. Despite the grim scene, Trevor couldn't help grinning to himself as he thought. I wonder if global has figured out a way to keep track of how many times a day I brush my teeth. Maybe there's even a mini GPS in my toothbrush. He bitterly tossed the toothbrush aside. After slipping down a back staircase and out of the building, he headed for a quiet Manhattan branch of the New York Public Library. He still didn't know whom he could trust, but he needed to lay low until he decided on his next move, and a public library was always a good place to get lost in anonymity. Finding an empty carol at the back of the library, out of view of the rest of the room, he brought out the manuscript. Setting aside the envelope and the thin cardboard backing that had been used to support the stack of typewritten onion skin pages, he began leafing through them and rereading parts, hoping to piece together some of his thoughts. How could Hazel have been Rebecca? He must have imagined the resemblance. Rebecca had died, hadn't she? When he had asked Hazel about Rebecca Sharp, she managed to elude the question and give him a vague enough answer that he wasn't sure what she knew. This hadn't surprised him at the time, as Hazel had already established that she wasn't offering up any information. He knew he'd needed to put it out of his mind for now. There was time to grieve later. Or re-grieve, if necessary. His life was in danger. He needed to focus on his mission. After several undisturbed hours without any new leads from the manuscript, he stacked the pages and slid them back into their envelope. He had forgotten to put the thin sheet of cardboard in behind the pages, and as he reached for it, he noticed a corner curling back slightly. He absentmindedly picked at it, like nervously peeling the label off a beer bottle before tossing the empty bottle in the trash. He wasn't surprised to find that the board peeled easily apart, but between the layers of paper pulp that made up the sheet of thin cardboard, Trevor was startled to find a bit of writing on the inside of the board. Shapes formed themselves into groups of what Trevor supposed were words, but he couldn't read the meaning of the words. Running his fingers lightly across the surface of the writing, the parallel-tuckstered ridges told him that he was holding a fragment of papyrus. Prezac had used the manuscript as a cover for the real clue. Trevor immediately knew where he needed to go next. Luckily, he hadn't headed up to Cornell, so he was already in the right city. Hailing a taxi, Trevor headed to Broadway and 114th Street. Trevor had heard Professor Prezac talking about his work on translating languages written on ancient papyrus, but while Trevor had been interested in Prezac's professional work on codes and ciphers, he had not paid much attention to this hobby of collecting and translating ancient texts. Trevor did not imagine that Prezac had accidentally mixed this fragment in with the manuscript. The Professor may have been scatterbrained, but he did not misplace valuable relics. While spending time chatting with Prezac, Trevor had gotten to know some of the other students who admired this Professor's work and hobbies. Shanna had seemed rather unremarkable the few times he had run into her outside of Prezac's office, but they had spent some time talking while they waited for the Professor to return for office hours. She had also been a friend of Rebecca's, and Trevor had seen Shanna occasionally when she and Rebecca had studied together. Though they had not kept in touch, Trevor knew from the Professor that Shanna had gone on to study rare book and paper conservation in Vienna and was now working as an assistant in the pepperology lab at Columbia University, which held one of the few specialized pepperology collections in the world. Trevor navigated his way through small crowds of students on the commons in front of the university library building. Once inside, he headed toward the elevators, as they called them in the States, and lost in thought stepped on to the nearest open elevator. Where's your up? asked the man who held the door open for Trevor. Pardon? Trevor took a mental double-take as the chinchilla started kicking up the dust in his brain. Are you going up? the man repeated impatiently, with finger poised over the elevator buttons. What floor? Oh, yes, eighth floor, please, Trevor replied, still unsure if he had heard the man right the first time or not. Trevor wouldn't have thought twice about mishearing if the phrase Where's your up hadn't triggered something in his brain, but where had he heard it before? Trevor examined the stranger with his peripheral vision, but noticed nothing unusual about the man's behavior or appearance. Perhaps in his thirties, the man stood casually facing the front of the elevator, with book bags slung over his shoulder. Probably a graduate student heading for some serious studying, Trevor reassured himself, but was still uneasy. As the man stepped off the elevator at the fourth floor, Trevor allowed himself to relax a bit from his hyper-alert state, but sent the chinchilla on a search through his personal memories, just in case. On the eighth floor, Trevor took the opportunity to gaze out of the expansive window toward the city. There was no hurry now. He was lost in a huge city. Global couldn't find him here. He had time to listen to the chinchilla. Shhh! Hisses a six-year-old Tracy as she and her twin sneak into a spare bedroom in Aunt Lydia's sprawling 1970s-style house. With the grown-ups being so serious, perhaps it was another funeral, or maybe just a regular family gathering. The children are getting antsy. Hide and go seek with the cousins is exactly what they need, while the adults talk and linger over drinks in the dining room. Trevor heads toward the bed with its heap of overcoats and wraps, where the guests have piled them. Tracy, bury me under the coats. Then you hide in the closet. He whispers, delighted with the idea of this sneaky hiding-place. He burrows under the heavy wool and fur coats as Tracy arranges them over him. She dashes to the closet just as they hear footsteps on the wood floor and the hallway outside of the room. Tense with anticipation, Trevor tries holding his breath so as not to be discovered too soon. Footsteps enter the room and the bed sinks on one side as a grown-up, not a cousin, sits down. The quiet rattle of the Bakelite phonem bedside table, the worrying of the rotary dial. Then Uncle Jeffrey's muffled voice. Where's your up? Pause. I know where top is, but where's your up? Pause. Blue will cover while I'm attending to family business, but I still need to be in contact with your upper. Pause. All right, fair enough. Goodbye. Shrieks of childish laughter pour from the closet as Cousin Julie discovers Tracy's hiding-place. The girls pounce on the mound of coats and Trevor erupts from the pile giggling and jumping on the bed. Uncle Jeffrey, still in the room, joins in the laughter. After hearing an extremely abridged version of Trevor's adventures, Shana took the cardboard from Trevor and carefully examined it through a small magnifying glass over her workbench. She tucked her graying hair behind her ears as she gently brushed away some debris from the surface. I'll need to remove some of the paste that's holding the papyrus in place on the board. Looks like Prezac did a good job, though. He even used acid-free cardboard. Shana grinned as she began dabbing the surface with a fine paintbrush from a small water container. I'm not so good with Middle Eastern languages, but Dr. Grant or Gary will probably be able to translate it for you. Trevor watched as she continued her delicate work, for which he knew he never would have had the patience. Shana suddenly raised her head. Ah! You have a polimpsest on your hands here," she said knowingly. Really? Trevor responded, trying to hide his interest. Can you make out what was written before? Well, Shana nudged the fibers of the fragment with a thin metal spatula. No, not really, but it is clear that the undertext has been washed off to make way for the new text. That's rather rare with papyrus, though. It was so cheap to make that no one bothered to reuse it. This is seen more often with animal-based documents like parchment or vellum. Anything else you can tell me about it? Trevor inquired. He had suspected that there was more to the papyrus fragment than just what appeared on the surface. Hmm. Shana hesitated. Yes. It's a forgery, and not a very good one. Yeah? How can you tell? Trevor could no longer hold back his excitement. Well, besides it's having been overwritten, the writing is in the wrong direction. The text is written across the vertical fibers, and the side with the horizontal fibers is blank. The ink isn't right, either. Shana shot Trevor a quizzical glance, making sure that he was following her. Trevor nodded. And there's something else, she continued. What? Trevor urged her. Let me show you, Shana replied, and reached for a light box from a shelf over her bench. Come on. Carrying the papyrus on the cardboard in one hand and the lamp in the other, she led Trevor into a small closet-like room, closed the door, plugged in the lamp, and switched off the main light. The tiny room glowed blue in the light from the UV lamp, the shape of a cross, and some Latin words stood out clearly against the pale papyrus background. See what I mean? Shana concluded. End of Chapter 18. Recorded in Marquette, MI on November 19, 2006. Write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 19. Written by Laura M. D. Recorded by Esther. Trevor looked in astonishment at the strange symbol that appeared so vividly under the light. The cross had no significance to him. It was a simple, definite design. However, it was the Latin words following that intrigued him. Having no knowledge of Latin whatsoever, he turned to Shana. She smiled. It's the motto for the Knights of Malta. Trevor nodded. He sat back in his chair, wiping his hot face with his cool hands. Oh, and there's something else underneath this. He sat back up. Shana quickly read what was written underneath the cross. As she read, he could see a sharp stab of fear flying across her face. She gulped loudly. Trevor she whispered under her breath. Trevor became fidgety. What does it say? She looked at him with scared eyes, before pushing the papyrus towards him. He gasped as he read what was scrawled underneath. I'm being held hostage. Help! Red looked at the bleary-eyed Tracy as she stared at the window. She felt pangs of sympathy for this distraught girl. Shall I make you something to drink? A cup of coffee, maybe? Tracy nodded, and Red slipped out of the room. Once the door was firmly closed, Tracy quickly engaged in a satellite conversation via earpiece to global headquarters. This is top authorization Gamma Charlie O. Niner. How did the elimination of Tigo? The reply was quick. Unsuccessful. Accomplice killed, but T. managed to get away. We do, however, have news on his sister. She escaped. Repeat, Tracy Ames has escaped from captivity. The news was shocking to top. She knew Tracy was smart, but she didn't realize that she was smart enough to escape the clutches of global, hostage-takers. They were the best. They were trained, just like her. She had been trained in the art of impersonation, of deceiving others, just as she had done over the past weeks. She had followed Tracy, picking up the subtleties of her accent, her relationship with her husband, and with her children. As a master in the art of disguise, it caused her no distress to kidnap Tracy and take her place. She was cunning, she knew. But when the order had decided to kidnap the real Tracy, she had already cemented her disguise. She had no choice but to become Tracy. Now she just wondered how Tracy had escaped. She was just a normal person. Nothing special. But she must have outwitted the people at global, and that wasn't an entirely simple thing to do. Top knew what kind of security there was. Tracy had been given drugs to knock her out, and she had been tied up. She was being guarded by hundreds of people. She would have had to have several key codes to get past any of the doors. The possibility of this bewildered Top was impossible, or next to impossible. There must have been someone under cover working at global headquarters. It was the only logical explanation. That, or Tracy, had been trained in the art of escaping the clutches of the best hostage takers in the world, and she severely doubted that. They have taken him hostage. The words echoed throughout Trevor's mind. He had been there. He could have helped him. He thought the global agents hadn't come to Professor Prasik's office, but he had been wrong. They were there the whole time, probably pointing guns at the Professor, forcing him to act as normally as possible. I'm being held hostage. The words kept flying in and out of Trevor's mind. He had been there, and could have helped the man. He could have kicked himself for not nosing around the office more. The Professor must be quick, Trevor thought to himself, for writing that on the papyrus, knowing as well as anything that I'd study it and find it. What he'd not counted on was the day wasted between receiving the documents back and the actual study of the papyrus. We have to go, he motioned to Shana. He grabbed up the documents, forcefully placed them in his pockets, and ran up the door. Shana followed him with a look of confusion on her face. Where are we going, she asked breathlessly, following him down several sets of stairs. To Professor Prasik's office. If he's been kidnapped, he probably won't still be there. His kidnappers would have ensured that. I don't care, Trevor screamed back. He's a decent man, and he doesn't need to be involved in all this nonsense. As they raced out onto the street, Trevor hailed a taxi and hurled his body in. To the New York University Department of Linguistics. The taxi pulled off, leaving Shana alone on the street. Trevor's mind was racing with questions. Would the Professor still be there? Would the people holding him, hostage, have killed him? What does the Professor have that anyone would have wanted, apart from a connection with me? Trevor's thoughts were interrupted by the taxi driver calling his name. New York University Linguistic Department, did you say? Trevor replied absentmindedly. Uh-huh. Suddenly he realized, how did the taxi driver know my name? End of Chapter 19. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project, in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 20. Written by Zachary Brewstergeis, recorded by Zachary Brewstergeis. The driver turned onto West 34th Street. Why are you turning, asked Trevor? He's faster, shouted the taxi driver. He's very, very good, you see. NYU Linguistics is on Broadway, said Trevor. We don't need to turn here. He's good, he's good! Trevor swallowed. Not only does this guy know my name, thought, but now he has a foreign accent all of a sudden. All right, he said, let me out here. No, no, we go to NYU, the taxi driver laughed. Customer always right. The customer says we stop, Trevor banged on the safety glass. Now! The driver didn't answer as he sped through a yellow light and turned onto the Long Island Expressway. Trevor didn't know much about New York, but he was reasonably sure that a Manhattan University would not be found on Long Island. All right, he thought, assess the situation. The professor's been kidnapped. This taxi driver is most likely kidnapping me. No way out unless I open the door and tumble onto the highway. How can I distract him? Inspiration struck. The sloth! If I can just get him to look around. On a whim, Trevor called out, where's your up? The driver turned around. That face! Trevor was momentarily stunned by the resemblance to... He was in a room. There was a bare bulb in the ceiling, a door on the far wall. He was sitting in a chair. There was a glass of water on its small table near him. Trevor blinked. What the hell just happened? He was weak as though waking from a long nap. He was in no shape to even reach out for the water, let alone explore his surroundings. Best to just wait and get his bearings. He didn't have to wait long. The door opened and though the light blinded him momentarily, he could tell from the silhouette that it was the taxi driver. Are you all right? he asked in perfect English. How did I get here? Trevor croaked. The driver chuckled. You think you're the only one who's discovered the sloth. He remained at the door careful to keep his distance. That and some chloroform administered while you were entranced. I admit, if I hadn't surprised you, you might have gotten me first. We know you're quite skilled. But really, Trevor, would it be a good idea to hypnotize someone who's driving down a New York expressway at eighty miles per hour? Surprise, Trevor murmured. Yes, the driver continued. Surprise. You surprised me too, of course. Where's your up, indeed? But I knew who you were, Trevor, and you didn't know who I was. He stepped forward into the light, revealing his face, the face which had started this whole ridiculous adventure with nothing but a bequest. Trevor's mouth dropped open. Grayson? Gerhard Grayson nodded. You should call me Gray, he smiled. Grayson's not my real name anyhow, or perhaps I should say it's one of my many real names. What have you done with Professor Prezac? Gray laughed, a booming, deep-throated laugh that seemed incongruous in his thin frame. He's fine, really, Trevor. You should be worried about someone else. An ache in Trevor's stomach. Fear? What do you mean? Huh. Gray held out his right hand and gestured to the door with the other. Let's take a walk. Who was the mole? Top paced her cathedral vaulted cell. Who could it be? Who could have let Tracy out? The upper's middles and lowers didn't know who Top was, internal security. But Top made damn sure she knew all of them. The lowers and middles didn't have the access. They could be eliminated. And wouldn't it have been wonderful to eliminate Fulvia if she had the excuse that crazy loose cannon? But no, concentrate on the task at hand. So it had to be an upper, but who? She grimaced. Of all days. Red was in her hands. True, technically she was Red's captive, but that was a minor detail. The well-placed blows, or even a strangling if Top was feeling whimsical, and the order would be finished. But now she couldn't destroy Global's rival only to face a challenge from within. She had only remained in power this long by keeping her friends close and her enemies closer. There was one solution only. Escape. Trevor and Gray walked down a long white corridor, fluorescent light streaming from the high ceiling. Bach's the well-tempered clavier, played on the harpsichord by the sound of it, floated in from below, oddly. They passed several doors on the left side, none on the right. Where are we, Trevor demanded? Gray's side. Southern Connecticut, I think, he said, is really quite boring, actually. Trevor shook his head. I mean, what is this place, this complex, or... Oh, that, Gray said. I'm not about to give the game away, Trevor. You know too much already. I don't know a thing, muttered Trevor. Well, true, Gray admitted. A great man once said, there are known knowns, things we know that we know. There are known unknowns, things we know we don't know. There are unknown unknowns, things we don't know that we don't know. Great man, scoffed Trevor, that was... He forgot one thing, interrupted Gray. There are also unknown knowns, things we don't know that we know. He stopped Trevor and stared intently at him. You know more than you think, Trevor. The hallway had changed from an antiseptic white modernity to a cave-like stone. No, not a cave. A fort. Trevor looked around, momentarily disoriented. There was the hallway, several yards behind them. He had completely missed the transition. They were standing next to an enormous steel door. For instance, Trevor, Gray said, his voice dropping to a whisper barely louder than the boch that somehow still surrounded them. You know that you are now in Connecticut, or at least somewhere near New York. Because if I had taken you anywhere farther, you would be a lot hungrier. You know that Hazel Brown was Rebecca Sharp. Trevor's breath caught and he coughed. Gray looked down and continued, and let me say that I miss her too. He looked back up, and most importantly, you know your sister. Trevor stared at him and rushed forward. What have you done with Tracy, he shouted. Gray smiled. I pray you take your hands from my throat, he recited as he sucker-punched Trevor in the stomach. Trevor reeled backwards, gasping. Sorry about that. Control yourself, Trevor. Tracy is fine. Both of her. He stood in front of the door, arms folded. Trevor gaped at him. Both? Gray nodded. We had her in a cathedral in Rome. The order just loves old buildings alas. The best we could come up with here in the colonies was a retrofitted fort left over from the American War for Independence. But in any case, as I said, we had her in a cathedral in Rome, or thought we did. That is, until our mole in global, a sadly low-ranking security officer, was assigned to her case and discovered the global had her. So if they had your sister, then who did we have? We don't know. In fact, for all we know, global's Tracy may be the imposter. In any case, we secured the second Tracy from global's clutches. Believe me, when I say she's better off with us, you met Fulvia, did you not? And now the second Tracy is also on her way to Rome, just as you shall be. Trevor's shoulders sagged. World con again? Gray frown defended. What's the matter? We may be a strange, inexplicably unknown organization using and abusing your family, friends, and colleagues for our own nefarious ends. But at least we know how to run a profitable airline. He grabbed the steel door's handle and twisted it clockwise. With a loud clank, it unlatched, and Gray pulled it open to reveal a clear grassy field. In this case, however, he shouted over a high-pitched whine, I recommend a private jet! He escorted Trevor out the door and around a corner. They were next to an airstrip, where a DC-10 in World Con livery stood, a staircase leading to its cockpit. Dazed, Trevor didn't argue as Gray hustled him up the stairs. They walked into the main cabin, which was decked out like a plush living room, complete with entertainment-centre mini-bar and what looked like a Mac so advanced even Apple didn't have it yet. Gray gestured to a set of standard first-class airline seats in the rear of the cabin. We'll need to sit there for take-off, he said, but afterward we can feel free to roam about the cabin. Is there net access on that thing? asked Trevor gesturing at the computer. Of course, said Gray, planning to catch up on your listening. Trevor shot him a look. They sat down. Gray pointedly buckled his seat belt after a moment Trevor did so also. The jet began to accelerate down the runway, pressing them back in their seats. So what do you want from me? Trevor asked. Obviously I'm coming with you, otherwise you'll kill Tracy, but what do you want from me? Gray looked to scans at him. We would never kill Tracy. We need you to figure out which Tracy is which. He smiled at Trevor's open-mouthed stare. Yes, you see, we know that the false Tracy is someone high up in global's hierarchy. We don't know how high, but we do know that she should have the knowledge we need to take down global's systems once and for all. Find your sister, we let her go. Find your sister's imposter's secret, we let you go. Or if you prefer, you help us eliminate global. Trevor nodded. Which is what Hazel, Rebecca, asked me to do. For the first time there was something like kindness in Gray's eyes. If you won't do it for us, consider doing it for her. The jet soared past Long Island and over the Blue Atlantic. End of Chapter 20, recorded on the 21st of November, 2006. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 21, written by Maria Marabi, recorded by Maria Marabi. Trevor found himself staring out of the window as the plane flew high above the ocean. He felt no compulsion to use the computer and go online, especially not with Gray watching him. But that was not the only reason for his hesitation. For the first time in a very long while, he allowed himself to feel tired, tired of everything that had ever meant anything to him. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and stared at the water below. Becky had loved the ocean. He remembered the trip they'd taken long ago. It had been early springtime then, and the flowers were just starting to bloom. They had gone to Stanford, mainly because Becky had researched to do. Of course, in the end, they'd hardly got in any research done. Trevor smiled at the memory. Becky had decided she wanted to stay outside and watch the waves instead. It seemed like it had taken place so long ago. It had been what, twenty years ago? Trevor sighed. Maybe it had happened long ago. But not so long ago that it had been forgotten. Everything had changed since the plane crash. Trevor shuddered at the memory. They hadn't even had a proper funeral for the victims. And now she was gone again. He could hardly believe he hadn't recognized her. But he hadn't. He took a deep breath. He was starting to lose his composure. He felt a hand on the back of his arm and started upright. His forehead felt cold from where it had been pressed against the glass. There is where they are, said Gray, pointing out of the window. Trevor stared, wondering if he'd fallen asleep. They are flying over land now. He could partially see the cathedral Graves pointing to. It towered above the other buildings. It was old, and that was basically all he could see. A few minutes later, they had landed at what seemed to be a private airfield in the middle of a veritable ancient ruin. Trevor stood up, his legs shaking a little. Trevor remained silent as they disembarked. His mind blank except for one thought. If you won't do it for us, consider doing it for her. He wished life would just go about to being simple. No organizations would have an agendas. Nothing. Gray was seeing something. Trevor looked at him and realized the man was speaking into a mic. Arrived. Repeat. I have Trevor. Has the second trace he arrived. Negative, sir, came to reply. She should be here soon. Reynolds was bringing her in. Good. Let me know when she gets here. Yes, sir. Gray turned to Trevor. Follow me. There's someone you should see. Having no choice, Trevor followed the other man up a few moss-covered steps into a large courtyard. When Gray had said cathedral, Trevor had assumed he'd meant just that. A cathedral. But it seemed that he was wrong. This was no mere cathedral. After all, how many cathedrals had their own courtyard and landing strip? The rumble of another plane approaching pulled him from his ruminations and he looked back, expecting to see the aircraft landing. It wasn't, however, and continued flying overhead. It was then that Trevor noticed it wasn't a world-con plane. Gray noticed that Trevor wasn't following. He gestured toward the old building. Come. There will be time for wondering later. Professor Andel Prazok paced in his cell. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know how he'd gotten there or what time it was. The only thing he did know was that they'd taken him for a reason. They wanted his skills, his abilities, and no. He didn't think he was deluding himself and assuming they wouldn't kill him. They wanted him alive. Now, who exactly were they? He could hear the footsteps of the person in the cell next to him. Judging by their lightness, they were the footsteps of a woman. Occasionally, he could hear snatches of conversation or at least half a conversation. He knew for certain that only one person was in the cell next to his and that one person had been moved there only recently. Trevor, what have you gotten me into, he thought. In the other cell, the woman had started talking again. This time, there was mention of tea and top. Perhaps the poor soul was losing her mind? The door opened. Light flooded the cells. What kind of person kept a dungeon? Prozac peered at the newcomers. One looked familiar. Trevor? Trevor did not seem to notice him and just kept looking into the other cell. Prozac wondered what was so interesting. Tracy? Trevor's voice was hoarse. Tracy, you okay? The man standing next to Trevor cleared his throat. Prozac saw the look of consternation pass across Trevor's face as he spun around and faced the man. Some sort of unspoken conversation passed between them. Trevor, I'm so glad to see you. It was the woman's voice. Trevor looked back at her. To Prozac, his eyes were wild, frightened, like a young child that only recently lost its mother. There was something false about the way she spoke that put Prozac on edge. Trevor seemed not to notice it, however. He seemed to have withdrawn into his own private world, surrounded only by his thoughts. Prozac could see the change that had been wrought in his personality and wondered what had caused it. Gone was a normally cheerful, confident Trevor, and his place was a silent, brooding man. Prozac sighed. The ratio of things he didn't know to things he did know was a lot to a little. It distressed him terribly. Reynolds is here, sir, said the voice in Gray's earpiece. He's got the other woman. Good, Gray muttered. He watched as Trevor stood in front of the woman who was or wasn't his sister. In a way, he pitied Trevor. His task would be a hard one, not only his task, but perhaps the rest of his life as well. Tell him to bring her down. Yes, sir. Trevor heard footsteps coming down the stairs he had only recently traversed himself. The stairs down to the dungeon. He almost laughed at the thought, a dungeon, and one that was being used at that. Who would have imagined it? The door burst open and his sister entered, or he thought she was his sister. In any case, it was a woman who resembled Tracy. She was followed by a man in an unidentifiable military-style uniform. It was this man who caught Trevor's attention. Reynolds was it? The name meant nothing to him, but the man's stance, his face, were so familiar. Here she is, sir. The flight was a bit rough, but we made it. Trevor vacked his memory. Where had he heard that voice before? Thank you, Sergeant Reynolds. How are your men? Fine, sir, he glanced at Trevor, seeming oddly nervous. The brown girl? Trevor didn't give him a chance to finish his sentence. He finally remembered. Reynolds had been the one in charge of the soldiers that had shot at him, had killed Becky. He launched himself at Reynolds, thrusting his sister, if the woman was really his sister, aside. All coherent thoughts left him. He was overcome by the animal need to hit, to strike and cause injury. He felt his fist hit hard muscle and didn't care about the fact that he was in middle age, not particularly physical man, or that his opponent was much younger and stronger than he was. He didn't care about anything. He was only vaguely aware of a cell door scraping open, of Grace's voice shouting from a distance. Footsteps resounded against a stone floor and people flooded into the dungeon. He felt arms wrap around him, trying to pull him away. He heard what sounded like a gunshot and felt blood spattered on his body. There's shouts all around him. He gradually became aware that his hands were wrapped around a man's throat. He squeezed. Rebekah, Hazel, he felt like a knight's warrant to avenge his beloved's death. Someone struck the back of his head. Spot stand before his eyes, but his grip remained strong. Another blow, this time to his stomach. He released his grip a little, enough for Reynolds to push him off slightly and gasp for breath. Trevor let out an animal yell and reached for the man again. At the same time, he heard a woman scream. A man, Grace's voice, let out a warning. He turned around and saw the cell door ajar. The woman who had been at sole occupants stood before him, a knife in her hand. Before he could say a word, before he could move, she'd struck. He managed to deflect the blow so that it missed his heart, but the pain that accompanied it savaged slide into his body was intense. He dropped his knees slowly. In his dimming vision, he could see the woman like a few steps backwards, her eyes bright. Was Triumph? Reynolds, are you okay? he heard Grace asking. He felt somebody's hand touched his and moved his head. It was his sister, he was fairly sure. It was the Tracy that hadn't just tried to kill him anyway. Someone get a doctor. Was that Professor Prozok's voice he heard? What was he doing here? Take that woman back into her cell and guard her. It was Grace again. He could see what was going on. The effort of trying to sit up was too much for his battered body. He fell back against the stone floor. Pain stabbed through his head as he came in contact with the ground. The world spun itself into darkness. The last thing he heard before he became completely unconscious was a conversation. He heard Tracy's voice. He's opposed it was her voice, saying, Who is she? Grace replied. An enemy, and then a muffled sob followed by What do you want from us? Grace replied with soft. Your help. Why? A tear splashed onto his hand and for a while he stopped feeling or hearing. End of Chapter 21 Recorded on November 21, 2006. Please visit LibriVox.org You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November of 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 22 Written by Kathleen Getliffe Recorded by Kathleen Getliffe Recorded by Kathleen Getliffe Recorded by Kathleen Getliffe Recorded by Kathleen Getliffe mustache was curled and waxed. Then he noticed that everything was sepia-toned, even his own hands. He snorted. No wonder it looks like an old postcard, he thought. I'm not even going to try to figure this one out. There was a large cup of coffee in front of him, and he grabbed hold, hoping the warmth would steady him. "'I say, sir,' said a jolly female voice beside him, and he looked up to see an impoverished flower-girl dressed something like Eliza Doolittle, but with the same face his sister had as a teen. The girl was holding out a large red blossom that was wrinkled like a cerebrum. "'Fancy a bit of cockscone,' she asked. Trevor gaped at the sudden flash of colour, but she tossed it away, and it seemed to disappear in thin air. She rummaged in the large wicker basket slung over her arm. "'Let's see,' she said. "'Cad gut your tongue. I have just the thing for you.' Some roses? No. Baby's breath.' Nasty stuff that. Soft and fuzzy, but too small to make an impression on your lady-love. Now that's a girl that wants for lilies.' She dug deeper. "'Aha! Just the thing!' She pulled out a wriggly grey creature from the depths and plopped it on the table. "'It's one of them rabbit-type things,' she said. "'A chinchilla, and a damned nuisance if you ask me.' The creature crept towards Trevor and stared up at him with beady black eyes of overwhelming cuteness. Trevor stammered. "'How is it that it's in colour?' "'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,' the young girl said. She turned and flanced away. "'That's a fine animal you have there,' said the man at the next table. "'It must be of great comfort to you. Why, if I had a beast like that, I would write works of greatness, not the penny-dreadfuls that pay the bills.' Trevor looked at his chinchilla. It was sniffing at his coffee-cup. "'The name's Sexton, Sexton Hawk,' the man said, now standing at Trevor's elbow. "'I say it's tremendous good luck to find a fellow Englishman in this beastly country. I'm a writer, you see. I take it you're one, too.' Trevor shook his head. "'No,' he said slowly, trying to remember where he had heard this man's name before. "'I'm a reader.' "'For LibriVox.' "'LibriVox, eh?' the man said, settling into a chair. "'Jolly good. Sounds like a smashing firm.' He stroked the chinchilla, which started to purr. "'You know, my girlfriend Trixie would go wild for this thing. It would make a fabulous coat.' Trevor grabbed the animal and stuck it under his shirt, all the while glaring at the gentleman in front of him. "'I know who you are now,' he said, cradling the chinchilla. "'You're not a writer at all. You're a detective.' "'I am,' Sexton said, in mock surprise. "'Smashing!' Trevor went on. "'I've been reading your books, the ones you starred in. They're all but forgotten in my time. I take it this is not my time.' "'I'm halfway through a recording of the case of the correspondent from Cairo right now. I'd be done by now, if I wasn't wrapped up in my own mystery.' "'How extraordinary!' said Sexton. "'I suppose I must be a detective, then. And look here.' He fumbled at his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of papyrus, the same piece that had caused so much trouble of late. I've just received a rather extraordinary communique from Egypt.' "'You know, that thing is a mess of secret symbols and codes and messages,' Trevor said. "'If you make it past one, then you'll just find another one. It's a literary set of Russian dolls.' Sexton's eyes widened as he ran his finger along the paper. "'You're right!' Trevor arched an eyebrow. "'Are you implying that there's a message written on it in braille, too?' The other man laughed, loud and long. The chinchilla squirmed. "'Of course not!' Sexton said. "'That would be too obvious!' He collected himself and wiped a mirthful tear from his left eye before fumbling at his other breast pocket. "'No, I just so happen to have this handy device.' He pulled a large instrument from his pocket. It looked something like a brass microscope, but with a small stylus attached to the scanning bed and a large speaker protruding from the eyepiece. "'What is it?' Trevor asked. Sexton placed the end of the papyrus under the stylus and unfolded a large crank that had been almost hidden on the left side of the contraption. "'It's an electronophone,' he said. "'It will play the music of the spheres, the tiny spheres that make up all matter. Once we hear what it says, we'll know the final secret, the one that runs beneath them all.' Sexton grabbed the handle and turned it. An ungodly noise issued from the device as it played the papyrus like it was a record. A cacophony of sound equal in irritation only to an old 56K modem. Trevor shrieked and felt his belly go wet and sticky. He suspected that the chinchilla had urinated. Sexton slowed the crank, then stopped it altogether. He looked at Trevor expectantly. "'What do you say, old man? Are you enlightened yet?' "'No,' Trevor all but yelled. "'I don't have any idea what is going on. None at all. Not about this, not about anything. I think I know someone, and they turn out to be someone else. Or I don't know someone, not even a little bit. Only they turn out to be the most important person in the world to me, and only when it's too late to do anything about it.' Sexton took a sip of Trevor's coffee. But that sort of thing happens all the time. Trevor sighed and attempted to calm down. His agitation was negatively affecting the chinchilla. Only in stories, in your case, particularly histrionic stories, but I live in reality, and there shouldn't be spies in my life. Hell, I was even believing in Martians for a while. Martians, and I know for a fact that there are no such things.' Sexton sat bolt upright. "'By Joe, are you sure?' Where the newspapers have been full of articles about the little green monsters of late. Horrible beasts. I was just thinking of writing my next novel about them. Perhaps some sort of invasion. But if they don't exist. Well, then, perhaps I'll write something else. I've had a stupendous idea for a novel about a world populated by short people. I was thinking they could go on some sort of quest. Involving jewellery. That last part is Trixie's idea.' Trevor leaned forward elbows on the table. He stared into the street where a harlequin was arguing with a woman. The clown noticed him, pointed, and shouted something in a strange language. Trevor couldn't even venture a guess as to which one. The woman turned toward him, and he could see that she was wearing dark glasses and had a tattoo of a star on her nose. "'The Mole,' Trevor said aloud, staring at her. She stuck her tongue out at him and turned away. "'My dear boy,' Sexton said, "'you're not getting anywhere. If you don't start piecing the mystery together soon.' I know. It seems like every time something falls into place, something else unravels. And often a thing will happen, and then be undone the very next day. It's maddening.' Sexton put his hand on Trevor's shoulder. "'How long has this been going on?' "'Three weeks. Three awful, awful weeks. By rights I should be home right now, preparing a thanksgiving turkey.' Sexton cocked his head. "'That's that American holiday, what?' Trevor nodded. "'Yes, I was going to have friends over. Instead, I'm flying all over the world, and I don't think I'll be back in time. And actually, at this rate, I won't have any friends or family left alive.' "'Something of a misnamed holiday, then,' Sexton said. The conversation lapsed into silence. Sexton pulled out his quill and notebook again. He stared at them for a moment, then addressed Trevor once again. "'I say. I don't believe you ever told me your name.' "'Aims. Trevor Ames.' Sexton cocked his head. "'Why, that's a funny coincidence. I'm writing a story about a Mr. Ames right now. He's something of a detective. Good with languages and all that. I don't have much of a name for the book yet. I'm just sort of calling it The Mystery.' "'Let me see that!' Trevor lunged for the notebook, but Sexton snatched it away and shook his finger. "'No, no, no,' he said. You mustn't read it until it's finished. It's bad luck to peek at the ending when you're smack-dab in the middle.' Trevor leaned back and tried to conceal his frustration. "'Can you at least tell me what happens next?' Sexton rifled through the pages. "'You're in the dungeon right now?' "'Yes.' "'I see.' The man appeared deep in thought. Trevor waved to get his attention. "'Can you help me?' Sexton shook his head. "'Why not?' Trevor asked. His chinchilla was squirming again. He could feel it scaling the inside of his shirt. Crawling up to his chest. Sexton frowned. "'Well, you see, I only have the one chapter written. And I don't think it'll be a help to you.' "'You've only written the first chapter?' Trevor asked. The chinchilla popped its head out of his collar and squeaked. "'No, not that one. I've only written the twenty-second. And that's not going to help you.' Sexton pressed his lips together in a frown. "'Why not?' "'Because it's a hallucination brought on by the opiates fed you by your captors. It's utter nonsense. They're hoping that your deranged ramblings will reveal the truths buried in your subconscious.' Trevor looked at the chinchilla, which twitched at swiskers. "'And will they?' Sexton shrugged. "'I don't know. I only wrote this one chapter.' Trevor sighed. "'But I can tell you one thing,' Sexton added, about the chinchilla. "'Yes?' "'She's female.' Trevor lifted the animal out of his shirt and looked between its legs. Sure enough,' Sexton told the truth. "'You name her Emily now, then the scene fades out, and you wake up.' "'Emily, huh?' Things dissolved like a watercolor in the rain.' End of Chapter Twenty-Two Recorded on November Twenty-Third, 2006 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Here listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project, in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together, in serial form, during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter Twenty-Three Written by Alan Drake Recorded by Alan Drake For more than two weeks your brother has been living in a phantasmagoric world, half real and half induced. Dreams informed his mind, and his fading mind informed his dreams. This is the same induced world that eventually came to kill my husband and our son before him. "'You're speaking of TM,' Tracy said with great sympathy. "'Yes, I'm beginning to see.' With half-closed eyes, she leaned back into the plush, high-back chair. Wrapped in a soft, warm blanket, her legs tucked up casually, Tracy held a large cup of tea cupped in her firm, sure hands. Breathing in the smoky aroma, she released a quiet murmur of pleasure, and took a sip. Her eyes closed. The dwindling logs made quiet pops in the open hearth before them. Lapsang Suchang, Elder said, hand-picked and flavored near Mount Wuji in Fujang Province. This is not in posture tea.' "'I know,' Tracy responded, my favorite, with soy milk too. Thank you.' Tracy's eyes were open and inviting. A spoon of green silk ribbon rolled in short bounces across the floor. Unraveled itself at Tracy's chair and trailed under it, quickly followed by three kittens of varying colors. The red tabby leading the charge leaped forward, hitting his head on Tracy's chair leg. The two women laughed deeply, as, one piling into the other, the kittens rolled and clawed helplessly in the knotted mass of green silk. Both women bent over to free them. The swift tabby ran off to hunt on the other side of the room. With a fluffy calico in her lap and a hint of laughter still in her voice, Elder began. "'I once heard that Chuang Su dreamt he was a butterfly,' Tracy explained to the smoky gray kitten in her lap, as it swatted earnestly at her mug. "'Yes, a butterfly,' Elder continued. A happy butterfly, doing as he wished, being his true butterfly self. His dream was so real he didn't know that he was Chuang Su. And then, in a supreme rush, he awoke. But when he awoke, he didn't know if he were Chuang Su,' continued Tracy, as if in the same breath, who had just dreamed he was a butterfly, or if he were now a butterfly dreaming he were Chuang Su,' finished Elder. And with the same easy communion they returned to their cups, in spite of the curiosity of kittens. A hint of dawn was waking over the forest beyond the formal room. Slipping the kitten onto the seat, Elder rose from her chair and walked to the window. "'Would you like to meet them?' "'Yes, very much, but I must say I am very tired,' Tracy replied, surprised by her own straightforwardness. "'Then,' Elder said, "'you can imagine how tired I must be.' And they laughed. "'Nearly as tired as Trevor,' Tracy was anxious to bring the conversation back to her brother. "'Let him sleep a little while longer,' Elder said. "'We will speak the three of us. After that, you and Trevor are on your own.' "'And you, Elder?' "'Elder is no more. "'Remember, there is only great-grandmother.' "'Great-grandmother,' Tracy repeated with some little awe. "'Grandmother, Terasia would please me greatly.' The gray kitten skittered off as Tracy rose and crossed to her great-grandmother at the window. "'Grandmother, Terasia,' Tracy echoed in an unexpectedly young voice, gazed out the window shoulder to shoulder with Terasia. The old woman smiled, drawing Tracy closer. "'My dear, my dear, together you and Trevor will become what I once was.' Her arm encircled Tracy, and she turned her towards the growing daylight. "'But so much more, more than all who came before us. You have unraveled the mystery of that which killed husband and son, and killed so many before them, and you have saved more than your brother by its discovery.' "'Yes, I do see. I understand now,' Tracy said without thinking. "'They fed him his own curiosities,' Terasia said. His own obsessions. They knotted his web of self-interest, as they did to my husband and son. They fixed them on themselves, so that they could see nothing more. They took our men's goodness from them, and made our line useless to anyone. They manipulated our line by encouraging things that don't matter. "'In the meanwhile,' Tracy said, in their narrowness, they mistook everything important to be priceless. "'How?' Terasia spoke. They created imaginary doppelgangers. "'All that happened to Trevor happened only in his imagination?' Tracy asked. "'Yes. You were never comfortable contributing to his obsessions, were you?' "'But out of love you helped him nonetheless. You didn't know how to communicate it, but you knew it was all wrong. You knew it needed to be changed. It needed a change of vision. We are no longer characters in anyone's novel, play, fantasy, and then you saw that they were all delusion, puffs of dust, insubstantial and unreal. "'And now we know their source.' "'Global,' Tracy said. Her hands moved to her face, and she massaged it gently. "'Yes, but it's important not to lump everyone together. It's important not to demonize them. That would not be our way. It would be theirs. "'There are a handful that might have taught... "'Well, here is where it becomes difficult. How to reveal what doesn't serve mankind without being self-serving or equally destructive? "'Remember our motto?' "'Yes,' Tracy said. "'I must find a way to another way.' "'You will. You and Trevor.' "'At the sound of a door opening, the two women turned in a single motion to look over their shoulders. "'Be careful, sir,' said a deep male voice rumbling from across the room. "'Trevor,' Tracy ran to her brother. She hugged him and then spun him around and looked him up and down. "'Let him finish, Tracy,' Elder said. "'Begin again, my handsome butterfly. Tell us.' Trevor drew a shaky breath, almost tearful, and bowed to Therese. Then, resolutely, he began again. "'Be careful, sir!' And he stepped into Prospero's true being, and smiled at his sister, affecting a serious playfulness, his voice full of energy. He continued. "'Our revels now have ended. These are actors, as I have foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air, and like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve. And like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with asleep.' The two women applauded enthusiastically, and Trevor responded with a gracious bow of his head, and he smiled. Tracey grabbed her brother's hand again and pulled him energetically towards the window. "'Very good, very good, my brilliant Shakespeare, our grown-up butterfly, you pass the test!' "'Yes, very good,' said Elder, hugging Trevor, who laughed and kissed her on the cheek. "'Let's go outside to meet the Falcons,' said Tracey. Though her enthusiasm appeared, childlike, she had already assumed her place in the world, in her own way, just as Trevor had transcended Prospero and now exuded a profound understanding of human suffering and joy. "'Now is the time,' Elder agreed, turning a hidden handle in the large pained window to swing the door section outward. Walking in a quick pace that belied her age, she swiftly passed through the dew-covered gardens. "'We have a lot to discuss before you leave.' Then she stopped abruptly in her place and turned to the siblings. "'No more guns, no more weapons, no more intrigue.' She held them in the silence of her sad gaze. The twins communicated an identical understanding with a measured turn of their heads. Elder moved in a similar way and then said, "'You will meet the Falcons, and you will give them your guile as a gift.' "'How do I?' the twins asked in unison. "'Look and listen,' said Theresea. "'And then you're off to clean up this mess.' "'End of Chapter 23, recorded on November 24, 2006, in Long Branch, New Jersey.' "'Write and record a whole novel together, in serial form, during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month.' Chapter 24. Written and recorded by Michael Sirwa. The Falcons' talons bit deeply into Trevor's leather gauntlet. Gently, Trevor pushed upward and released the jesses, allowing the peregrine to leap skyward and join Tracey's already circling bird. Above the treetops now, the falcon had a full view of the countryside, could easily see the town of Catskill just to the north, the bird circled slowly above the small circular island, searching for food. The island was nestled in a bend in the Hudson River. From high in the air it looked like a giant wreath, the sturdy ring of trees that encircled the outer edges of the island provided an effective curtain between those in the compound and prying eyes on the shore or the river. The compound itself could only be seen from the air, and even then, with most of it buried underground, it would only look like several small hills curled up beside the trees. Potential traces of inhabitation had been cleverly engineered to disappear through a series of vents, so the smoke from the fireplace as well as the steam from the boilers, along with most of the other effluvia created through human occupation, was released into the river or into the air far away from the island. Down below, Trevor craned his neck skyward, trying to follow the flight of the bird. He still felt weak from the weeks of delirium, and the cold bit into his flesh as surely as the falcon would soon bite into its breakfast. He could see the slow arc of the bird's flight interrupted suddenly by a quick course correction, followed by a sharp dive straight toward a patch of snow along the tree-line. Just before an imminent crash, the peregrine straightened into a horizontal glide, talons outstretched, and then rose again with a small struggling mass of white fur firmly within its grasp. Several minutes later, with the falcons both fed and safely ensconced in their muse, Tracy and Trevor rejoined their great grandmother inside the house. Great-grandmother, I need to know some things. I've had some pretty miserable dreams the past few weeks, and, he said, quoting from the Tempest again, Misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. His great-grandmother gently interrupted. Trevor, it's time to let Shakespeare go. Tracy interrupted, and called her grandmother Teresia. But what does Prospero do next? Trevor asked of no one in particular. Tracy's voice came to him unbidden. Trevor, Prospero is no more. Our world and our purpose aren't ruled by literature, only informed by it. You're not Prospero any more than I'm Miranda. Then what am I? Who am I? Come, sit on the couch, Teresia said. And we'll all have some more tea and talk this over. It will all be clear before long. In fact, I have just the tea for you. Do you remember the time, when you were a teenager, and I said I had just been shopping, and I had brought home some prints of whale's tea, and you said— Great-grandma, can I see them? That's right. You thought I had said I purchased some prints of whale's teeth. And you wondered why anyone would take a picture of a whale's tooth. But, being the curious boy you have always been, you did want to see what a whale's tooth looked like. The three of them smiled in silence for a moment, and Teresia pressed a button on the bracelet on her wrist, a voice emanated from it. Yes, elder? Pierre, I've told you. No more elder. That time has passed. Yes, madame. Could you please prepare some prints of whale's tea for us? Of course, madame. Trevor is up then? Yes, Pierre. And answering the unspoken question. And he's doing fine. Teresia pointed to her bracelet and smiled. It is easier to keep my intercom on my wrist these days than it is to walk over to the desk. A few minutes later, Pierre Fourjeuré entered burying a tray with some tea and some small cakes. Could to see you, Master Treva? And you too, Pierre. Thank you, Trevor replied, remembering the family's manservant from his childhood. Once Pierre had left the room, Trevor breathed deeply, inhaling the slightly fruity aroma of the tea. Fragments of memories from his childhood flitted into view. Pierre was in them and so was his sister Tracey, and his parents and grandparents. The events were scrambled in an odd incoherent fashion. His mother tries on his father's suit. His father insists that it will work fine. Trevor and Tracey are watching from the bedroom closet. Their great-grandfather doesn't appear for breakfast one day and there is consternation on everyone's faces. A few days later their great-grandmother is gone, and a great-grandfather reappears, as if nothing was different. While Tracey and Trevor are still young, there are many deaths and disappearances in their family—parents, aunts, cousins—and everyone notices and no one seems to notice. Trevor murmurs aloud, What's real? Teresa's voice brings him back to the present. I would imagine you have questions. Oh yes, so many questions, he thought, but just nodded his head in a scent. Let me tell you a story then. A story about your family. Her eyes glimmered with the recall of so many events as she searched for the place to begin. Once, many, many years ago, and she wove a magical tale of good-nights and bad-nights, and organizations that split apart because of deep and bitter resentments within their structures, of families born into the organization and torn apart time and time again. This part of the story was a long time in the past, and it was very familiar to Trevor for some reason. He found more than anything that he was anxious for her to finish, and get to the end so he could close the book and be done with the story, but he knew it wouldn't be that simple. The book would still be open and blank, and waiting for him—and Tracy—to finish writing the chapters they were in, so he needed to be patient and pay attention because the past would surely affect the future. When she was finally done with the basic history, she paused and said to Trevor, Tracy and I have discussed much of this already, but I sense from your unease that you would like for me to get to the personal history of your family. Yes, Grandmother Teresia, I need to know what happened to me these past few weeks. I know it can't all have been real. I must have dreamed or imagined some of it, but I'm just not sure which memories to trust any more. Then let me get to the most important part. Eventually the Knights of Malta became more of a political organization that operated without a true territory. The current Grand Master, the leader of the organization, is British, but there are many thousands of members all over Europe. Most of them operate within the charitable arm of the organization, and their purpose is literally to do good deeds for mankind, performing charitable and humanitarian activities. As far back as the early 1800s, though, when the Treaty of Paris—yes, I know—the Knights had Malta taken away from them, but what does this have to do with my family? Patience, Trevor, she smiled and said to Tracy, he was always the anxious one, wanting to move on to the next thing before the first thing was done. Trevor sighed. She was right. He had always wanted to know the outcome before he came to it. He leaned back in the couch and tried to relax. I'm sorry, Grandmother Teresia, please go on. Thank you, she smiled. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The Knights had fought many long and bitter battles for Malta. To have it yanked away again angered many of them. An off-shoot organization of the Knights, known simply as The Order, founded by some of your ancestors, went underground and took on the mission of recovering Malta for the Knights. As this secret organization evolved, a schism formed within it. Some members realized that continued bloodshed for a piece of land was not a path to enlightenment. Others didn't see it that way, and insisted on continuing the quest to regain control of Malta. They split from the Order and took the name Globus Magnificus, which was shortened to Global sometime after the First World War. As they gained power, the goal of recouping Malta seemed insignificant to them. They desired much, much more, probably the whole world. We know that they were working with Hitler during World War II, organizing some of his plans to eradicate the Jews and Gypsies and the others. Who would have been next? The Order also gave up their dreams of regaining Malta when they realized how much pain and suffering this useless quest had caused. They adopted a new mission once they realized what Global was doing, and decided the Order could be best used in the role of the opponent in this Global, if you'll harden the play on words, chess game. Over the years the Order won many minor skirmishes and lost many, but still managed to keep Global in check. Neither side ever created an outright checkmate though, even after nearly two centuries. Sensing that Trevor was growing restless with this history, she held up a hand to him. I know, I know, but this is important. All right, I'll hurry. She paused to think what else she must tell him. The most important thing I have to tell you is that the curse of your ancestors has been lifted, thanks to your sister Tracy. What curse? What, Trevor said. Perhaps Tracy should tell you that part, Tracy has suggested, relinquishing the story. She seemed grateful to be able to relax for a moment. The effort was obviously tiring for her. What curse, sis? Well, don't get pissed off, Trevor. But I'm going to have to tell you a little bit of the history too. Fine, he said, resigned to his fate. Okay, way back then when Globus Magnificus split from the Order, they approached everything differently. The Globus guys tried to spread out as much as possible. New recruits, more soldiers, bigger infrastructure. The Order went in the other direction. Tried not to recruit new people unless necessary. Tried to keep things tight and contained. A smaller infrastructure. There was a lot of intermarriage, especially among the people at the head of the organization, our family. Several generations down the line, signs of genetic abnormalities began to crop up in our bloodline. There were a disproportionate number of stillborns, some mental retardation, and some deformities. There were also quite a few geniuses. And it seems that we were fortunate enough to have received some of those genes. But we also received a trait that played many of the leaders throughout the years, and the trait didn't recede even once the practice of intermarriage was stopped. What trait? What is it? Trevor asked. It seems that those who carry the gene have at least a 90% probability of an autoimmune disorder kicking in when they become middle age or younger. There's no way to tell when or if it will happen. Essentially your body will begin eating itself up from the inside. For some reason it begins to affect the brain first, not destroying tissue there, but affecting the synapses, causing them to fire randomly at odd times. This results, as you can imagine, in something akin to hallucinations, although they are generally rooted in real memories. The brain seems to return to normalcy with possibly even a heightened sensibility, but this is usually followed soon after by degeneration of muscles and tissue as the body wastes into, well, a pretty gruesome state. Some people wasted away and died within weeks, and others have lasted years. Trevor looked across the couch at Eurasia. Are you...? He couldn't finish. Me? Heavens, no. This body is just very, very old. Charles, yes. He did die of this dreadful thing, and I took his place pretending to be him. She smiled with a satisfaction born from years of hiding the secret. I met Charles when he was with the resistance in France during World War II. He was trapped in our barn, with Nazis closing in on him. I had seen him enter the barn and convince the Germans that he had taken our camion. I had had the old words return. Our truck, and had driven it away to the west. He stayed there with us for a week, until it was safe for him to return to Marseille. But he returned often, and when the war was over he married me. Your mother was my granddaughter. She met your father on a trip to London, and brought him into our little family. Unfortunately, despite the introduction of new blood over the past 90 years or so, both you and Tracy have the gene that's causing all this. But you had better finish the story, Tracy. All right. The problems you were experiencing the past few weeks were caused by the disorder attacking your brain. I was sure of it when I listened to some of your messages and ramblings on the phone. I tried every way I could think of to reach you, but it wasn't possible until now. Great-grandpa Charles contacted me years ago when he found out I had become a geneticist, and was working at Cornell. He brought some information to me about a friend of his whose family had this terrible condition for many generations, and wanted to know if it was a project I would be interested in. I knew there was something fishy when he offered to bring tissue samples to me instead of introducing the friend to me. I guessed pretty quickly that he was talking about himself and got him to confide in me. I couldn't have been working in a more perfect place, the Cornell Human Ecology Lab. I've often thought he had something to do with my getting a job there in the first place. She gave her great-grandmother a questioning look, but Tracy had just shrugged her shoulders and smiled. Anyway, Tracy said gleefully, I did it. I solved the puzzle, and you were my first patient. You've been undergoing gene therapy the whole time you've been here, and it's working. The fevers and the hallucinations are receding, and the secondary symptoms that I saw great-grandpa Charles go through haven't shown up in you yet. I think you're going to be okay. Well, sis, that's good, and don't think I'm not grateful, but I still have tons of unanswered questions. Okay. Such as? To begin with, how much of what I've been through was real? What do you think you've been through? Oh, right. If it was all in my head, you wouldn't know anything about it. He gave them a quick rundown of everything he remembered from the past few weeks. The trip to the travel agency, then Cairo, meeting Hazel Brown, going to Malta and meeting Fulvia. The distasteful episodes Fulvia put him through, using the sloth and trying to use the chinchilla, however unsuccessfully. The incidents in Prague, tracking down Professor Prezac in New York, realizing that Hazel was the travel agent was Rebecca, watching her die, being flown to a castle somewhere in France, where he was stabbed, and finally ending up here. Where is here, anyway, he asked. You're in the order's compound near Catskill, New York. A memory flashed in front of him. Angela's pancake house? Is that in Catskill? Yes, it is. We used to take you there when you were a child. It doesn't make sense, though. I remember Italian food, a pasta of some kind. That isn't an hallucination. Angela's served pancakes in the morning and Italian at night. You were probably remembering the penipasta that they served in hot garlic oil. Yes, that's it. Can we go there? he said, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. No. It's best that we stay out of sight for a while. Pierre can whip something up that's just as good, I'm sure. You and Tracy have too much to do. What's that? Let her finish telling you some things, and I'll get Pierre to cook you something. I need to move around a little, anyway. It's not good for my old bones to sit too long. She struggled to her feet, Trevor helping her stand, and made her way to the door. So, sis, did I just step out of the Dallas shower, or was it all real? A little of both, Tracy said. We were tracking your whereabouts, trying to find you as soon as possible, and here's pretty much everything we know. You did wander into a travel agency in London, and you were talked into a trip to Cairo by a cute bubble-headed 22-year-old named Evie. There was a tour guide named Hazel Brown in Cairo. She's been working for Libra tours since she retired from teaching three years ago at the age of 54. She said you were supposed to meet the tour group for dinner your first night, but you never showed. You left a note at the front desk of the hotel, and said you needed to go to Malta. You logged in and spent some time on Libra boxes and Google's websites. Now here's the tricky part. You did meet a woman named Fulvia Rossi in Malta, and she is an agent for global. You were with her for several days. We don't know exactly what she did to you, but from what we know about her it must have been pretty bad. You did develop a technique called the chinchilla that allowed you to rapidly sift tremendous amounts of data and intuit a conclusion about the data. You did that work at Cambridge, and much of it has been used in some of the current AI software at MIT and Caltech. You never developed a form of hypnotism called the sloth. You accompanied Fulvia to Prague and then New York. She was apparently following some leads who gave her about Professor Prezak, who was my linguistics professor when I spent two of my post-grad years at Berkeley—not at Charles University. He still teaches linguistics at Berkeley. He wasn't on a lecture tour to New York or anywhere else. You apparently, without knowing what you were doing, led Fulvia on a wild goose chase from Malta to Prague to New York, where we caught her and brought both of you back here, just in time, in my opinion. If you hadn't received the gene therapy when you did, I'm afraid it might have been too late. Well, thanks, sis, but don't let it go to your head. She laughed and threw a pillow at him. Oh, you idiot! He became somber for a moment. So. No Rebecca. No, Trevor. Sorry. They sat in silence for a while longer, until the noise of Teresia and Pierre intruded as they returned, preceded by the glorious smell of roasted garlic, causing everyone's mouths to water. While they ate, Teresia said, There are some final things I need to say. I have already spoken to Teresia about this, and she agrees with me. It is up to you to complete the agreement. I am stepping down from my position, Charles's position, as the leader of the order. He became known as Elder several years ago, and that became his title. But the official title is Grand Master, patterned after the head title of the Knights of Malta from whence we came. I want the two of you to take over and become joint Grand Masters. You don't have to call yourselves that if you don't like it. I suggest something simple, like tea, which could stand in opposition to Top, the head of Global, or it could just stand for Tracey or Trevor, whichever of you is in charge at the moment. What do you say? Trevor looked at Tracey and saw the encouragement in her eyes. They nodded to each other and the deal was sealed. Trevor laughed. So it's the two of us together, sis. How does that work? Trying unsuccessfully to sound like John Lennon, Trevor parodied a familiar Beatles song. So it's I am tea as you are tea as you are me and we are tea together. Yes, Tracey answered softly, smiling. Something like that. Two small teas combining to make one large one. Looking at Tracey, he said, What do we do first? I suppose I could have a few last words for you before I step out of the picture. Do you see the family crest on the wall over there? Yes. The motto is, Which means, and Tracey finished it for her, do no harm. That's a pretty good motto. As far as your first order of business, though, you need to destroy that computer database that Global nearly has ready. If they get it up and running and close the program's back doors, they could run countries, control stock markets, anything they want to do. Trevor looked up, shocked. You mean that part is real? Both Tracey and Grandmother Teresia said, Yes. End of Chapter 24 Recorded on November 25th, 2006 in Houston, Texas. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project, in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 25 Written on November 25th, 2006 by David Barnes. For a few moments, Trevor again retreated into himself, into the painful fog of uncertainty. Where were the sharp edges of reality, and where the phantasms of his diseased imagination? Teresia and Tracey had just confirmed the existence of global's database. But what of the hours he remembered spending inside it? His foray had triggered in him a delicious mixture of elation, envy, and fear. It was as if, during the twenty years of his self-enforced inactivity, an alter ego had been working behind his back to create for him the ultimate analytical tool. But to what end? His intellect had thrilled that the power the database presented, while his human instinct was horrified by the uses it could be put to, if it fell into the wrong hands. If it had been built by the wrong hands, there was no if, no doubt about the purposes for which it was intended. Still, he couldn't help wondering. Let's just step back from that for a moment, he said, returning to the physical world. The destruction of the database, I mean, he adds, seeing Teresia's arch-eye brows. Here we go, thought Tracey. Trevor sees both sides. That'll be the title of your autobiography, she said, with just enough playfulness not to hurt. Yes, sis, thank you for that. Now tell me, where do you see the major fields of conflict now and in the next century or so? Military conflict, said Teresia. Trevor, have you not been listening these past hours? What interest do you have in war other than working to prevent it? That is precisely my point. I wonder if the database couldn't point towards the possibility of a different type of geopolitical landscape. One where the traditional nation states, and all the paraphernalia that goes with them, including military conflict, would be an irrelevance. I know it's a long shot, but hear me out and you'll see what I mean. Teresia and Tracey exchanged a look, but both settled back in their chairs. At its basic level, the database is a collection of individual pieces of information, documents, records of transactions, photos, sound files, each tagged to the individuals involved and each searchable. Looked at vertically, they form a personal history, an audit trail. Now we're uncomfortable with that, and rightly so on a personal level. Under statement of the year, interrupted, Teresia, it scares the living daylights out of me. Of course we know that most of this information is out there anyway, but the thought of it being held in one place by a group accountable to no one, and for their own devious purposes, well it's indefensible. She paused, caught a glance from Teresia and said, sorry, go on, but this had better be good. Right, now depersonalize those pieces of information. It doesn't matter who wrote a particular sentence or who owns a particular copy of I Am The Walrus, for example, but the content of the sentence itself does matter, and it does matter that the copy of the song exists. You could say that both are part, a very small part, admittedly, but part nonetheless of the sum total of human activity at this point in time. Well, that's a little less scary, Tracy conceded, but for someone so impatient with other people's stories, you sure know how to string one out. Are you familiar with the concept of memes? Yes, I've heard the word before, like genes, but not physical. Not bad, Trace. A meme is a unit of culture, transmissible, self-replicating, mutating, competing for airtime, competing for our attention, each striving to make as many copies of itself as possible and to mutate into even more successful forms, where dependent on them, communication, as we know it, would be impossible without them. In this sense, the first meme was ug, but they're now far more subtle. The smell of Lapsang Su Chong is a meme, created centuries ago, and successful in the sense that it's an attractive smell which can be replicated through a consistent process of cultivation and processing. The people who invest time to recreate and propagate the meme, by producing and selling the tea, are rewarded for doing so by the livelihood it gives them. In terms of market share, it's less successful than coke or Pepsi, but only time will tell which will win in the long run. And you and I, Trace, are busily spreading a much newer meme. How many times have you said or heard the phrase, this is a LibriVox recording? Now, not only do we repeat the phrase and tell others to repeat it, but we've created a vehicle for its preservation in time and its instantaneous global transmission. And our reward? Well, it's part of a larger process, isn't it, where bringing texts created a century or so ago, some far older, into the digital age, and we're bringing them into the modern cultural battlefield, so to speak. And that phrase is like an entry ticket. It gets that file onto a server, where it will be hosted in perpetuity. It allows it to be copied and disseminated. It creates a pairing of memes, travelling together, each aiding the success of the other. Trace stood up in exasperation and stepped back from the tea table, nearly knocking over her chair. Please tell me you're not trying to use LibriVox as a justification for global's creepy big brother database. What's wrong with a good old internet for heaven's sake? Trace, please, said Theresea, let's enjoy the fruits of your brother's recovery, and not judge him too harshly just yet. But, Trevor, my dear, where is this leading? Trevor had been visibly checked by Trace's outburst, and realised he needed to phrase the next part of his argument very carefully. It might help now to think of memes as tiny physical entities, rather like bacteria, or some such. Imagine that their numbers, their concentrations, their physical location, their speed and direction of movement, their patterns of dispersal, their successive mutations, the relationship of one variety to another could be seen, measured, monitored. You could gauge the competitive success of one meme or group of memes against another. You could design new memes with proven successful traits. You could view the ebbs and flows of the global marketplace. You would know who was winning, where and how. You mean we could see if Lapsang Soo Chong was outselling Coca-Cola? Great. Trace, it's bigger than that. That's precisely what I was afraid of. In the containment quarters, in a semi-basement on the other side of the compound, Fullvia Rossi had awoken, and was trying to ascertain where she was and how she'd got there. She had administered drugs often enough on captives herself, but had never suffered the headache, nausea and disorientation that came with waking up from such treatment. Still, that she'd been taken and incarcerated, that she was in enemy hands was clear enough. The room was surprisingly spacious, light and clean, sparsely furnished, and with no loose objects that might serve as a missile or weapon, but still civilized. There was even a wash basin and toilet half concealed in a corner. There must be a weakness here somewhere. These people are soft, she thought. Her shoes were nowhere to be seen, and the floor was cool under her bare feet. Stretching herself to full height, she could see out of the small barred window, a foot below the ceiling, that looked out at ground level across the lawn and to the trees that defined the horizon. There was nothing to indicate how far she was from New York, but from the quality of the light she guessed it was mid-afternoon. Perhaps she should try the door. From the order's perspective, said Theresea, trying to shift the focus of the conversation, the popular obsession with national interest, national identity, has seemed rather an anachronism in these times of what is called globalization. One could almost say that the Knights, the Order and Global, if I may bracket them together, simply to illustrate my point, were forerunners of the multinational corporations that now seem to be thriving, or perhaps even a more honest form of government than that of sovereign states, government based on principle rather than mere geography. Exactly so, and what better way to see whether your principles are taking root are winning on the global battlefield? Ah, so now it's a battlefield, not a marketplace, interjected Tracey, than by observing the ebb and flow of memes. And that is your defence of global, Tracey came in for the kill, your own argument shows that they will use the database for global domination, that is precisely why we have to destroy it. I'm sorry Trevor, much as I love you and respect your intellect, you have to see that your obsession with information is leading you to a dangerous conclusion. Tracey, TACE their eyes locked, don't you see that this information dispenses with the need for war? No, I don't see that, not in the least. It creates a potential for world domination, it creates a new superpower, one against which countries and people will be powerless, it changes everything, it has to be stopped, and you, my exasperating brother, are the only person who can stop it.