52
It had been a long day. First the press conference, then
other questions, individual interviews. The first one he tried
with Ada at his side, but her obsession with the ghost of her
mother made her come off as a nut. For the others, he tried
to stick to the basics. Yes, there was an alien artifact that
they had dubbed “the Marker.” Yes, it had been found at the
heart of the Chicxulub crater under layers of rock, which
suggested that it might well be older than human life. No,
this was not a hoax. Yes, he was convinced that the military
was trying to cover up the existence of the Marker. What the
rest of the government did or did not know, he couldn’t say.
He did not bring up the hallucinations. He wanted to
avoid the notion that the Marker was sentient, and in any
case, he wasn’t sure the hallucinations really came from the
Marker—maybe they were simply triggered by it. He didn’t
talk about the strange creature on the beach or show them
the sign of the tail of the devil, or tell them that the Yucatec
Maya believed the devil’s tail was deep beneath the waves,
just where the Marker had been found. Most media outlets,
he quickly realized, saw him as an interesting curiosity, an
extremist whom they could parade before their viewers and
listeners. They were more interested in poking holes in his
story. Couldn’t the vid be faked? How did they know that it
was actually the size he said it was? Size could be
simulated on a vid, and there were no human figures in the
vid to compare it to. Hadn’t he gone to Chicxulub to work on
a university research grant? Then how was it he had ended
up working for the military, living on this alleged floating
island? Didn’t that sound a little too much like something
out of a sci-fi novel?
But there were a few people who asked more serious
questions. And once he had answered, they looked at him
in a different, more thoughtful way.
They arrived at the historic Watergate Hotel late, past
midnight. There was another round of interviews the next
day, requests still coming in over the phone. Also a meeting
with a lawyer about possibly filing an injunction against the
government. Public opinion seemed to be building; maybe
it would be enough to apply the right amount of pressure on
the places that needed it.
“It’s going to work,” Ada said as he opened the door.
“Markoff won’t be able to keep the Marker for himself.
Everybody will know about it now, everyone will have a
chance to share in its message.”
Not knowing what to say, he didn’t answer. They opened
the door. He flipped on the light and then stopped dead.
One of the walls had a large hole in it, plaster scattered
all about the floor. Just behind it, sitting in a chair beside
the bed, was Markoff.
“Hello, Altman,” he said.
Altman started to turn toward the door, but found a gun
with a silencer on its end pointed at his eye, another
pointed at Ada’s chest. Krax was holding one, a guard he
didn’t recognize the other. There were two more guards
deeper in the room. They came forward now.
“I don’t need to tell you that I’ll shoot your girlfriend first.
No screaming,” said Krax. “Nothing but polite silence
unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?”
Altman nodded.
“Move into the room,” he said. “Get on the bed.”
They moved in, were pushed onto the bed. Krax stepped
back and sat in a chair that he’d set up across the threshold
of the bathroom, keeping his gun trained at Altman.
“I take it you’ve seen the press conference,” said Altman.
“Shut up, Altman,” said Markoff. “Nobody likes a smartass.”
“It’s too late, Markoff,” hissed Ada. “Word is out.”
Markoff ignored her. “Let’s have a little talk, Altman,” he
said. “Talking can’t hurt, can it?”
Altman didn’t say anything.
“I don’t suppose we could encourage you to drop
everything,” Markoff said. “Hold another press conference,
let them know that you were only joking, that there is no
Marker, that there is no conspiracy, that you’ve been the
victim of an incredible hoax.”
“No,” said Altman.
“If you do,” said Markoff, “we could come to some sort of
arrangement. You’d be allowed to come back to research
the Marker.” When Altman didn’t say anything, he added,
“With total access.”
Total access? It was tempting. But no doubt Markoff was
lying. And in any case, he was far enough along that there
was no going back. The Marker had to be investigated
openly.
“He doesn’t answer to you,” said Ada. “He answers only
to the Marker.”
Markoff reached out, cuffed her hard. “Shut up,” he said.
“Don’t touch her,” said Altman.
“What’s your answer, Altman?” asked Markoff.
“I’m sorry,” said Altman. “No.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Markoff. “That’s it, then. You’re going
to have to come with us.”
“I don’t think so,” said Altman.
“We’re not asking you if you want to come or not. We’re
giving you the choice between coming or dying.”
“Then kill me,” said Altman without hesitation.
Markoff looked at him coolly. “Call me superstitious, but I
think that Marker has something in store for you. I don’t
want to kill you yet.” Markoff nodded toward Ada, and
Krax’s gun slowly swiveled until it was pointed at Ada’s
head. “But I don’t have the same reservations about your
girlfriend.”
Altman looked over at Ada. She didn’t look afraid, but it
was that very fact that made him afraid. She was eager to
die a martyr. “So the choice is either both of us go with you
or just I go,” he said.
Markoff smiled. “Got it in one,” he said. “Krax here has a
sedative for both of you.” He gestured to the others. “These
fine boys will repair the hole we made, make everything as
good as new. As far as anybody knows, you simply got cold
feet and disappeared.”
“You’re a real bastard,” said Altman.
“Takes one to know one,” said Markoff. “Now be a good
boy and take your medicine.”
53
And so Altman was back where he’d started, though also a
little surprised that they hadn’t simply killed him. He
suspected a trap, something awful they were saving him
for, but didn’t know what it would be. He wondered if his
press conference or his disappearance following it had had
any effect, but doubted he’d be able to find out while inside
the floating compound.
As for Ada, when he awoke from the drug, she was gone.
When he demanded to see her, they just laughed.
“She’ll be safe,” Krax had said. “As long as you
cooperate.”
A few hours after waking up, still a little groggy, he had
found himself in Stevens’s office. The latter sat with his
elbows resting on the arms of his chair and his fingers
tented in front of his face.
“Why am I here?” Altman asked. “Why am I still alive?”
“Markoff is curious about you,” Stevens admitted.
“Curious?”
“You have some resistance to the effect of the Marker, a
resistance that most of your colleagues don’t have. Markoff
realizes you might be of use for his project.”
“And what project is that?”
Stevens smiled. “You can understand why he might
wonder about you,” he said. “You’ve survived trips in the
bathyscaphe that have driven other people mad. Even
when you’ve had headaches and hallucinations, they
haven’t caused you to degenerate into violence or
madness the way so many of the other hallucinators seem
to do. Many of the believers on board have an almost
religious awe of you. And I have to say that I find myself half
sharing their belief. I suspect that a few of my colleagues
feel similarly.”
“That’s insane,” said Altman.
“They think you’re a reluctant prophet,” said Stevens.
Altman shook his head. “The Marker is dangerous,” he
said. “I’m sure of it.”
“And yet you’re fascinated by it,” said Stevens. He
leaned forward. “We still suspect you know things that
you’re not telling.” He opened his desk drawer and
removed from it the chunk of rock from the Marker. “This
was found in your jacket pocket while you were
unconscious,” he said. “Care to explain?”
“No,” said Altman.
Stevens nodded. “Up to you,” he said. “If you don’t want
to explain to me, perhaps you can speak with Krax.”
But Krax didn’t seem to want to talk exactly. “You know why
you’re here?” he asked.
Altman nodded. “You want to know about the chunk of the
Marker.”
“That’s part of it,” he said. He led Altman to a chair with
leather straps affixed to the arms and legs. “Sit here,” he
said.
“Why?” said Altman. “Where’s Ada?”
“Don’t worry about Ada. Just sit,” said Krax, pushing his
chest lightly so he tipped back into the chair. “Now I’m
going to strap you in,” he said.
“There’s no need to strap me in,” said Altman, panic
starting to rise in him. “I’ll stay as I am.”
Krax shook his head and began affixing the straps. “You
won’t,” he said. “I’m afraid, Mr. Altman, that this is going to
be a bit of a bumpy ride.”
“What do you mean, a bumpy ride?”
“How do they feel?” Krax asked as he tested each strap
in turn. Not uncomfortable? Not too tight?”
“I’m fine,” said Altman, “but what—”
Krax pulled the left wrist strap painfully tight, then the
right. Altman could feel the strap cutting deep into his flesh.
“How about now?” he asked.
And then he left the room. For a moment Altman was
alone, straining against the straps, and then he stopped.
Maybe he could tip the chair over, break it somehow. But
when he tried to rock it back and forth, he found that it had
been bolted to the floor.
A moment later, Krax was back, bringing a wheeled cart
with him. On top of the cart was a tray covered in a white
cloth. Krax brought it close, pulled the cloth off it with a
flourish. Beneath was a row of scalpels and knives, a pair
of pincers as well. Krax ran his hands slowly over them.
“You didn’t think you could just waltz off and report on us
and suffer no consequences, did you, Mr. Altman?”
Altman tried to speak, but his mouth had gone suddenly
dry.Krax selected the smallest knife. “Let’s start small and
work our way up, shall we?” he said.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Altman.
“Just a few small cuts at first, Mr. Altman. Just something
to make it interesting and to make you respect my artistry.”
He grabbed hold of Altman’s index finger and very
carefully crosshatched the tip of it, the knife just cutting
through. At first it didn’t hurt, just felt warm. And then the
finger began to throb, a drop of blood forming on the tip. He
went on to the next finger and then the next, just three or four
small cuts per finger, hardly deeper than papercuts. Altman
watched a drop of blood collect at the end of each finger,
the hand feeling like it was on fire.
“We’re going to be here for days and days, Mr. Altman.
We’ll get to know each other very intimately.”
He left the room again. Altman tried not to look at the
hand, tried to ignore its throbbing, but he couldn’t help it.
Before it was all over, it would, he knew, become much,
much worse. He’d wish he were dead.
And then Krax was back, a bowl full of salt in one hand.
“Have you heard the expression ‘rubbing salt into a
wound,’ Mr. Altman?”
Altman felt his hand clench involuntarily. He closed his
eyes. Krax slapped him. “You’ll want to watch this,” he said.
But Altman kept his eyes closed.
Suddenly his hand was burning, his fingers being ground
into the salt. He couldn’t help but gasp. He clenched his
eyes tighter. “Fine-grain salt works best,” Krax explained in
a calm voice. “Sea salt in particular. Iodized, of course.”
Krax released the hand. “That’s it,” he said. “You can
open your eyes.”
He did. The light in the room seemed abnormally bright
through the pain. “What do you want to know?” asked
Altman through gritted teeth.
“All in good time,” said Krax. “No need to rush things.” He
returned to the cart, placing the bowl of salt on it. He
replaced the small knife, ran his hands over the knives that
remained. “I love my job,” said Krax, smiling, and then
plucked a slightly larger knife from the tray and came
toward him. “Open wide,” he said.
Markoff was alone on the command deck, standing in his
usual spot. To someone coming in, it might look like he was
staring out through the observation window and into the
dark water. What he was really doing was monitoring a
series of holovids, set up to be seen only from that one
position. They showed various parts of the ship, cycling
rapidly between them.
Something was up, he could tell. A disturbance in the
Marker chamber. “Stay with that,” he said, and one of the
holovids dedicated itself exclusively to that chamber. Lots
of guards and scientists shaking fists. Where was Krax?
He was supposed to keep shit like this from happening.
And then he remembered Krax was with Altman and
smiled.
The door slid open and Stevens stepped in. He stood
there a few tiers down, waiting, until Markoff gestured him
forward.
“We’ve got problems,” admitted Stevens.
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” said Markoff.
“The believers are getting restless. Somehow they know
Altman is back on board. They’re demanding to see him.”
“Absolutely not,” said Markoff. “I’ve given him to Krax to
play with.”
“If we don’t let him make an appearance, we’re likely to
have another riot on our hands. Besides, Krax has already
found out enough. He knows where he got the chunk of the
Marker and how—it didn’t take long for Altman to give that
up. I’ve watched the vids, had Altman’s microexpressions
analyzed. I don’t think Krax is likely to get much more out of
him.” Stevens came a little closer, put his hand on Markoff’s
shoulder. “I know you hate him,” he said. “We all hate him.
But we can use him.”
Markoff just shrugged the hand off.
“He’ll be a distraction to the believers,” Stevens said.
“He’s more useful to us that way than he is dead.”
Markoff focused his hard stare fully on Stevens. Stevens
met it placidly.
“How do I know you’re not one of them?”
“One of whom? The believers? Do I seem like a believer
to you?”
“All right,” Markoff said. “He can be useful. Get him from
Krax. But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
In the middle of the sixth knife, two guards showed up. He
was released suddenly and without warning, hands and feet
sore and bleeding, cuts on his back and thighs, but
basically in one piece. “We’ll see each other again soon,”
Krax promised.
The guards bandaged him and hustled him down to
Stevens, left the two of them alone.
“It would have been easier to tell me,” said Stevens.
“Keep that in mind next time you have a choice.”
“Screw you,” said Altman.
Stevens smiled. “I can send you back to Krax anytime,”
he said. “Keep that in mind as well.”
Altman didn’t reply.
“The only reason you’re here now,” said Stevens, “is
because I have a use for you. There was a skirmish
between believers and unbelievers the other day that left
people dead. People are taking sides. If it goes on like this,
more people will die. I’d like to keep that from happening. I
think you can help.”
“How?”
“The believers trust you,” he said. “They may listen to
you.”
“The pulse signal is broadcasting again,” said Altman.
“The conflict between the believers and the unbelievers is
hardly your biggest problem.”
“No,” admitted Stevens, “but the two feed one another.
You’re here instead of with Krax and his knives because
Markoff thinks you may have a chance of keeping things
stable.”
“And if I say no?”
Stevens shrugged. “Then you go back to Krax. And if you
misbehave or try to stir the believers up, I’ll shoot you
myself. But keep things stable and you’ll prevent a lot of
people ending up dead. And it goes without saying that
we’ll be watching you at all times.”
“I want to talk to Ada first,” said Altman.
Stevens hesitated for a moment. “No,” he finally said.
“Why not?”
“You’ll have to trust me that she’s safe,” said Stevens. “If
everything goes well, I’ll let you talk to her.”
Field was there, many other scientists he recognized as
well, all of them happy to see him again. It was Field who
told him about the firefight with the military, the deaths. He
showed him, too, where he had been shot in the foot, but
didn’t remove the dressings.
“That must hurt,” said Altman.
Field smiled happily. “Without the morphine, I wouldn’t be
able to walk,” he said. “But that’s not important,” he said.
“I’m not important.”
“Of course you are,” said Altman, patting him on the
shoulder as if he was crazy.
Field shook his head. “What’s important is that things
have begun to change. A lot of us are dead now and a lot of
us are crazy. Those of us who are left have a different
perspective.” He clutched Altman by the shirt, pulled him
closer, the weird morphine smile still plastered clownlike
across his face. “Those of us who are left,” he said in a
stage whisper, “believe.”
“If you say so,” said Altman, trying to free himself.
“It’s the Marker,” said Field. “It talks to us.” He gave
Altman a searching look. “It spoke to you, too. That makes
you a believer. It’s separating the sheep from the goats.
Either you believe or you die.”
“That’s crazy,” said Altman.
“Is it?” said Field. “Look how many people are dead now.
Look how many are mad. Is that normal? Can you explain it
any other way?”
“There are other explanations,” said Altman. “There have
to be.”
“Like what?” asked Field. When Altman didn’t answer, he
said, “Be one with the Marker, Altman. Accept its message
of oneness and unity. Join with us.”
Finally he let go. Altman took a step back, trying not to
reveal to Field how disturbed he actually was. Mad or dead
or religious—what the hell kind of choice was that?
“More and more people believe in our unitology,” Field
said with his same mad smile. He reached clumsily into the
neck of his shirt, grasped a leather thong. He tugged it out.
At the end was a crude sigil: two slivers of metal twisted
together to form a representation of the Marker.
“When we are weak,” said Field, “we call on this.” He
wrapped it in his fist and squeezed it, then closed his eyes,
whispering something over and over again, a ritual chant or
a prayer, soft enough that Altman couldn’t quite make it out.
He didn’t want to make it out. He looked away from Field
and saw that most of the others around them were doing
the same thing, each holding something and whispering
toward their clenched fists, their eyes closed. Slowly and
quietly he shuffled his way free of the group and got the hell
out of there.
His interactions with the researchers were radically
different than they had been before. Before, there had been
a separation between Markoff’s inner circle and the rest of
the scientists; now everybody seemed inclined to work
together. There was a new sense of urgency, a sense—
largely from the hallucinations (or “visions” as the believers
called them)—that time was of the essence.
For the first day or two, he just listened. Researcher after
researcher approached him, telling him what they’d been
able to discover. Most of them had faces lit with zeal, either
religious zeal or the zeal of discovery. Either way, it scared
him.
As he listened, started seeing data from the tests, and
began to interact directly with the Marker itself, he became
convinced that he’d been right to begin with, that the Marker
had a purpose that had nothing to do with the good of
humanity, though what that purpose was he was still unable
to say. Lying in bed at night alone, wondering where Ada
was and whether she was still wrapped up in the madness
of the Marker, he turned it over in his head, becoming more
and more worried. All the talk of Convergence and
everlasting life that had started with the hallucinations was
not so much a lie as it was something related to the Marker
trying to express itself in human means, manipulating the
imprinted memories of loved ones and conforming to their
words. But what was that something? The Marker itself?
The beings that had created it? Some sort of protective
mechanism? Something else entirely? And whatever it
was, something was being lost in the translation: nobody
was sure what the Marker wanted from them. Becoming
more and more nervous, he opened a vidlink to Stevens.
Despite the late hour, Stevens did not look like he’d been
woken up. His voice when he spoke was as mellifluous as
always.
“Altman,” he said, not a hint of surprise in his voice.
“What can I do for you?”
“You’re awake?”
“Don’t sleep much these days,” said Stevens. “Too busy
talking to the dead.”
“I have something I need to talk over,” he said. “It’s about
the Marker, about the messages it seems to be sending
through hallucinations. I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Go ahead,” said Stevens. “I’ve been thinking about it
myself.”
“I wonder about its purpose. I don’t know that we should
trust it.”
“Go on.”
“I think we read what the Marker says positively because
we are prone to believe in a life beyond this one and
because it speaks to us through voices of people we are
close to.”
“Fair enough,” said Stevens. “Clearly it wants us to think
of it in a positive light.”
“But if you listen closely to what the hallucinations are
saying and try to think of them as being the words of an
alien presence channeled through human memories, and
try to forget that you’re being told them by someone you
know and love, there’s another interpretation for
Convergence, for becoming one.”
“Yes,” said Stevens.
“What if Convergence means not eternal life or
transcendence, but radical subordination? What if it means
unity more literally, the destruction of the individual to a
larger communal self?”
“Like the way some insect colonies function,” said
Stevens. “The individuals all subject to the will of the colony,
a kind of hive mind in control of all the individuals.”
“Yes,” said Altman. “Or maybe even more extreme. What
if it’s being literal? What if it means somehow to transform
us from many creatures into one?”
“That doesn’t sound feasible,” said Stevens.
“This is new territory,” said Altman. “We hardly know
what’s feasible and what’s not. In any case, it’s dangerous.
We may not be heading for utopia but instead toward
destruction.”
“Which raises an important question,” said Stevens
quietly.
“What’s that?”
“Whatever we’re looking for from the Marker, whether we
see it as something to be mined for power or something to
be worshipped or an object of scientific inquiry, are we
using the Marker or is the Marker using us?” For the first
time, Stevens’s smooth exterior broke, and Altman saw
something like a glimmer of anxiety burst through. He
covered his eyes with his hand. When, after a moment, he
moved his hand away, the smooth exterior had returned.
“One other thing,” said Stevens. “The dead talk to some
about unity, others about a ticking clock. What does this
refer to? How does it relate to Convergence? Is the Marker
awakening now to punish us for not making the most of our
time here?”
“I don’t know,” said Altman. “It may be something less
threatening, but I think it might be more. The dead act as
though we have been facing a deadline. A deadline that we
have evidently crossed. Convergence is talked about as
starting over, but I don’t know that it’s likely to be a fresh
start for us. Maybe it’ll just be a fresh start for the Marker, or
whatever controls it. Maybe Convergence means wiping us
out to start some new cycle, some new phase of whatever
strange process we seem to be a part of.”
“If you’re right,” said Stevens, “the human race is on the
brink of extinction. Either way, this Convergence represents
the end of life as we know it.”
“Yes,” said Altman.
“So what do we do?”
“It should be stopped,” Altman said. “But I don’t know
how. Now that it’s active, I don’t think it would help to simply
sink the Marker again. We have to satisfy it enough to
make it fall silent and leave us alone for a while, but not
enough to move completely forward into Convergence. I
don’t know what else to do but try to keep understanding
what it’s saying to us before it’s too late. Maybe once we
understand what it’s saying, we can figure out how to talk to
it.”
“But you may be wrong,” said Stevens. “The Marker may
actually be promising us eternal life.”
Altman nodded. “I may be wrong,” he said. “But I don’t
think I am. You told me yourself: suicides are up, violent
crimes are up. Some people’s headaches are so bad that
they try to stop them by banging their heads against the wall
until it cracks open. All the infirmary beds are filled and
there are still people screaming and with nowhere to go.
Once respectable scientists are painting their walls with
their own shit. Does that sound like eternal life to you?”
Stevens sighed. “It could be just an intermediate stage.
Do you know Pascal’s wager?” he asked.
“Who’s what?” asked Altman.
“Blaise Pascal,” said Stevens. “Seventeenth-century
philosopher. Mostly forgotten now, though one of the first
ships destroyed in the moon skirmishes was named after
him. His wager argues that since the existence of God
cannot be determined through reason, an individual should
live as if He did exist since he has very little to lose if God
does not exist and everything to gain if He does.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“I’m getting to that,” said Stevens. “I can either believe
what you’re telling me or I can believe that the Marker has
our best interest at heart. If I believe what you’re telling me,
then that means that most likely humanity is a lost cause
anyway and I’ll spend my final days beating my head out
over a problem that can’t be solved. If I believe the Marker
has our best interest at heart, then I move forward full of
hope, toward my own salvation.”
“Oh my God, you’ve become a true believer,” said
Altman.
“Why else do you think I convinced Markoff to have you
released? I have to wish you the best of luck,” said Stevens.
“If you’re right and I’m wrong, I hope you can figure it out
and save all of us. If you’re wrong and I’m right, then I have
everything to gain by believing.”
“That’s not how belief works,” said Altman. “You can’t just
decide to believe.”
“Apparently, you can’t,” said Stevens. “But I can. I hope
you’re wrong.” Altman watched him reach out and cut the
link.
Stevens’s attitude, Altman realized, was likely be shared by
many, though very few would be as rational-sounding or as
coherent in the way they managed to deliberately shut their
eyes to the danger. By raising it with his colleagues, he
risked their resentment and, even, their attacks. Even if they
believed him, it might well mean that panic and fear and
depression might compromise their ability to work.
No, he was going to have to make a little gambit of his
own: Altman’s wager. He’d wager that he could pretend to
proceed as if he agreed, pretend to move forward with
fulfilling the Marker ’s will, and then at the last minute, once
he’d learned enough to defeat it, turn things around. If he
won, then life would probably continue on roughly as it was.
If he lost, then he’d probably be dead, and maybe everyone
else would be as well.
Not good odds, but they were the only odds he had.
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