The GoldenCity

On Fredrichstrasse, a license plate scanner mounted on a building photographed a black Mercedes stopped at a traffic light. The plate number was recorded and automatically checked against a central database as Michael Corrigan and Mrs. Brewster sat in the back seat and waited for the light to turn green. Mrs. Brewster had taken a tube of lipstick out of her purse and was studying her face in a compact mirror. This was behavior quite out of character for the current head of the Brethren’s executive board; unless there was a party or some other kind of special event, Mrs. Brewster paid minimal attention to her personal appearance. She was a tweed-and-practical-shoes sort of woman whose only gesture to vanity was the artificial color of her chestnut-brown hair.

“God, I look tired,” she announced. “It’s going to take a effort to get through dinner with Hazelton and his friends.”

“If you want, I’ll do all the talking.”

“That would be wonderful, Michael. But it’s not necessary. There’s been a change of plans.”

With exaggerated decisiveness, Mrs. Brewster snapped the mirror shut and dropped it into her purse, then slipped on a pair of sunglasses. The dark glasses covered her eyes and upper cheekbones like a half mask.

“Terry Dressler just sent me an email from the research center in New York. They’ve finished building the new version of the quantum computer, and Dressler has been testing the system. I want you to be there tomorrow afternoon when the computer becomes fully operational.”

“Perhaps they could postpone everything for a few days so I could attend the executive board meeting.”

“The Crossover Project is a good deal more important than any meeting. The original version of this computer put us in contact with an advanced civilization that began to supply us with technical data. Dr. Dressler wants you to be there if the civilization contacts us again.”

The Mercedes turned another corner. Michael stared at Mrs. Brewster for a few seconds, but the sunglasses and the dim light made it difficult to know what she was thinking. Was she telling him the truth, or was this just a strategy to separate him from the rest of the Brethren? Her mouth and neck showed some tension, but there was nothing unusual about that.

“I think it would be easier if we interviewed Dr. Dressler with a video conference camera,” Michael said.

“I want a full assessment of the project, and you can only do that if you’re at the laboratory. Your clothes are packed and waiting at the hotel. A chartered jet is fueling at Schönefeld Airport.”

“We’ve been meeting people for the last three days…”

“Yes. I know. Everything is rather frantic. But the quantum computer has always been our top priority. After the first computer was destroyed, we shut down the genetic research program so that we could increase Dressler’s funding. Kennard Nash was convinced that this other civilization was eager to send us technological miracles. Before we spend more money, we need see if this new machine actually works.”

Nash’s name ended the conversation. Both Michael and Mrs. Brewster had watched Nathan Boone kill the head of Brethren as he ate lunch on Dark Island. It felt as if Nash was still with them, sitting in the front seat and frowning like a father displeased with his children’s activities.

The car stopped in front of the Hotel Adlon, and Mrs. Brewster said something in German to the driver. Moments later, Michael’s luggage was carried from the hotel and loaded into the trunk.

“Thanks so much for doing this, Michael. I can’t rely on anyone else.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. Get some rest.”

Mrs. Brewster gave him one of her more gracious smiles. Then she slipped out of the back seat and hurried into the hotel.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Michael used his handheld computer to access the security system at Wellspring Manor House-the country estate in South England controlled by the Evergreen Foundation. Moving the cursor, he clicked through surveillance videos of the front door, the service entrance, and, yes, there it was: a black and white image of his father’s body lying on a medical table. Matthew Corrigan looked like a dead man, but sensors attached to his body detected a sporadic heartbeat.

The Traveler turned his eyes away from the small screen and gazed out the window. Still there but not there, he thought. An empty shell.

***