Violet Odyssey: Chapter 5

 

The air inside the dusty portable was, if possible, hotter than the scorched sand outside. I grimaced as I peeled my sweat-soaked back from the sticky plastic chair and stole a glance outside. The trio of executives in their crisp polos were still talking with my acoustics professor beneath the shade of a tan canopy strung from the side of the temporary office.

I couldn't make sense of their conversation over the squeaking of the dangerously off-balance ceiling fan threatening to tear itself from the shoddy ceiling with every revolution, but I silently thanked God for its blessed reprieve from the New Mexico heat.

I sat back and let out a long sigh. I thumbed through the trial application in my lap for the hundredth time, pausing on the page headed:

SCHMID SONIC ENVELOPE TRIALS
An Endeavor into Spatial Isolation Through Waveforms and Phase Manipulation

A final gambit by the disgraced Dr. Schmid, bankrupting himself and his foundation for one last shot at a proof of concept outside the rigorous selection process of an Odyssey Year.

I tapped the packet against my knee.

My grades are good enough. My last name doesn't hurt. They have to pick me.

They have to.

The metal fold-out steps leading into the portable creaked, and the room rocked slightly as the three SSET executives climbed in one by one, followed by Professor Harmon. My eyes locked on hers as she entered.

She wouldn't meet my gaze.

I knew.

I could still hear the words.

Incompatible.

Blood pressure.

Can't sustain...

I had to make this work somehow.

Even if it couldn't be me.

The memory dissolved as the SEC conference room came back into focus.

The SEC conference room had the blandest aesthetic to be found within the near-cathedral-like expanse of BAF1. It was one of the few rooms with no windows. The walls were bare, free of murals and mosaic tile motifs depicting victorious Odysseys and triumphant pioneers. It was a return to governmental efficiency: a small room dominated by a single conference table, twelve chairs, and a black, three-point conference phone sitting squarely at its center.

Landlines only.

Insulated space.

And the most secretive room in the whole facility. Home to hush-hush finance meetings between the SEC and VICA. The latter controlled financial resources rivaling the combined economies of nearly a third of the world's nations.

This was the facility's beating heart—its financial organ, pumping blood to the lavishly expensive trials and experiments that took place here. Entire financial sectors lived and died to keep fuel in the tanks of our scientific engine...

...and Hot Pockets in the commissary.

I loved the meatball ones.

Seated around the table were six people I didn't recognize, and three that I did.

A middle-aged woman with chin-length gray hair so straight and smooth it looked like steel—Naomi Lindström, Head of Communications. Her people were outside in the super-clump with Rocketry. Her expression betrayed her anxiety at not being out there.

A man with a thin band of wispy hair circling his scalp, making him look twenty years older than forty-two—Jonathan Carpenter, Head of Linguistics.

And, most terrifyingly, a smooth, effortlessly confident-looking man with perfect dark brown hair swept back behind his ears, whose eyes had been on me since I entered the room, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The familiar three-ringed logo adorned his impeccably tailored Italian suit.

The Director of VICA, here?

I panicked internally.

Raphael Grijalva.

Arguably the most powerful man on Earth who answered to no single nation.

He sat quietly eyeing me like I was a chocolate Snack Pack.

The others in the room wore plain clothes, except for the man seated next to the Director, who was dressed in casual military clothing.

Colonel Killough sat in an empty seat, pulled out the chair beside him, and jabbed a finger at the armrest.

I didn't argue. I took my place.

The final seat remained empty as the conference room door swung shut behind us, the soundproofing swallowing the clamor of Odyssey preparations outside.

A man I didn't recognize spoke first. He wore a black button-up shirt and sported a perfectly manicured beard. I unconsciously thumbed through my own scruff with jealousy.

"We're all here. We have very little time, so I'll read the agenda."

He stood and cleared his throat, a little nervously.

"At 9:07 PM Mountain Standard Time, Communications received an unknown signal broadcast over Guard Frequency 243.0. As no flight operations were active due to the impending radio blackout, there was a twelve-second delay before recording began."

Colonel Killough huffed his discontent.

"The signal was mostly incomprehensible. Linguistics and cryptographic analysis has been confined to those in this room for the time being."

He gestured toward the other man in plain clothes, then to Dr. Carpenter, who nodded impatiently.

"One word was identified as plain English." He hesitated, stealing a glance at me. "The word... 'Richie.'"

The room remained silent.

The man looked back down at his clipboard.

"Cryptographic analysis has determined the voice matches records in VICA's files and conclusively belongs to Richard Ryan... Senior," he added quickly.

Dr. Lindström stopped tapping her foot and fixed me with an intense stare.

Dr. Carpenter wore a thin smile that never reached his eyes as he looked up at the ceiling tiles.

Director Grijalva leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and covering part of his mouth with one hand, never once taking his unsettling gaze off me.

"We will now play the recording once for the room."

The bearded man reached across the table and pressed a button on the conference speaker.

For a few moments, nothing but dry static crackled through the speaker.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Then bedlam.

The sound exploded from the speaker like microphone feedback blasted through the cheapest concert sound system imaginable. My hands flew to my ears before I could stop them.

No one else reacted.

Of course.

They'd all heard it already.

The shrieking feedback persisted for roughly five seconds before collapsing into a slow, pulsing tone somewhere around two hundred hertz—half bass drum, half impossibly deep human voice. The pulses gradually quickened, climbing into a more familiar register before repeating the pattern again for another thirty seconds.

Then...

A series of sharp clicks.

Silence.

One word crackled through the speaker.

Dirty.

Distorted.

But unmistakable.

"Richie."

My father's voice.

It sounded profoundly sad.

But there was something else there, too.

Something buried beneath the distortion that I couldn't quite make out.

Before I could stop myself, the words escaped.

"Play that last part again."

My voice came out as little more than a croak.

I must have sounded pathetic, because Dr. Lindström clicked her tongue and slowly shook her head.

"Emotional," she said. "What did I tell you?"

Colonel Killough looked sideways at me, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Across the table, Director Grijalva leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth widening as though he'd just confirmed a theory.

My cheeks flushed.

"No..." I stammered. "It's... it's not like that."

I searched for the words.

"There's something in the way..."

"Yes, and it's you," I was interrupted by one of the analysts I didn't know. He wore a plain green T-shirt tucked into camouflage cargo pants and sported a high fade. He glared at me.

"This 'message' is a distraction at best, and a malicious attempt to sabotage the EMP project at worst. Come on. 'Richie?' No one else finds that a little convenient?"

Colonel Killough spoke before I could answer, fixing the man with a hard stare.

"Director, USJAF has operational authority over this project, as agreed between the Senate and VICA. Does VICA's private security force really need to be privy to this meeting when half the department heads are out there trying to make sense of this signal?"

Ooh. Colonel doesn't mess around.

Despite the color rising in his face, High Fade kept his mouth shut and looked to Director Grijalva, who answered with practiced calm.

"It never hurts to have fresh perspective." He smiled pleasantly. "Pardon my friend. Ellis—excuse me, Captain Lane," he corrected himself, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Captain Lane raises a fair point. We mustn't rush to conclusions. Twenty-four hours—or rather, twenty-two by now—is a very short time indeed. But it may as well be twenty-two minutes if we rush recklessly into folly."

Then his attention returned to me.

His smile never changed.

"Doctor Ryan. I've had your movements reviewed over the past forty-eight hours. Every phone call, every stop, every off-base trip to the overlook..." He paused.

"...and yes, every bathroom break."

A few uncomfortable smiles flickered around the table.

"I don't believe you had anything to do with this signal, and I don't believe we have anything to gain by interrogating you. We haven't the time, and I haven't the patience."

He looked sideways toward his attaché.

"Do you concur, Captain Lane?"

Captain Lane sat back and chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his lip, his eyes darting between me and Colonel Killough.

"Besides," Dr. Lindström interjected, "we can hardly expect Doctor Ryan to remain objective in this matter. Ignoring the obvious conflict of interest regarding his father, his tendency toward impulsive conclusions has only worsened since the death of Miss L—"

"That's enough, Naomi."

Dr. Carpenter's voice cut through the room like a knife.

The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat.

"I have a proposal," he continued. "And it has very little to do with Doctor Ryan's objectivity."

He folded his hands on the table.

"We study the signal—not as a committee—but with the full resources of the research wing. They're already aware something unusual is happening. Give us two hours. Colonel, you and your people continue coordinating with Thermodynamics and Rocketry to keep the original plan on schedule."

He glanced at his watch.

"I believe the tram to Launch Site One departs at one o'clock."

The room shared a collective sigh.

One in the morning.

And somehow we all accepted that as the beginning of the workday.

Dr. Lindström rubbed her temples.

"On that point, I must object. If word gets out that the Brass City broadcast the voice of Doctor Ryan Senior—let alone a childhood nickname for his son—we won't have a productive research wing."

She shook her head.

"We'll have bedlam."

I'd grown tired of being discussed as though I weren't sitting three feet away.

"Then don't tell them that part."

I stood, planting my knuckles against the polished mahogany table and forcing my face into something that resembled confidence.

Fake it till you make it.

I met Dr. Lindström's eyes, then Dr. Carpenter's, and finally Director Grijalva's.

"I mean it. Leave that part out."

I shrugged.

"Do you honestly think I want that kind of attention? I barely wanted to walk into the room next door, and the feeling is apparently very mutual."

A few restrained smiles appeared around the table.

"Just let me study the signal myself."

I looked toward Dr. Carpenter.

"So far, it seems like everyone's treating it as a cipher..."

"So let me approach it like it really is."

I tapped my badge.

"Sound. Really bad sound, sure, but still a waveform. Acoustics and Harmonics. Remember?"

I was almost certain I heard someone mutter, "Broken science."

The department heads and liaisons mulled the idea over in near silence. There was plenty of temple-rubbing, muttering about needing coffee, and thousand-yard staring. I sat back down, already beginning to regret opening my mouth.

The Director was no longer watching me. He was occupied by a hushed conversation with the man who had read the agenda. Colonel Killough had pulled out his phone and was scrolling through what looked like an operations schedule, stabbing at lines with a rare look of frustration. Doctors Lindström and Carpenter had both disappeared into their own thoughts.

Finally, Director Grijalva broke the silence.

"VICA approves."

Every head in the room lifted.

"With Doctor Ryan's suggestion as a condition. The portion containing the word 'Richie' will be omitted from the version distributed to the research departments."

He paused just long enough to let that settle.

"Additionally, the launch of the device will be postponed until 0800. A four-hour delay."

Colonel Killough looked up sharply.

"This much," Grijalva continued, "we can afford. It also aligns more appropriately with Peru's operation."

He stood, gathered his files, and handed them to the bearded agenda reader.

"I look forward to illuminating results from every department."

With that, he swept from the room, his entourage following close behind. Captain Lane lingered just long enough to send one final glare in my direction before disappearing through the doorway.

For a brief moment the conference room filled with the clamor of hurried scientific debate and a heated argument somewhere in the hallway.

Then the door clicked shut.

Silence reclaimed the room.

I looked pleadingly between Doctors Lindström and Carpenter.

"Tell me you'll let me work on the signal."

Dr. Lindström smirked.

"You heard the Director. He expects results from all departments. I'll brief Doctor Alvarez."

She folded her hands on the table.

"But you won't be scurrying back to your own lab."

Her smile flattened into something considerably less friendly.

"You're partnering with Gravitics. Doctor Loise won't like it, but when I tell her it comes directly from VICA, she won't have much choice."

She looked toward Carpenter.

"Wouldn't you agree?"

Dr. Carpenter gave a tired shrug.

"Do whatever you want. I honestly don't care."

He gathered his papers into a neat stack.

"I have my own questions to answer, and a room full of very impatient researchers waiting to help me answer them."

I turned to Colonel Killough with open disbelief.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"Then we're done here."

He nodded politely toward the scientists.

"I leave Doctor Ryan in the capable hands of his colleagues."

A beat passed.

"Excuse me."

And just like that, my last lifeline stood, walked out of the room, and disappeared without so much as a backward glance.

Well...

CRAP.