A/N: after some feedback and because this is the longest of the chapters, I've split it up into two. As always - your thoughts are so so welcome!
The following weeks surpass our wildest anticipations with their intensity. The explosion that was not an explosion carried enough cause for our hosts in Britain to place their involvement with the Warehouse under consideration. After a few tense weeks, the substation was allowed to remain operational, but with the presence and input of a military adjunct troop of ten soldiers and two officers, monitoring activity and guarding the perimeter at all times.
The experiment was postponed. Even once the substation was re-granted permission to operate, authorities refused to budge on the matter, and it appeared as though an indefinite embargo was placed on the gateway's activity.
It is Myka's tireless work that puts the experiment back on track, culminating in a successful opening of the gateway at the end of April. Since then, the gateway to Warehouse 13 is opened fortnightly to pass both soft and hard cargo, Claudia's code for data and artefacts.
Pete spends nearly two months in hospital. Myka lets a small bungalow for him in Shrewsbury, so he can remain close to medical assistance and within fairly easy reach of us. Jane has been with him the whole time, but as the weeks pass by, it becomes clear that taking care of Pete is hard work for her. So Myka spends two days every week with him and at least one night.
In her absence, Karl and So share commanding responsibilities and I contribute as needed or necessary.
All the while we are investigating what actually happened that night.
Our investigation starts on a rather awkward footing. The crate outside substation's main gate turns out to be empty bar a piece of rope. It doesn't take us long to determine that the rope is not an artefact, nor is it the cause of the non-explosion. The theory proposed, therefore, is that the rope is a proxy for an artefact.
It is an odd and somewhat uncomfortable moment during a team meeting, when we postulate the possibility that an artefact could be activated via the use of proxied, non-imbued objects. As the team was considering the meaning of this, I could practically taste the world of mayhem at the tips of the fingers of the person capable of doing this.
Assuming a proxied activation is – indeed – the cause, we must assume that the empowering artefact is one we may not only be aware of, but possibly one in our possession. A relatively quick combination of queries on the Warehouse's databases yields a brilliant potential: the Whip of Gilgamesh. It is one of the first artefacts to have ever been captured and catalogued. A snake-like whip that cracks a mass of air, pushing it directionally at enormous speeds, just like an explosion would – but without fire.
As expected, the whip is secure in the Warehouse. The breach Artie detected just before the whip exploded was not its removal or even activation. It was something else entirely, something that creates a unique signature on our sensors, one we have never seen before. We assume it is the displacement of the activation energy.
Once we establish the time, location and artefact in question, we search for means of activation, searching and collecting evidence that will prove or disprove our proxy theory. A thorough search and re-search, view and review of Warehouse data and systems yields no person or thing who has come within reach of the whip. No entity, human or otherwise, has approached the area in the Warehouse where the whip is stored in over three decades.
With little evidence to refute it, our proxied/remote activation hypothesis becomes a working theory, at least until something or someone proves us otherwise.
By early June Arthur launches a gargantuan research effort to learn about what could possibly trigger remote activation and tags Myka to join him. Days she spends in Shrewsbury with Pete, she spends studying, reading and analysing information she, Arthur and the South Dakota team uncover. Pete grows stronger every day and we begin to contemplate sending him back to the US to complete his recovery.
By July, the gateway is opened weekly. Claudia and So develop a protocol for the passage of living organic matter through the gateway, and the soft and hard cargo is joined by "squishy". We start small, with lichen, plant matter, single cell organisms and bacteria. We progress to small yet complex organisms, working our way through biological taxonomies. As we graduate into small mammals, Pete the Third, a relation of our legendary ferret, is our first frequent flyer, and is volunteered to be the test subject for frequent gateway passage between the substation and the Warehouse.
At the end of August we are ready to have a human-sized test subject and Pete – quite heroically – volunteers to be the first human to travel via gateway. The amount of work we put into this experiment is staggering, emotions riding exceptionally high. Jane flies back to the US to greet him on the other side.
He passes through the gateway almost five months to the day since he landed in the UK for the E Day, back in March, and arrives in South Dakota safe and sound. There are 72 nervous hours while we wait for Vanessa's team to check him, to make sure Pete is exactly as he should be.
When Arthur and Pete call us with the good news on an unusually hot August afternoon, there is a true sense of victory among the team. Myka surprises us with introducing a new "On Leave" protocol for the August Bank Holiday weekend, so that everyone can get a well-earned rest. Later that day, she surprises me with a long weekend in Norway.
It feels like it has been a long while since she and I could enjoy each other's company this way, remote from the world but close to one another, adventurous and indulgent, time spent equally outdoors and in. We come back on the Tuesday refreshed: I'm negotiating contracts with two new clients and Myka is debriefing all and sundry about the successes the gateway, substation and Warehouse have accrued.
The following week we are both needed in London, so we arrange for our trips to overlap. We get to spend two nights together in a hotel in Mayfair, which feels familiar but new to times past when we had arranged to meet in hotels. We revisit topics of conversations from our time away in Bath, namely my fears that the consultancy practice will pale in comparison to the shimmering excitement of the substation. I am glad to share with Myka that my fears are proven overly cautious suppositions as I find I rather like engaging with the humdrum of corporate drama. Working through the detail of places of business is a sobering relief; a bit like drinking a pint of water before going to bed at the end of a raucous night out.
Work aside, she and I delight in the notion that we can have more time together and make the most of our nights in a different setting.
As the Wednesday draws to a close, she bids me a temporary farewell on the platform at Euston Station. We are sitting on a bench at the station, my head resting on her shoulder, her cheek resting against the top of my head.
"What have you got planned for the ride home?" She asks.
I am contemplating my options: there is, of course, work. Either my practice or substation reports to catch up on. I have two new books on my tablet. I also have a Netflix queue Claudia has been faithfully and infinitely building for me at an alarmingly fast pace – one I cannot possibly catch up with. "A little bit of everything, I reckon".
She hums through a contented smile, brushing her cheek against me. "I had a wonderful time with you these past few days," she says as the tannoy announces my train is boarding.
"A methodical break?" I smile up at her, her lips quirk into a grin at my use of her turn of phrase.
"Very methodical," she hums again, this time into a tender kiss at my lips. "Have fun," she whispers. "Don't work too hard."
"Never, darling," I linger against her.
She pulls away eventually. "You really don't want to miss this one, too," she stands up and I stand with her.
"See you Friday," I sigh heavily and collect my bag.
"Can't wait."
I jump on the train and settle at my window seat. I look back at the platform and watch Myka: light coat in one hand, phone in the other. She looks so at ease: a confident stance, back straight, her right shoulder dropped, her long legs slightly apart, clad in fitted grey trousers and almost-knee-high black leather boots. Her head is held high, the sun that filters through the windows illuminates her curls to a warm brown shade. She is looking in my general direction. She knows which carriage I'm in, but cannot see me in it. Even if I did wave excitedly at her, which is completely outside our communicational vernacular, she won't see me as the carriage is considerably darker than the platform.
I cannot tear my eyes off her, regal as she is, so I pick up my phone and text her: 'You look so deliciously beautiful idle. Please remind me to idlise you upon your return.'. I watch her receive it, track the shift in her expression as she reads it. She worries her bottom lip and shifts her weight from one leg to the other while staring at the screen of her phone, then raises her gaze, cheeks slightly flushed, to search for a hint of me on the train.
I cannot help but feel joy at my small victory, having managed to unhinge her ever so slightly. She grins lopsidedly, shakes her head, puts her sunglasses on and walks off the platform.
I spend the long journey much like I had planned. Work first, clearing all must-do items from the docket then catching up on substation matters. We are about to run the first encompassing systems diagnostic for all substation operations, the execution and review of which is my responsibility. It's an interesting thinking exercise for me, considering the complexity that guards and governs the gateway. I spend some time mapping all the different elements and consider how best to undo and redo the beast in fewest, least intrusive steps possible.
After a while, though, my mind wanders to my time with Myka over the past few days, to the image of her on the platform, looking at her phone, her lips quirked into a smile, light blush creeping up her cheeks. Before I realise, work and its unrelenting flow of tasks dissolve and I simply stare out the carriage window, concocting a plan for my weekend with her.
I reach our cottage late in the evening and check in with the team. Mac jests with me, suggesting Myka and I need another outlet for our parenting instinct, possibly by means of a dog: Dickens is obviously too independent for us to lord over and the team is feeling at odds with our projection of our concerns for safety and wellbeing onto them and the substation.
The next day goes by fairly smoothly as the team and I plot out the protocol for the diagnostic. Just as we are breaking for lunch, my phone rings – it's Myka. My expression obviously gives something away, because Mac wiggles her eyebrows at me as she walks by, on her way out. Once the last of them clears the Helm, I answer her call.
"Hello, darling," I say and conjure the image of her on the platform in Euston.
"Hey," her voice is smooth as honey, she is bearing good news.
"How did the meeting go?"
"It went well enough for them to cancel the Q&A session this afternoon."
"Will you be home early, then?" I wonder if my excitement is evident in my voice, an unexpected treasure trove of opportunities opens before me suddenly.
"Consider this your reminder for idlising," she says quietly, I can picture her smile as she says it, the glint in her eye. I imagine how she would look at me if she were standing in front of me right now - and I feel the need to wet my lips.
"What time is your train?" I ask.
What I hear back is her voice. It is most certainly her voice, but I cannot understand what she is saying. She is speaking another language all of a sudden. One I do not understand.
"Myka?"
She speaks to me, her voice is painted with a hint of confusion.
"Myka, I don't understand."
She says something else and finishes with my name. I understand my name.
The conversation ends there, the call disconnected.
And just like that, I miss Myka more than I had ever missed her before.
/ /
I make myself comfortable in my reserved window seat. I probably didn't need to reserve it because it's a lunchtime train and it's fairly empty. It'll stay fairly empty, too. I love empty trains, they're such a great thinking space.
I pick up my phone to call Helena - now is probably a good time to let her know I'll be home early.
"Hello, darling," she answers her phone, trademark.
"Hey," I speak quietly, partly because I'm in a public place (albeit empty) and partly because there is some seduction to be had here.
"How did the meeting go?" her tone suggests she knows what's coming, but she sticks to business as usual.
"It went well enough for them to cancel the Q&A session this afternoon."
"Will you be home early, then?" she sounds exactly the kind of excited I was hoping for.
"Consider this your reminder for idlising," I say quietly, verging on whispering, a small lascivious grin stretches across my lips. She is silent for a second, and I bet it is because she is touching her tongue to her top lip, my suggestion hitting the mark.
Then she says something in a language I don't understand.
"Well, I don't know this language, but I'd love for you to teach me tonight," I say.
"Myka?" she sounds concerned.
Maybe she didn't hear me. Reception on trains is crap at the best of times. "Can you hear me? I should be home at about five. Are you getting this?"
She says my name, and then says something else. It sounds like Hebrew, but isn't.
"This reeks of fudge. I'll get back to you in three minutes, Helena."
I hang up the call and look around me quickly. Not a soul in the carriage, just when I need one. I yank my Farnsworth out and hail the Mothership. Pete answers.
"Hey there, Mob Boss." He greets me happily, chewing on something.
"Hey. Can you understand what I'm saying?" I ask, quickly, sternly, a bit harshly.
"Most of the time. So long as you're not speaking geek, or science. And when you use words with three syllables and less."
I don't have time for this. "Right now, am I speaking English right now?"
He looks bewildered.
"It's not a trick question, Pete, am I speaking English?"
"Yes…?" he is answering and asking at the same time.
"I think we have another artefact kicking up. I was just on the phone to Helena and all of a sudden she was speaking another language."
"Trippy."
"You can say that again."
"I can definitely confirm, Mykes, you are speaking English."
"Is someone else around so we can double check this?" I'm being cautious.
I can see from the background on the Farnsworth screen that Pete stood up and is hobbling.
"You're walking!" I exclaim excitedly.
"I'm on a crutch, but upright," he smiles. "Hey, Abigail," he looks up from the Farnsworth.
I can hear her speaking in the background and then see her next to Pete on the screen. "Hey, Myka. How are you?"
"I'm okay right now, Abigail, thanks, but I have a feeling it's about to go downhill very quickly," I can't help but be honest. "How are you?"
"Keeping busy with the new trainee agents. I don't think I ever appreciated you guys for the fully formed adults that you are," she smiles.
"Even him?" I say and nudge my head towards Pete.
"Is that enough English for you?" Pete stops the banter before it gets too personal.
"Yeah, but I don't know what it means yet. I'm going to try the substation again and I'll let you know what's going on. Give Artie and Claud a Code Yellow, though, okay?"
"Gotcha," he says and we switch off.
I'm thinking through what happened on the phone with Helena: I called her. She picked up – it took her longer to pick up than usual. That may mean something. We spoke for a few minutes, it was fine. What was the last thing I said before she changed languages? Ah, I was propositioning her. I can feel my cheeks heating up at the thought of having to put this down in my report.
I close my eyes, thinking back to how things went: she asked about the meeting, I told her the Q&A is cancelled, she asked if I will be home early, and I… well… answered. I didn't touch anything old or unusual or that I hadn't touched on the train already in the past hour. I can't recall fudge or odd sensations, nothing buzz-y or electric-like. Nothing. I can't recall any sounds from the other side of the line either, until Helena spoke in what sounded like Hebrew, but wasn't. That, coupled with the conversation with Pete and Abigail, it is safe to assume it's her rather than me.
'Safe' may not be the right word here.
I try her on her Farnsworth, in case the problem is with the phones. She picks up instantly. She looks concerned and speaks in the same language she spoke before. At least that hasn't changed. I still can't understand it. I start the recording app on my phone.
I think I'm picking out names throughout her nervous tirade: mine, Mac, Karl, Martin, Arthur, Irene. I don't understand anything else. This is very frustrating. And unnerving.
"Helena, I don't understand. Can you hold on a sec?" I motion at the screen what I think is universal enough for 'wait a second'. I reach for my bag and take out my tablet. I switch it on and scribble on it with my finger "CAN YOU READ ENGLISH?"
She looks intently into the screen, purses her lips and shakes her head.
I sigh deeply thinking about what I can draw that will make sense. I draw two stick figures on either end of the screen, one has a speech bubble with an A, B, C in it; and the other has a speech bubble with the first three letters in the Hebrew alphabet, Alef, Bet, Gimel.
I hold it up to the Farnsworth and point at the Hebrew speaking stick figure and say "Helena". I point at the other one and say "Myka".
She says something which, judging by her tone, body language and facial expression, would probably translate as "Don't you think I bloody well know that already?!"
"I don't know what to say," I look at her, confused and a little bit scared.
Her face falls as well.
We have protocols for this, and the protocol now is lockdown and isolation. I erase my two stick figures from the screen and draw a padlock, then hold it up to the screen.
She looks at it for a moment and shakes her head, my clue is obviously not cutting it.
"Protocol," I say, even though it's pointless, and then hold my fingers up: one, then four. Just for the sake of it, I also write '14' near the padlock on the tablet.
She is walking to the back of the Helm, to our library of technical documentation. Oh, Helena, you're a genius, pick out the emergency protocol folder.
She's looking into the screen again, saying what could be, again, by her tone and facial expression, "which one?"
"Hold it up to the spines, I'll tell you when to stop," I say and do what I want her to do: I flip the Farnsworth around, pointing it at the table I'm sitting next to with my finger in the frame, panning across it. She should see my phone, the tablet, the book I was reading. I pause over the book, say "stop", then tap it.
She nods and turns the Farnsworth to the spines of the folders, scanning them. When she reaches emergency protocols I yell "Stop!"
She pulls it out and opens it on the table. She then holds the Farnsworth similarly to before, scanning the tabs along the length of the folder. I stop her at fourteen – emergency lockdown due to artefact contamination.
She places the Farnsworth flat on the table, and all I can see is the Helm's ceiling. I'm working through the contents of the protocol in my head. There is a lot of written process, a few of technical drawings, some pictorial guides. Not many. I can only hope that'll be enough.
I can hear her flipping through pages, grumbling to herself in her language. I take a deep breath and start drawing seven stick figures on the tablet. I need to check in with the team, see whether or not they are affected.
She picks the Farnsworth up, and I am relieved and nervous to see her face – she nods at me, her face calm and composed. She says something and nods again.
I nod in return.
I then hold up the tablet to the screen and point at one of the figures. "Mac," I say.
She nods.
"Myka," I point at myself, "Talk to" I gesture with my hand what I think is universal enough for talk, "Mac".
She nods.
"Then," I say, "Myka talk to" repeat the same gesture "Karl".
She nods and says "Martin," and then two more words I don't understand.
I shake my head at her, and she repeats the words. While pointing towards where my tablet is.
It takes me a second to realise that 'So' and 'Jade' are actual words so when she speaks them, they come out in her Hebrew-but-not.
"Yes," I say and nod emphatically.
We look at each other for a moment, silent. I don't want to close the call, but I have to. "I'll talk to you after," I make up hand gestures as I speak.
She nods one last time and closes the Farnsworth.
I prompt the tablet up and initiate a secure connection to the substation. I open the locator, hoping maybe a couple of them are wearing their HGs. Jade and Karl are in the break room and I hope So, Martin and Mac are close by.
I check my phone is still recording and I hail Karl on his HG. He answers and my heart sinks. He isn't speaking English. He isn't speaking Swiss, French or German either. He is speaking something that sounds a bit like Arabic, but isn't.
It doesn't take me to notice a pattern.
It's pointless trying to talk to him without having a video feed, so I hang up and page Mac's Farnsworth. When she answers it, I can almost understand some of what she is saying, because it's a bit like Greek, but not. It's more rudimentary. Ancient Greek, maybe? She says something else, I can make out words that sounds like "polla" (many) and "glossos" (languages).
I nod at her, long and slow. That downhill of how I'm doing, the one I mentioned to Abigail, just turned into a base jump. And I'm not sure I have a parachute.
"Can you get everyone to say something?" I say without thinking, then pause. "Karl talk? Meelo?" I ask, gesturing 'talk' with my hand.
She walks over to Karl and holds the Farnsworth up to him. He says something. It is an Arabic but not, and – like what Helena is speaking – it isn't a language I know.
"Jade?" I say, and he shakes his head. "Martin?" The Farnsworth is passed to Martin, who says something in a different language, not one used so far and not one I know either; he then passes the Farnsworth to So, who speaks yet another language, then Jade. Then the Farnsworth goes back to Mac, who repeats what she said earlier, only now it makes perfect sense. They are all speaking different languages. Many different languages.
Most of them sounds sematic. Most of them sound not modern. I remember there's an Old Testament story that goes like this, and I get a bad, bad feeling.
I flip the drawing on my tablet back to the lock with '14' on it, add and iota and delta underneath and then 'XIV' under that - even though they are Roman numerals, not Greek. I hold it up to the Farnsworth. She looks at me questioningly to begin with. Then her expression changes, like the penny dropped, and she smiles and nods.
"Helena," I say.
"Mesa," Mac answers. I know that one – 'inside'.
"I know," I nod. "Find Helena. Vrisko Helena," I use the military gesture for 'look', maybe that'll help.
She nods and closes her Farnsworth.
I stop the recording and call the commanding officer of the adjunct force.
"Yes?"
"Hi, this is Bering from the substation," I keep my voice level.
"How can I help you, Bering?"
"I'm on my way back from London and I think something happened at the substation. Are any of your guys inside?"
"No, ma'am," he answers.
"Have any of them been inside today? Or have been in contact with my guys?"
"No, ma'am."
"In the past forty eight hours?"
"No."
"Good. My team is initiating lockdown protocol, so please make sure none of your guys goes in. Secure the perimeter and do not come into physical contact with any of them."
"Firing instructions, ma'am?"
I take a deep breath. Six lives are placed in my hands, twelve others are placed in my hands by proxy. "Stun, injure." I can only hope that everyone follows their protocols, that no one panics or does something stupid.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please keep me informed if anything happens. Your team or mine. Anything at all."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Thanks." I say and hang up.
I hail Artie.
"What?" he answers in his own courteous way.
"Can you run a check on aisle Barstow six for me please?"
"Why?"
"Because I think we have a Tower of Babel situation here."
He goes silent for a moment, while running checks on the Warehouse's systems. "Tower of Babel," he mumbles to himself. "We have a stone."
"We have a few," I correct him.
He angles a look at me. "What makes you think it's a Babel stone?"
"As of," I check my watch, "eight minutes ago each member of the substation team has been speaking a completely different language."
"Why Babel and not any other mayhem inducing artefact?"
"Because all the languages sound old. And sematic. Or Greek. Ancient Greek."
"Claudia!" he shouts across his office.
She appears behind him. "Hey Myka, how was London?"
"London was good," I say, "but I'm calling about something else."
"She thinks the Babel stones have been messed with," Artie fills her in. "Can you run your scans to find out?"
"On it," she says and disappears.
"Where are you?" he asks.
"I'm on the train back to Wales."
"How long till you get there?"
"Another three hours."
"And the substation?"
"I hope they are initiating lockdown."
"Hope?" he grunts.
"It's hard to be sure when you don't understand them and they don't understand you."
"Why don't you make sure?"
"I will, as soon as we are finished here."
"We are finished here."
"I'll send you soundbites of them speaking."
He switches off the Farnsworth, and I hail Helena, who – again – answers immediately.
"Hey," I'm relieved to see her, but the situation catches up with me very quickly and it hurts at the same time. Even though she and I can communicate without words, language is a big part of our being together.
She speaks back to me. Her tone is hushed, she is worried. She says something else and points at her head – she is wearing an HG, and continues talking while turning the Farnsworth around, showing me the rest of the team is with her, in the quarantine room of the infirmary, all donning their HGs.
She then turns the Farnsworth to Mac, who starts talking at me while holding up the emergency protocol folder and pointing out to different stages of the protocol. She finishes with a thumb up and a big smile.
Thumbs up seem to still be working. It may be small and inconsequential, but it's a relief to know we have some common language to work with.
"Great," I say. "Thank you." I sign the word thank you as I speak it – straight hand, pads of my fingers touching my chin then pushed outwards - and she nods. Maybe more universal language managed to not be overridden by this artefact.
She hands the Farnsworth back to Helena and she and I just look at each other. I am not shutting the Farnsworth off because I can't bring myself to. I want to reassure her, distract her, piss her off, make her laugh, but there is no point. She won't understand me.
Nobody is saying anything.
"I just need to do some stuff, but I'll stay on the line," I say, and she shrugs at me.
I prop the Farnsworth against my book and start working on the soundbites. It's difficult to do on the tablet, but I manage to create a short clip of each team member speaking and send them over to the Warehouse.
I get a reply within a minute from Claudia saying that no anomalies were detected in Barstow six. The Babel stones were not disturbed.
I look at the Farnsworth to see that Helena followed suit and prompted her Farnsworth on one of the shelves above the bed she and Mac are sitting on. The team is looking nervous and bored.
I have no idea what to do now. If I were there, there would be things I could do, but I'm two and a half hours away, on a train. I can't speed up, I can't get off. I'm stuck. Just like them.
I get another email, from Artie this time. All it says is "You were right."
I pick up the Farnsworth and look into the round screen at them. "Hey guys. I have Artie on the other line. I'll be right back," and I switch it off.
It blares the second I do, Artie and Claudia on the other side.
"It's hard to be 100% certain from what you've sent, because many ancient languages were only preserved in written form, so we don't actually know what they sounded like," Artie goes straight to the point. "I can verify that Helena is speaking Aramaic, Mac is speaking the root language of Greek, and So is speaking Sumerian."
"So can we talk back to them?" I ask. "I mean, there is extensive knowledge of Aramaic. A huge body of work that people read out loud. Can't we get a translator?"
"I can speak enough Aramaic to say that the language Helena is speaking is different than the version we know today," he says.
"What about Mac? I can make out words sometimes."
"You would," Artie motions towards me, "but, similarly to Aramaic and Sumerian, what we know of Ancient Greek is a distant cousin of what Mac is speaking. What we know is a distorted version of the language, after it was passed down the generations, for thousands of years." He is silent for a second, letting me process what he had just said. "We may be able to write, but not speak."
I sigh heavily. Even if we did want to write in order to communicate, we would need to write everything is six different languages.
"I'm afraid there's more bad news," Claudia says. "The fact the Warehouse sensors haven't picked anything up was a little troubling," she continues. "So I ran some extra tests and I managed to amplify the signals from the sensors in Barstow, and lo and behold..." She holds up a tablet to the Farnsworth, with a tiniest set of sine waves drawn across the screen, different pitches, but a distinct sequence. "…a needle emerges from the haystack. Looks familiar?"
I recognise it. "That's the pattern of displacing activation energy, like the one we recorded when the Gilgamesh whip was activated."
"Douze points to the fledgling European," she nods triumphantly. "Which also suggests that coincidence, thy true name is conspiracy."
"Why conspiracy?" Artie asks.
"We have two ancient world artefacts that were triggered remotely," I say.
"And," Claudia adds, "the second displacement was completely Trojaned. It was toned down to make it undetectable. If I didn't know to look for it, we would have never found it. Someone not only knew that we could detect displacements, but also how we detect them."
"Inside job?" I hasten to ask.
"As much as I hate to consider it," she nods with a heavy sigh.
My mind goes blank, it's like I forget how to speak. So many thoughts and images are passing so fast through my mind, I can barely hold on to any of them long enough to understand why: MacPherson leaning in to kiss me by the Escher vault, Helena holding a gun to my head in Yellowstone, Jimmy's look when I was reaching for the barometer, Claudia's face after realising who Nick is, Pete's maddened look at Sedona South Nineteen, and more. So many more.
Then I flick through all the first instances I had met every single person who is involved with the substation. And then the Warehouse. At then the Secret Service. Then the second instances, like my brain is running an insane search to find out who the insider can be.
"Hey, Myka," Claudia pulls me back. "You okay there?"
"Yeah," I answer, distracted. "Yeah, I'm just thinking."
"What do you say, Artie? What do we do with all this?" she turns to him.
"We will look into the insider," he says decisively. "You should keep a handle on things over there."
"Should we try to neutralise it?" Claudia asks between the two of us.
"Wait till I get there," I say. "I need to be there for that."
I spend the next two hours researching furiously, using Warehouse resources and contacts I made over the years in universities across the world. By the time I arrive in Welshpool, I have collected what I believe is pretty much all there is to know about ancient languages from 2500BC through to 1000BC. Written samples, glossaries, histories. I also lined up an archaeologist, two historians, a theologist and a rabbi. Just in case. It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, only no one knows just how bad it could turn out to be.
I get off the train – finally – and drive to the substation, breaking pretty much every road rule there is, British, European or American. I drive past the village and our cottage and stop at the main gate to realise I shouldn't be going anywhere near the place without a HazMat suit. Damn protocol. I swear explicitly and non-stop for the next 10 minutes as I drive back to the cottage to find a suit.
These suits are the most uncomfortable pieces of equipment I ever had to deal with, and putting one on my own and in a hurry is not easy, to say the least. I manage to zip myself in, check it's sealed, grab Helena's suit as a spare, run back to the Rover and head back to the substation.
Lockdown protocol means that I can't go all the way in, even in a HazMat, but there is a kind of airlock past the security checkpoints just before entering the Helm. I can get there and check in with them from there.
I get out of the car and get sealed in the suit: check the seams, switch on the filters, put the helmet on and do a final seal check. I'm now completely cut off from my environment and uncomfortable beyond belief. I grab my tablet and a stylus.
Running in these things is out of the question, so I walk, as fast as I can past the security checkpoints. The airlock is sealed – that's a sign the guys managed to understand that part of the protocol. I key in the codes from my side and watch the decontamination sequence run: first the air pressure drops (the air from the room gets sucked out), then it slowly creeps back up (the room is pumped with air from the safety cylinders) and then a repurposed drip irrigation system pumps purple goo onto the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The room looks like Barney the Purple Dinosaur exploded in it. Nothing reacts with the goo. The stone or its proxy are not in the airlock.
When decontamination finishes, the hatch opens on my end. I walk in, and it closes behind me.
I feel a kind relief now that I'm here, but it's tentative. I walk to the far corner of the room and unlock a terminal, log in and queue up the intercom system. I switch to the video and audio feeds from the infirmary. The video feed launches first and I can see they are all there.
I exhale a laugh because they look like usual, normal and okay and playing cards. They look engrossed, chatting, excited. But then the audio switches on, and it takes me a few seconds to realise that although they are completely absorbed in the game, they are still speaking six extinct sematic languages.
Faster than I can imagine, tentative relief is replaced with exhaustion and fear and a sense of failure. I'm standing in front of the terminal, frozen for a moment, contemplating my next move.
I ping Claudia at the Warehouse through the terminal.
"Greetings, Spaceman," she answers.
"Greetings," I smile wearily at her. "Are we ready to neutralise the stones?"
"We're almost ready here. What about your end?"
I sigh deeply. "I want to try and tell them, but I have no idea how to."
"Yeah, I've been thinking we need to create more instructional videos for everything in case something like this ever happens again."
"Good thinking, Claud. I'll put that on my to do list," I smile back at her. "How long till you're ready?"
"Uhm…" she looks over her shoulder, "Maybe five minutes?"
"Okay," I'm starting to piece together how I want to explain what's going on to the team, "I'll try to talk to them first."
"We'll be waiting for your signal, BatGirl."
"Thanks..."
I leave the connection with Claudia on, flip over to the intercom system and switch on the two way audio/video feed with the infirmary.
"Hey guys," I wave at them.
They all turn around, each saying something. I manage to catch my name from most of them at some point.
"So…" I start, "Uhm…" I had it in my head a minute ago, but now I'm not sure where I'm going with this. "We think we found the artefact," I say and open a folder on my tablet that has a variety of documents about the Tower of Babel in ancient languages. I hold the tab up to the camera and flick through them slowly enough in the hope some of them will recognise their language on some of the documents and pictures. "We think you are affected by Babel stones. They are the last remaining stone-mason pieces from the Tower of Babel. They cause chaos in groups by making them unable to understand each other. We think you are each speaking a different ancient sematic language, except for Mac, we think Mac is speaking ancient Greek."
I pull the tablet back and look at them. They are looking intently at the screen, Jade and Mac are nodding emphatically. They may have understood.
"Mac?" I call her name. She straightens and raises her hand. "Yes?" I nod sharply at the screen, holding a thumb up.
She nods emphatically back and holds a thumb up.
"Jade?" I repeat the same motion with him.
He nods and holds two thumbs up.
So and Martin also understand. Helena holds her thumb sideways and Karl shakes his head.
Four and a half out of six is not bad. Now for part two. I take a deep breath and exhale. "The stones are at the Warehouse," I hold up an image of the Warehouse. "Claudia will be trying to neutralise them in a minute." I find a picture of Claud, then a picture of the Gooery.
"Yes?" I ask and hold a thumb up.
I get a round of thumbs up from everyone.
"Hang in there. Let's hope this will all be over in a few minutes." I speak quietly, reassuring myself more than them.
I bring Claudia back online. "Okay. Go for it."
"Is the Bat signal up?" she asks.
"Yeah. Do it."
She disappears from the screen, and I bring the infirmary feed up. I'm watching all of them, but keep going back to Helena. I keep thinking there should be things I'd want to say to her if she could understand me, but nothing comes. Maybe it's because of how we are with each other. We don't leave things unsaid, so I have nothing to confess to her that she doesn't already know.
I just miss her. The knowledge I can't talk to her is the issue.
I'm shaken back to the here and now by Claudia calling out my name.
"Yeah," I answer.
"Tis done. Any change?"
I look at the feed again, they are there, but nothing has changed. No one has moved, Martin and Jade are playing another game and talking at each other in their dead languages. I refresh the feed. No change. "Hey guys," I wave at them, "ground control to Major Tom mean anything to anyone?"
I get a round of shrugs and blank looks. No change.
I flip back to Claud. "No change."
"Huh," she scoffs. "Nothing?"
"Doesn't look it."
"Huh," she scoffs again. She turns to speak to someone off screen. She returns a few seconds later. "So Steve here just reminded me of something," she says.
"What?"
"I don't know if it's connected so this may be nothing, okay?"
"What?" I repeat.
"So… you know when we were trying to sort out the artefact that affected Pete that time?"
"Which time?" There were so many.
"That time he went psycho…" she is trying to be gentle, but there were so many.
"Which time?"
"That time he hurt you," she finishes quietly.
"Okay. What about it?"
"We got the Apollo cape and dunked it in goo, and it changed nothing."
I'm processing what Claudia has just said, my mind backtracks through the details in the reports I read about the incident. "Wait a minute..." something gets connected somewhere, "wasn't that a remote activation as well?"
Her jaw drops and she looks to her left, Steve is walking into the frame.
"We didn't know artefacts could be remotely activated then," he adds.
"Holy conspiracy," she exclaims, "are you saying what I think you're saying?"
I'm not sure who she's talking to.
"But this was ages ago, wasn't it?" Claudia confirms.
"Four years," I say.
"Okay... Give me a minute," she looks determined and walks off.
"Are you okay, Myka?" Steve asks.
"Ask me that when this is all over," I say, no point in lying to him.
"How are you holding up, then?" he adapts his question.
"By the book," I reply. If it weren't for protocols, I honestly don't know how I'd be.
Claudia comes back, holding three hefty folders. "This is the kind of research we were all into when you were at the hospital four years ago," she holds the folders up. "We need to go into research mode to figure this out."
"We who?" I ask.
"Dealer's choice," she says. "But I thought the three of us can hack it."
"Okay," I agree.
"What do you prefer? Video footage, sensor data or historical references?" she holds up one folder at the time.
"I'll take history," they are all pretty difficult, so I pick the one I know best.
"Excellent choice. Steve-O, we have our work cut out for us," she hands him two folders, then looks back at me. "Call us when you get settled, I'll start sending you search results," and she signs off.
I spend a few moments collecting my thoughts, sorting them between what's happening now and what happened four years ago. The more I think through this, the odder it gets: how long have remote activations been happening for? Why does it only happen with ancient world artefacts? How come good, old fashioned neutralising doesn't do the trick? And the questions keep on coming, until one sticks and doesn't move: what do I want to tell the team and how do I want to say it?
I switch the two way feed on.
"Hey," I say and they all look up at me.
"Karl, can you understand what I'm saying to you right now?" I ask.
He gives a thumb down.
"Mac, I never got the hang of Cricket and I lied to you last week when I said it was fun?" I intone my comment as a question on purpose.
She gives me a thumb down.
"Helena," I call her name, my heart pounds at the thought of her.
She looks up.
"I miss you," I say.
She shakes her head.
More importantly, none of the others react. Had they been able to understand what I just said, I know for a fact they will have reacted in some way to such an explicit display of affection; but there is nothing across the room.
"Okay," I reach for the tablet, bring the Gooery picture back on, and draw a thick, red 'X' over it. "Neutralising didn't work," I say and point my thumb down. They all nod tiredly. "I," I point emphatically at myself, "am going to do some research about this," I search for a picture of books online and hold that up. "You guys," I point into the camera, then search for a picture of astronaut food, "need to have dinner," I hold that up to the camera.
Martin walks to the locker at the far end of the room and brings out small cardboard boxes, one for each of them. "Thanks, Martin," I gesture. "Talk soon," I have a gesture for talking, I have nothing for soon.
I wave to them, they wave back, I switch the feed off.
I stand there for a moment, deflated. I feel about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
Snap out of it, Bering, I psych myself; go home, get a cup of coffee and get at what you are good at.
I leave the airlock, and take my helmet off when two of the soldiers on patrol clock me and point their weapons at me.
"Stop!" they yell.
I freeze, hold both my hands up. "I'm Bering," I say. "I'm not affected."
"Let me verify that," one of them says, walks back a few paces and goes on his radio. I can hear the officer I spoke to earlier talking to him, asking him to describe what I look like. He joins the other soldier, "You can get through," he says.
"No one else goes out," I order them.
The one who verified who I was salutes me.
"As you were," I salute back, get in the Rover and go home.
I walk into the cottage, place the HazMat helmet by the door, unzip the suit and pull my hands out of the thick gloved sleeves. It falls straight off me, pools at my feet and I step out of it. I stand in the foyer for a moment, taking in the silence. A roaring silence. Trite, but true.
I'm still standing there when Dickens greets me, rubbing himself against my shin. Suddenly, missing Helena feels like phantom pain, like I'm missing a limb. I am missing her being here, missing her voice and the look in her eyes. Her cockiness and vulnerability and world of contradictions that she is.
I'm missing her as if she is gone, because as much as I hate to even consider it, she may be. It's hard for me to even think it, but I'm not allowed to make assumptions or give discounts just because it's Helena and I happen to believe she's a great person. If there's an inside element – everyone's a suspect. That's how it works. No one is allowed to make assumptions. If we're is investigating insiders, Helena will be on the list.
"Coffee," I mutter to shake myself out of the thought.
Dickens meows.
"And dinner," I acknowledge him.
I walk into the kitchen, put the kettle on for my coffee and dish up a sachet of wet food for the cat. My mind is blank, all that goes through it are the noises in the cottage, our cottage: the kettle coming to the boil and switching off, Dickens munching on his dinner, the soft closing of the kitchen cabinet door, the unscrewing of the coffee jar's lid, the scraping of the teaspoon inside it, the soft rattle-come-hiss of the coffee granules falling into my empty mug. All the tiny little noises my brain usually filters out because there is something else to think about.
But my brain is avoiding thinking about that something else, the something that is simply too hard to even begin to mull over. What I keep circling back to is that my feelings for her are probably skewing things: either in her favour, or against her, because I'm trying to compensate.
I need to distract myself form all this, so I try straight-out logic: at the moment there is no evidence to suggest her direct involvement. That's easy enough. In fact, there is no evidence of any kind. That's why I'm here now. That's what Claud and I agreed I'd do.
I collect my mug and head over to my office with a sigh.
I switch the computers on to find Claudia has already sent me about a hundred links to literature in the Warehouse database that refer to the Tower of Babel, artefacts that relate to biblical myths, artefacts that relate to languages and artefacts that simply wreak havoc.
I start by putting together a mind map of topics, colour coding information and meta data: era, geography, myth, religion, anthropology, scale... I start working from the centre of my map outwards, making sure I cover a wide range of topics on a regular basis.
It doesn't too much to distract me, probably about eight or ten minutes. Then I'm in the zone.
/ /
It is late. I don't know what time it is because there is no natural daylight where we are and I don't understand the means by which time is told, although I know I should. But it is like the round face of the object on the wall is an alien concept and the movement of the lines across it is meaningless.
The group has settled down some. They have been fascinating to watch throughout the afternoon. Initially, no one could stop talking. Neither of us could understand the other, but we kept on talking to each other, irrespective of understanding, following our instinct to communicate verbally.
Initially, there was the very natural reaction of speaking louder: one makes the assumption that if another doesn't do what one tells them to, another must not have heard one. Thus, one must speak louder. Forces of habit are hard to break.
After that, we all adopted blank looks to give each other as we spoke. By the time Myka had arrived, we managed to create enough rudimentary understanding by means of tonality and hand gestures to play a game of cards.
Karl and I are occupying a bench each at the far end of the infirmary. It sounds like he is already asleep. The rest of the team is on the other side of the room, playing a game. I reckon they have made the rules more complex, having gained confidence in their lack of common language. Watching them is like watching children play – they don't need the rules of language, they just need the rules of the game.
She has only just met her cousins, and they are already deeply engrossed in a game of draughts. She barely speaks their language and they barely speak hers, but they all know the game and its rules. They don't need more.
I watch over them while my cousin prepares a light supper for the children. Their gameplay is harmonious to me as an observer: her cousins converse with her in French and she responds in English. Most of the time, the conversation flows as if they actually understand each other. There is such beauty in their interaction. Such innocence. I wonder why we must lose it as we grow older.
Christina is the first to be crowned, but loses the game eventually. There is no bitterness, there are no hard feelings. They change seats, pick different colours and start another game. Then another, and another.
I shake my head to return to the present, as lonely as it may feel. It is too easy to liken the way I feel now to the hundred years in which I had no voice, only thoughts and memories. Forces of habit are truly hard to break, especially when the habit had been perfected over a century.
But that is a habit I broke. I broke it by replacing it with another: Myka and I are in the habit of talking.
I close my eyes and try to concentrate on something else, other than me, other than her.
If I understood Myka correctly earlier, we are affected by Babel stones and neutralising them did not work. I wonder if this has a connection to the cape of Apollo, the one that drove Pete over the edge and resulted in Myka's injury.
I'm looking into her eyes, their magnificent green is faded. They flicker and dart aimlessly, her eyelids flutter. She is breathing fast and shallow, trying to speak, but her lips are not moving. My hand feels her curls, then her skull, it is not as it should be, and my hand pulls away, my fingers covered in something warm, viscous and sticky. And red.
I tear my eyes open and shake my head more vigorously.
No. I am determined to not be heading down this path.
Babel stones. There was a pile of them in Warehouse twelve, we kept them in a large, open topped crate. I recall questioning Catarunga about them, commenting how much chaos these stones can cause, yet we leave them so exposed. His reasoning stated the difficulty in activating them without giving me details. He reassured me, in his own puzzling way, that there is no need to secure their storage because of it.
There is obviously knowledge in the Warehouse about the Babel stones – if only any of it was in whatever language it is I am capable of reading.
If only there was anything I was able to read, I could certainly use the distraction right about now.
I am holding her in my arms, she's asleep. We had the most splendid day – tea party with Uncle Charlie and his friends in Hatfield. We spent hours in the gardens, playing hide and seek, chasing hares and telling stories about the trees and flowers that grow in the woods that surround Knebworth House.
Before dinner she and I were allowed in the armoury, and after a quick bout of wooden sword fighting, more stories were told, of knights and barbarians and wars where courageous warrior queens save the day.
I press my lips to her forehead and she sighs in her sleep.
"If these are your stories at six, I cannot wait to hear your stories at sixteen, and twenty six," I whisper into her hair.
I open my eyes again to stare at the white washed ceiling of the infirmary, until my sight blurs with tears.
I can't quite recall feeling so alone.
Not even in bronze.