GATEWAYS (September)
CRISSCROSS (November)
INFERNAL (December)
YEAR ZERO MINUS ONE:
JANUARY
Harbingers
APRIL
early–Dawn Pickering conceives (Bloodline)
Alan gets Dat-Tay-Vao / Walter Erskine dies (The Touch)
MAY
(late) By the Sword
Dawn escapes Mr Osala; Jack meets Glaeken and they retrieve the Gaijin Masamune
JULY
Alan’s house burns on a Monday
(later) 2 Kickers (“Sammy”) found dead in Manhattan of a host of diseases and avulsed intestines (Touch)
Jack reconnects with Weezy, the Lady dies a 2nd time (Ground Zero)
AUGUST
The Touch ends
Rasalom settles in Pendleton, NC as Rafe
SEPTEMBER
“The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium” ends
OCTOBER / NOVEMBER / DECEMBER
The Order develops the Jihad virus
Rafe/Rasalom begins at seducing Lisl
YEAR ZERO
JANUARY
Dawn’s baby boy is late
Rasalom–in Pendleton, NC
FEBRUARY
Rasalom–in NC setting up Ev and Lisl
Renny Augustino–in NC tracking Bill Ryan; then in NYC with Bill to dig up grave in St. Ann’s Cemetery; meets Glaeken and they burn remains
Glaeken goes to NC where Rasalom kills Renny and discovers Glaeken is mortal (Reprisal ends)
Fatal Error end with the Lady terribly wounded but still alive
MARCH
The Dark at the End: Jack goes back to Johnson to find the old sigil w. Rasalom’s Other name (first seen in Jack: Secret Circles)
Rasalom steals the Gaijin Masamune and uses it to kill the Lady for the 3rd and final time, thus paving the way for the Otherness.
MAY
Nightworld begins
HIGHER CENTERS
He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, looking out through the dirty window without seeing anything, when a movement caught his eye. A small dog, a mongrel with a limp, rounded a corner and loped down the near-deserted street. Something about the dog made him lean forward in his chair and stare intently. And while his eyes were riveted on the animal, his mind reviewed the events of the past few weeks in a effort to make a connection between the dog and the catastrophe that threatened Morgan City and the rest of the planet.
Decker Eiselt gnawed at a stubborn cuticle as he gazed from the flitter window. He was short, very dark and had an intelligent, fine-featured face. He was presently engaged in marveling at Morgan City which lay spread out below him. This was hardly the first time he had seen it from the air but the perfect harmony of its layout never failed to stir him. This was a city as cities should be—a planned city, a city that knew where it was going, a city with a purpose.
Discounting a few large islands, Kamedon had only one continent and Morgan City occupied its center, a fitting capital for a world that had become one of the centers of Restructurist ideology and the pride of the Restructurist movement.
Yes, Morgan City was beautiful as cities go, but Decker Eiselt preferred the coast. The university was there and the years spent near the sea in study and research had instilled a narcoticlike dependency in his system . . . without the continual dull roar of the surf and a certain, subtle tang in the air, he could not feel quite at ease, could never relax and feel at home.
And then there were the fishermen. During his stay in Morgan City he would miss rising early with the sun glaring on the water and watching the fishermen head out the harbor as he and Sally ate breakfast. Most of the men on those slow, ponderous boats were salaried by the government fisheries but a few diehards still insisted on free-lancing and trying to earn more by catching more. Eiselt detested their stubbornness but their spirit struck a resonance somewhere within him and he was forced to admit a grudging admiration for them—until they got out of hand, of course.
He idly wondered if there could possibly be any connection between the disorder at the local fishery the other day and his being called to Morgan City, but promptly dismissed the thought. He was a research physician and had nothing to do with fisheries. And besides, the incident had been minor by any standard, just some pushing and shoving at the pay window. Some of the local fishermen—the free lancers especially—had become angry when the pay authorizations were delayed. Nothing to get excited about, really; this was the first time such a delay had ever occurred and would no doubt be the last. The Department of Sea Industries was far too efficient to allow such an oversight to happen a second time.
They were coming in for a landing, now. The roof of the Department of Medicine and Research’s administration building grew large beneath them as Eiselt’s darting brown eyes strained to recognize the figure waiting below. It was Dr. Caelen, no doubt. Eiselt hadn’t liked being called away from his work for some mysterious reason that would not be explained until he arrived in Morgan City, but an unmistakable note of urgency had filtered through the message.
And so Decker Eiselt chewed a cuticle as he did whenever he was puzzled. What was the urgent need for a research physician? And why the mystery? He smiled grimly. No use in getting worked up about it; he’d know soon enough. He didn’t have much choice in the matter, anyway: when Dr. Alton Caelen summons you to the capital, you go to the capital. Immediately.
The flitter touched down with a jolt and Eiselt, the only passenger, hopped out as soon as the engines were cut. A lean, graying man in his fifties stepped forward to meet him.
“Decker!” he said, shaking his hand. “Good to see you!”
Eiselt couldn’t reply. Was it . . .
Yes, it was Dr. Caelen and he looked terrible! Bright eyes gleamed from sockets deep-sunk in a lined and haggard face.
“Dr. Caelen!” he stammered. “I . . .”
“I know,” the older man said quickly. “You’re about to say I look like death warmed over and you’re right. But we’ll talk about it downstairs.”
Caelen led him to the elevator and kept up an incessant flow of trivia on the way down, punctuating each phrase with quick, nervous gestures.
“How’s the wife? Very pregnant and very happy, I suppose. Lovely girl, Sally. Dr. Bain’s taking care of her, I suppose. Good, good. How about that little disturbance out your way? Unfortunate, very unfortunate. But things may get worse before they get better. Yes, they may well get worse.”
Stimulants? Eiselt asked himself. Dr. Caelen was definitely hyper. He had never seen the man so worked up. After reaching. his office, however, he visibly sagged and Eiselt could no longer contain himself.
“My God, Doctor! What’s happened to you?”
“I’m not sleeping very well,” he replied simply and calmly.
Under normal circumstances, Eiselt would have waited for an invitation before sitting down but these weren’t normal circumstances. He grabbed the nearest chair and, without taking his eyes off Caelen, slowly sank into it.
“There must be more to it than that. A sedative will cure insomnia.”
Caelen followed Eiselt’s lead and fell into the chair behind his desk before answering. “There’s not much more to tell, really,” he said, putting his hands over his temples and resting his elbows on the desk top. “I just can’t seem to get enough air at night. When I doze off, I wake up a few minutes later, gasping frantically. And it’s getting worse.”
Eiselt repressed an audible sigh. Pulmonary diseases had been his field of research for the past ten years and he felt as if he were on firm ground again. His muscles relaxed somewhat and he settled more comfortably into the chair.
“Was the onset of symptoms slow, or abrupt?”
“Slow. So slow that I didn’t become concerned until recently. But I can trace it pretty clearly in retrospect. The symptoms started showing up during my daily exercises—”
“You mean you have respiratory
troubles during periods of exertion, too?”
“Yes . . . sorry if I gave you the impression that I’m only bothered when I’m trying to sleep. The problem isn’t that simple. You see, about nine months ago I started noticing little irregularities in my breathing rhythm as I exercised. I didn’t pay too much attention to it at the time but it’s got to the point where short, simple exercises, that I formerly performed with ease, leave me gasping for air. Two or three months ago I started having sleeping problems. Nothing much at first: restlessness, insomnia, inability to sleep for more than an hour at a time. Things have progressed to the present stage where I can hardly sleep at all. And, unless I concentrate fully on my breathing, I can’t exert myself in the slightest.”
“Are you having any difficulty right now, just sitting and talking?”
“Only a little, but I find myself out of breath at the oddest times.”
Eiselt mused a moment. “The syndrome, as you’ve related it, doesn’t ring a bell. I’d like to make some tests, if I may.”
“I figured you would,” Caelen said and managed a smile. “The lab downstairs will be at your disposal.”
“Good. But one question: Why me? There are plenty of others in Morgan City who could handle this, many of them right in this building. Of course I’m honored that you thought of me but I am, after all, a research physician.”
“I wanted you here for a number of reasons,” Caelen stated. “Central among them was the fact that there isn’t much you don’t know about respiratory pathology. The others I’ll explain to you after you’ve made your tests.”
Eiselt nodded. “Okay, but one other question, if you don’t mind: What psychological symptoms? If you’re losing REM sleep . . .”
“I’m as irritable as hell, if that’s what you mean. It’s only with the greatest exercise of will that I keep myself from biting off the head of anyone I meet, including you. So stop quizzing me and get on with your tests!”
“Well, then,” Eiselt said, rising and smiling, “let’s go.”
He didn’t know what was plaguing Caelen but was confident he could come up with an answer in a short while. No doubt it was a variation on another familiar syndrome.
Later in the day he wasn’t so sure. All his tests for pathology had come up negative. Strange, a man with Caelen’s symptoms should certainly show some pathology. Feeling not a little embarrassed, Eiselt took the grav chute to the upper levels. Dr. Caelen had taught at the university before the Department of Medicine and Research decided to move him into Administration. He now headed that department and Eiselt, one of his former students, had wanted to look good for the old man.
Dr. Caelen awaited him in his office. “Well, Decker, what have you found?”
“Frankly, I’m a little at a loss,” he admitted. “Your lungs are in great shape. You shouldn’t have the symptoms you do.”
He paused, but Caelen waited for him to go on.
Obviously crestfallen, he concluded: “I’m afraid I’ll need some more data before I can even guess which way to go.”
“Don’t feel too badly about it,” Caelen told him. “Nobody else knows what’s going on around here, either—and we’ve had the best working on it. I knew you’d want to make those tests yourself and draw your own conclusions so I let you.”
“Thanks. That makes me feel a little better. But now I’d like to know those ‘other reasons’ for sending for me.”
Caelen nodded. “Okay. Tell me: have you noticed anything unusual about our personnel?”
“To tell the truth, the building seems almost deserted.”
“True, that’s part of the problem. But what about those you have seen?”
“They all look pretty beat,” he replied after a pause, “almost like . . . Doctor, is there an epidemic of this syndrome?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Caelen said.
“Why haven’t I heard anything about it?”
Caelen sighed. “Because we’ve been doing our best to keep the lid on it until we find out just what it is we’re dealing with.”
“Does it seem to be spreading?”
“Most suburban hospitals are packed with cases, but they’re not as bad off as the city proper. It seems as if the entire population of the capital has come down with this . . . this syndrome. And we’ve also had reports of isolated cases from coast to coast. Figure that one out!”
Eiselt’s teeth found a cuticle and went to work on it. “I have an instinctive feeling that this isn’t the work of any pathogenic organism, known or unknown. Yet, an epidemic usually means contagion . . .” His voice drifted off into thought.
“Speaking of contagion,” Caelen said, “I must apologize for exposing you to whatever it is that’s plaguing us but we needed someone who was uninfected to work on it. The rest of us are so exhausted that we can’t think straight about any subject other than sleep. We don’t trust our own judgment. I hope I haven’t endangered you, but you must understand that we’re getting desperate. None of the departments can get anything done because no one can concentrate anymore. That’s why the Department of Sea Industries made that error with the pay authorizations. And there have been a number of other, similar cases. The Department of Public Information has been keeping it quiet but little things have a way of piling up. We may have a very frightened planet on our hands if we don’t come up with something soon. I tried to handle it myself but my stamina has been completely sapped.”
“Could it possibly be a Federation plot?”
Caelen repressed a smile. Decker Eiselt hadn’t changed much. He had been an adamant Restructurist during his college years and had evidently remained so.
“Ridiculous, Decker! The very reason we want to ‘restructure’ the Federation is because it limits itself exclusively to interplanetary affairs. A plot against Kamedon would be strictly out of character.”
“But you have to admit that the Federation would hardly be dismayed if the people lost faith in the government and the planet ground to a halt.”
“You’ve got a point there, but you must realize that the Restructurist movement will go on, with or without Kamedon. And you can’t go around looking for a Federation plot every time something goes wrong.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Eiselt reluctantly agreed.
“Of course I’m right! So let’s not worry about the Federation or Restructurism. Let’s worry about Morgan City. I don’t want to have to call in the IMC.”
Eiselt blanched. “The Interstellar Medical Corps is pro-Federation! Asking them for help is like going to the Federation itself!”
“Well, then,” Caelen said pointedly, “I hope you’ve got some sort of a plan on how to tackle this.”
“I’ve got the start of a plan. Those isolated cases might provide us with a clue. I’d like to have every one of them flown to the capital as soon as possible.”
“Good idea,” Caelen agreed, swallowing another stimulant.
After two weeks of testing and interviewing patients from the outlying districts, Eiselt was able to hand Dr. Caelen a piece of paper with a date scrawled on it.
“Remember that day?” he said.
Caelen hesitated. “No, can’t say I do.” Daily he and all the other victims had grown more haggard and exhausted. Remembering was an effort. “Almost a year ago . . . wait! Wasn’t this the day of the accident in Dr. Sebitow’s lab?”
“Correct. And how does this strike you: every case I’ve interviewed was in Morgan City when the accident occurred!”
Caelen slumped in his seat. “Sebitow’s ray,” he muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. No one really knew except Sebitow—and he’s dead.”
Eiselt’s tone showed his exasperation. “But the department gave him the money! You must know what he was working on!”
“What do you know about administration, Decker?” the older man flared. “How do you handle a man who is one of the greatest medical minds in the galaxy but who has no
concept of politics, who has no loyalty to anything but his work? To Nathan Sebitow the Federation and the Restructurist movement were just words! The only way to keep a man like that working for you is to give him full rein. A number of other planets had offered him unlimited funds and unlimited freedom so we had to match them. He said he was onto something big and wanted the money immediately, so we gave it to him.”
“But don’t you have any idea what he was doing?”
Caelen paused. “All we know is that he was working on high-penetration radiation with neuronal effects. When he worked out a few bugs he was going to give us a full report. Decker, you don’t think the Respiratory Center could have been affected, do you?”
“Not a chance,” Eiselt replied with a slow shake of his head. Your Respiratory Center is intact and functional. Were any of Sebitow’s records recovered?”
“None.”
“But wasn’t he still alive when they found him? I remember a report about Sebitow being taken to a hospital . . . did he say anything?”
“He said a few words,” Caelen replied, “but they didn’t make too much sense.”
“Remember what they were? It might give us a lead.”
“Not really. Something about an over-reaction, I think.”
“Please try to remember!” Eiselt urged.
Caelen shrugged. “We had a recorder going when he came around. If you think it’s important, go down to Hearn’s office and he’ll play it for you.”
Dr. Hearn, too, was gaunt and haggard and really didn’t want to be bothered with retrieving a recording of Dr. Sebitow’s last words. His last stimulant was wearing off.
“I’ll tell you what he said, Dr. Eiselt: ‘Over-reaction . . . danger . . . tell . . . ens . . . ’ That was all.”
“Yes, but I’d like to hear it myself. I know what you’re going through but I’m trying to find a key to this mess. Please get it.”
Wearily, Hearn went to a file, pulled out a cartridge and fitted it into a viewer. For seemingly interminable minutes Eiselt watched the injured Dr. Sebitow toss his bandaged head and mumble incoherently. Suddenly, the man opened his eyes and shouted, “Over-reaction! . . . Danger! Tell . . . ens . . .” and then relapsed into mumbles. Hearn switched it off.