Birth of the Alliance (17 page)

Yet, there was a curious line he recalled from the note sent to him by his children and Adam. Though both he and Hope had been missing for so long, they said that it had been
him
who’d teleported Hope and Josh to a hidden bunker, away from possible death at the hands of William the Assassin. To a degree, he now found the story rubbish; Hope was in no more danger from death at the hands of William than he was from the ants crawling around on the ground. Then he remembered the mob attack on Watt and sobered. Perhaps that line was in there to give him hope that he was still alive and able to provide that degree of help in 2030. Or it was their way of admitting that they didn’t know who’d performed that teleportation, and assumed it must have been him. Maybe Hope had saved them after all, but she’d not been around long enough afterwards to tell them that, or Hope had saved them and told them it was Will to keep him alive in their children’s minds. Regardless of the future reality, they were pleading with him from beyond his actual or virtual grave, begging him to survive, relying on his inherent instinct to save those he loved.

He’d hope for the best and plan for the worst. That meant he needed to trust others to ensure that everything on that fateful day happened exactly as it was supposed to happen, even if he wasn’t around to assist in any way.

They’d have to make sure that the time machine arrived in his basement with enough lead time to pull him away from danger. They’d need to allow the Assassin and the Hunters to carry out their plan and gain their forced entry into the neighborhood—he winced at the realization of the lives that had been lost in that invasion—and allow the Hunters to attack Young Will, allow the Assassin to gain entry to the home and set the fire. And they had to make sure that Josh and Angel came into the world. He had no idea how they’d pull it all off, coordinate all of the timing, ensure all of the research was completed as necessary. Who would find the cure? Who would build the time machine? Who would help Hope care for his children during his long absence from the world?

Perhaps his children had the answers, stored somewhere in his diary. But when he checked the scroll, it was blank. No words of encouragement, no answers to his most challenging questions.

Will sighed. At times, he wondered if he would have been better off if they’d let him travel through time without the infernal thing. In most cases, he was left to his own devices, provided only objective information. But he wasn’t given insight on why Adam acted the way he’d acted, for instance, nor told not to lose hope during his struggles to find the ambrosia cure.

He looked up through the clear surface of the miniature sub. The water here wasn’t deep enough to hide sunlight, and the absence of natural light told him that night had fallen. He'd been mulling over his long life and the unique, extraordinary challenges it brought him, for hours. It had seemed like only minutes.

After seizing the bag with the miniature cameras and microphones, Will teleported to the roof of Independence Hall. It was the safest place to make his initial entry, since there was little chance anyone would be watching or patrolling the roof at night. He was unlikely to be seen coalescing into existence out of thin air there. He reached his senses down into the main meeting room, searching, looking for any sign of human life. He found nothing. After developing an image of the meeting room in his mind, he cloaked and teleported into the dark space below.

Will had seen the room in paintings immortalizing the events that would unfold over the next several months. He set up faint Energy lights to give him better visibility. There were long wooden tables where the delegates would sit when not addressing the convention. He spotted candles everywhere, critical, as they would serve as the sole source of light after the windows were boarded up. He found inkwells for those taking notes for motions and seconds and other official business—and, eventually, the writing of the new Constitution that would govern the land. The room smelled musty now, even after the sun had dropped below the horizon and the worst heat of the day had lessened. He shuddered to think of the smells after months of passionate debate in a room sealed from the outside world.

Will positioned the microphones and cameras high on the walls, trying to determine the best locations to provide a complete view of the proceedings, speeches, and offhand comments until now lost to history. He was concerned about detection. While the devices were small, they weren’t small enough to be invisible, and if someone looked directly at them, they might notice enough to raise suspicions. Of course, none of them had reason to suspect the presence of secretive audio and video recording devices; such concepts would remain foreign to the general population for another century or two.

Satisfied, he returned to the submarine and tested the feeds as best he could in an empty room devoid of light. He sighed; it was another minor detail he'd not thought of. At least he'd planted the devices well in advance of the commencement of the convention; he'd have time to make adjustments if necessary. Exhausted mentally and emotionally from the events of the day, Will slept.

Will was one of those who woke from a deep sleep, never remembering his dreams. Yet on this night, his dream was especially vivid. As he lay sleeping under the waters of the Schuylkill River, his mind traveled back to the strange island they’d named Atlantis. He’d woken there one night and nearly found himself underwater before they’d finished more permanent and flood proof sleeping quarters. The island’s strangest feature—filling with water during the ocean-driven floods before later draining quickly—was one he’d never spent sufficient time to explain while living there, and he’d never gone back afterward to solve the mystery.

Once more, he watched the ocean waters pour over the beaches and embankments, streaming the valley floor, the roar of the water drowned out by the reverberations of thunder. Once more, he watched the valley fill, until it became a giant lake within the ocean, with only a handful of small rock outcroppings peeking out from beneath the waters. His mind knew he should feel the power of the surging water; should sense the rumbling of the thunder and surge under his feet. He knew he should smell the storm and salty water, knew that he should even be choking down the spray of the surf.

But he felt nothing.

Will realized he had an opportunity. Whether this was a detailed reliving of a memory from centuries past, or some strange session of clairvoyance, he was in no physical danger from the water. He could watch this flood and drain sequence and learn the secret of the most puzzling mystery of the island. Could he do that if it was a dream, since he’d never seen where the water drained? Perhaps, in this state of calm, he’d see something in a memory that he’d not noticed previously.

Even in this dreamlike state, he wondered why it was happening. How could it possibly be important now, centuries after he’d last set foot on the island? Was it some strange psychological reminder of his failure to solve the mystery of ambrosia? He berated himself enough on that front while awake; losing restful sleep over it seemed like overkill.

Gradually, the rain stopped. The thunder and lightning moved off into the distance, locating their next targets. Water levels began to fall, slowly at first, and then more rapidly.

As he watched the valley reappear, Will kept his eyes on the perimeter of the base. In walking the valley during the dry times, it seemed he’d walked downhill to reach that perimeter before reaching the hills enabling transport by foot back to the top and the beaches surrounding the valley. That’s where he expected the “drains” to exist; they would of necessity be at the lowest point of the island. Yet it became apparent that what he thought he’d seen was an illusion. The deepest part of the valley was the salty lake at the center. As the last of the floodwaters vanished, it became apparent that the water was draining
through
the lake.

The realization raised as many questions as it answered. How was the lake itself draining and moderating its own water levels? The lake wasn’t the source for rivers and streams that flowed away from it and downhill; in fact, all of the streams on the island flowed downhill and eventually
terminated
there. Heat and sunlight would cause some evaporation, but nothing sufficient to account for the rapid draining of water he’d witnessed. Will doubted even desert-like temperatures could clear that volume of water, even if such temperatures remained constant for years.

The only logical conclusion was that the water had to drain out through the sides or bottom of the lake….. It could mean that the sides or bottom were permeable, and naturally drained water out at roughly the rate the island streams would refresh the water levels. When the excess water hit, it couldn't drain quickly enough, and so the valley filled. When the water stopped flowing in, the level of drainage would take the water out at a high rate of speed.

He scoffed at the idea. Even if his theory was correct, the rate at which the lake could drain out water shouldn’t increase dramatically in the event of a flood; it should still continue to drain at the same rate. He thought that maybe, just maybe, that could account for the elimination of the floodwaters over time. But it should take days or weeks to do so, not hours, and that was giving his shaky theory an unearned level of credibility. A natural lake wasn't designed to increase the amount of water it could drain based upon current weather conditions. Could it?

Will shivered. That meant that human beings must have devised mechanisms to handle temporary excesses in water. Whatever had been done had happened long before the Aliomenti had ever set foot on the island of Atlantis, and it happened as automatically as the water lift systems they’d devised while in residence. Even now, after the Aliomenti had abandoned the island, that system continued to operate.

His mind demanded answers. How was it happening? Thus far, after what seemed like hours in this dreamlike state, he’d merely figured out
where
the water drained. Will allowed his dream form to float down to the lake. Perhaps, with the floodwaters gone once more, he could see something in the lake that would give him a better idea of what was happening.

What he saw was far simpler, and far more profound.

It floated near the edge of the lake, nearest the shoreline where he stood. It might mean nothing, or it might be something deep and profound. Nevertheless, he needed to remember what he’d seen when he woke, and put conscious thought toward solving yet another mystery.

It was a very good thing that he was immortal. He had a feeling it might take centuries to figure out who, exactly, owned the single platinum blond hair floating on the surface of the water.

XI

Power

1826 A.D.

Passengers crowded the railing of the ship, eager to get their first look at their new home. After weeks of rolling waves, storms, cramped quarters, and bouts of seasickness, the sight of the city of Philadelphia on the horizon brought tears of joy to many. As the ship moved toward the dock, they retrieved their generally meager belongings, aided by the crew.

The ship thumped against the dock with surprising gentleness, and dockhands tied and anchored the vessel. The sounds of the bustling harbor were an assault on ears long attuned waves and birds; the scent of salt and nausea and nervousness replaced by horses and eagerness and even greater nervousness. Many of the new arrivals spoke no English outside the few phrases assimilated during the long journey. Even those familiar with the native tongue lacked the basics as they stepped off the ship: friends, lodging, or connections for employment. Still, the promise, the stories told of this country, still in its infancy, helped obliterate those concerns and compelled those preparing to disembark to abandon their native lands for the opportunity she promised.

The plank was lowered, and the crew assisted the passengers in carrying luggage to the dock. Several passengers dropped to their knees once ashore, kissing the ground in gratitude. Others stumbled, their footing unsure on ground that didn’t move beneath their feet. They gradually moved forward with their fellow travelers, logging their names for posterity before moving into the city to start developing their futures and fulfilling their destinies.

With the passengers ashore, the crew spent several hours cleaning the ship, and then gathered for their final payday before heading into town for well-earned shore leave. The quartermaster found himself with one extra bag of money. He glanced around, frowning. “Did we miss someone?”

They’d not noticed that one of the sailors, a tall man with jet-black hair and green eyes, had left the ship with the last of the passengers. They’d not recognize him even if they saw him in the future.

Will had piloted one of the single-passenger submarines under a common path for ships carrying immigrants to the United States and, once he'd verified no Aliomenti presence, had teleported aboard. The crew believed he'd been there from the start of the journey, and were amazed at the relative lack of sickness and discomfort throughout the journey. The trip took less time than expected, and the captain cited unexpectedly favorable winds.

He’d arrived on July 5, 1826, in time to meet up with Adam, just as they’d agreed nearly fifty years earlier. Philadelphia’s explosive growth had continued. When he’d first visited in the early eighteenth century, the city’s population had numbered barely ten thousand; the city now boasted seven times that number. The noise and smells were exaggerated with the masses of people now present, their number incremented with the passengers of the ship Will had left.