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Authors: Stel Pavlou

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“Exactly!” Hackett nodded, as though Scott had replied. “Never. Like that ancient Chinese proverb where three wise men are blindfolded and told to identify the mystery guest just by their sense of touch. The first insists it's a snake because it's long and muscular. The second thinks it's a tree trunk. Finally, the third guy says it's a bird. It has to be a bird—its wings are flapping.” He stuffed the glass into the seat pocket in front. Licked his lips. “Well, didn't they feel like fools when they ripped off their masks to find an elephant.” He smiled pragmatically.
“My point is, that's what it's like working in modern science today. Everything's so compartmentalized. Nobody shares information. Three different sciences could study the same thing and never know it. For all we know, the ancients were right—the earth is being carried through the universe on the back of a giant turtle. But the turtle's so big and we're only studying such microscopic parts that we haven't noticed.”
Very slowly, Scott turned his head toward Hackett. He was sweating heavily and it was all he could do not to throw up on him. “What—are—you—talking about?”
Suddenly the seat in front tipped backward revealing a couple spontaneously making out. Scott didn't recall them having known each other previously.
Hackett reinforced the point with the thrust of a hand. “Put
that
in a movie and no one would believe you.” He glanced at the gold Rolex strapped to his wrist. “Thirty seconds,” he announced.
“Thirty seconds from what?!”
 
“We're gonna die! Oh my God, we're gonna die!” the man seated right next to November started to shriek. His breathing was ferocious. Labored.
November snatched the sick bag up from the pocket in
front and tossed it in his face. “You're hyperventilating,” she growled. “Breathe into the damn thing and shut up!”
 
Hackett methodically counted out the seconds, each number growing progressively louder until confidently he announced: “And we should bank to the left, right about … now.”
The plane started banking to the left.
The shuddering subsided. The engines sounded a little healthier. After a moment or two Scott could feel the whole cabin leveling out. The sigh of relief was palpable and for most of the passengers it was about the right time to let the tears flow.
Hackett sat back, looking smug. “Pilots,” he pontificated, “only really like talking to other pilots. When someone from an unrelated field tells him that a phenomenon from an equally unrelated source is going to play very real havoc with his marvelously integrated transportation system, the chances of him paying any attention at all are nil. Until, of course, all hell breaks loose. In which case the pilot's going to make damn sure he's explored every available option. Including reading the message the unrelated someone insisted he keep in his jacket pocket. You see, what we've just experienced is a Complex Adaptive System in action. Complexity. Order, in a seeming myriad of chaos.”
Despite Hackett's amused chuckle, Scott remained silent. Stone-faced.
“In other words, Dr. Scott: ain't sunspot activity a bitch? Who knew we'd get weather like this?” Hackett stood, unconsciously smoothing out the creases in his pants. “Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.” He stepped out into the aisle, much to November's irritation.
“I said, nobody go in—”
Scott shot her a look and flapped his hand. Let the idiot find out for himself.
Hackett pulled the cubicle door open, allowing Scott a brief glimpse inside. Putrid yellow slime was sprayed everywhere. Chunks of stomach lining clung to the aluminum bulkhead, in massed lumps. Despite his best efforts, Hackett couldn't help but reel at the smell. And slowly, very slowly, Scott smiled.
“It was Buddha, by the way,” he said casually.
Hackett seemed distressed. “What was Buddha?” he snapped, as he was forced to take in a breath and gagged in the process.
“Who told the parable of the wise men and the elephant. And it was
four
wise men.”
“Oh … thanks,” Hackett replied distantly as he gingerly stepped into the cubicle.
Scott idly thumbed through the illegible figurework in Hackett's notebook, but immediately wished he hadn't because to illustrate his points Hackett had drawn little pictures next to his calculations. The sun exploding. The earth in dire trouble. And underlined at the bottom of the page Hackett had written:
It's begun
.
Scott set the notebook down. “No shit,” he said.
AZTEC—ANDES MOUNTAINS—CENTRAL AMERICA
 
During the time of the Fourth Sun (Epoch), to save one man, Coxcoxtli, and one woman, Xochiquetzal, from the crashing floods of heaven, the god Tezcatilpoca instructed them to build a boat. They landed atop a mountain where they settled and had many children. But their children remained dumb until a dove in a tree gave them the gift of languages. But the languages differed so much they could not understand each other.
 
Excerpt from:
Tales of the Deluge: A Global Report on Cultural Self-Replicating Genesis Myths,
Dr. Richard Scott, 2008
It was cold in Switzerland in March. That was the first thing November Dryden noticed. Then there were all the different languages being spoken—French, Italian, German, as well as English. And Switzerland was so small, sandwiched in between France, Italy, Lichtenstein, Germany and Austria. Mississippi it wasn't.
CERN was situated just outside Geneva, on the shores of Lac Léman, directly on the French border close to Mont Blanc. It was a city dedicated to cutting-edge science with no walls or gates but rather, main roads and highways. They'd been driving through the place for ten minutes before she realized they'd already arrived.
As they entered the main reception area she read the daunting blue signs ahead:
SUBGROUPS:
PHYSICAL ANALYSIS
SMD
TEC
ECAL & HCAL
LEP II PHYSICS:
SCINTILLATORS
MUON CHAMBERS
“Welcome to the large Hadron accelerator,” Hackett announced proudly, as he guided Scott and November through the security check and into the lobby. “The main ring is twenty-seven kilometers in diameter, houses one hundred meters underground. Each electromagnet is twice the size of a big-rig and accelerates a particle to almost the speed of light. That's fifty-
thousand
times around the entire length of the ring—
per
second. Welcome to the largest wonder of the modern world.”
“I thought they were building a bigger one in Arizona?” November remarked.
Hackett eyed her up and down before leaning in close. “Particle envy,” he said dryly, over-pronouncing the “p” sound to obvious effect.
“I don't see the relevance. Particle physics?” Scott queried.
“Relevance? Sub-atomic particles, quantum mechanics, the building blocks of the universe. It's dangerous, exciting stuff. It's not like studying botany: elementary particles are not normal.”
“Kinda like you,” November noted.
Hackett feigned a smile. “Cute,” he said. Then got alarmingly serious. “When you smash elementary particles together you don't destroy them, you just create more particles. It's like nothing you've ever known. Imagine you have a strawberry, and you decided to smash it into another strawberry. You don't get squished strawberries, you get a whole fruit salad, and sometimes the pieces of fruit are
larger
than the strawberry you started out with. Fruits like electrons with no dimension, but can be sensed. Whole bunches of non-sized particles. Gluons, Mesons, Anti-up Quarks, Anti-down Quarks, Beauty Quarks. Reality is
far
stranger than fiction.”
November appraised him. “Anything in particular you're looking for? Like an apple?”
“The graviton,” he explained. “Find the graviton and you master gravity. Master gravity and you master the universe. Master the universe and …”
“You'd be God,” Scott finished.
Hackett shrugged. “It's the only big field left to explore. I think
that's
pretty relevant.”
“I meant relevant to why we're here.” Scott glanced at his watch. “Didn't they say they'd be meeting us here at seven o'clock?”
“Doctors Scott and Hackett, I presume.”
They all turned to see three men striding toward them. Two were civilians, but the third was not. Sure enough the military were involved, just as Hackett had warned. Indeed, he couldn't resist sidling up next to Scott and whispering, “I told you so.”
Of the two civilians, one had a beard while the other had long, scraggy mid-brown hair and a pair of small, round, gold-rimmed glasses. His gray sweatshirt was two sizes too big and he looked like he did an awful lot of thinking, and
forgot about things like a hair-cut and a social life. He dashed forward with his hand outstretched, grinning from ear to ear, and gripped their hands tightly in turn, managing to shake for much longer than was necessary. When he got to Scott he used his other hand to reinforce his thanks and completely forgot to let go.
“Bob Pearce. I'm so
very
pleased to meet you, Dr. Scott. I've followed your work for a long time.”
“Thank you,” Scott replied, finding it difficult to get his hand back. “May I?” He literally yanked it free.
Pearce's face dropped suddenly and he released his grip in a flash. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Here, uh, let me, uh …”
The others stepped forward. “Major Lawrence Gant, Marine Expeditionary Force,” the braided officer announced by way of introduction, “and Ralph Matheson from Rola Corp.”
Scott's ear pricked up at that. “I got your note,” he said redundantly.
Gant made a gesture to all of them that they should get going. “Shall we? This way.”
They took a left. The walls were white and antiseptic throughout, the windows few and far between, the lighting bright and constant. It could be any time of day or night and no one would know. The scientists working here probably liked it that way, November figured as she watched some of them go about their business, unhurried, faces pressed against hard copy read-outs. The corridors were wide and longer than any she had ever seen.
Taking in every detail quietly, she noted anything that might be important including Major Gant's perfect butt marching up ahead inside a perfectly pressed blue marine uniform.
Matheson decided to strike up conversation first and turned to Hackett. “I hear you saved everyone's asses last night.”
“Oh, it was nothing, really. Just a minor quirk of physics,” Hackett replied modestly, but November couldn't decide if it was conceited or not. Hackett … Now she had time to think about it, that name was ringing some bells.
“The solar flare activity was playing havoc with the plane's electrical equipment,” he went on. “The storm just acted as a buffer area into which we could escape.”
Then it hit her. “Hackett? Dr. Jon Hackett? Of the Santa Fe Institute?”
“I'm a visiting professor at Santa Fe. Currently, as you can see—not, uh, visiting.”
Scott was surprised. “You know him?” he asked November.
“I know of him. He's brilliant—one of the foremost minds on complexity theory in modern physics. I read about him in science class.”
“You're very kind.” Hackett shrugged in mock humility.
“How did you know to turn into the storm?” she asked earnestly, aware that Scott was watching Hackett closely as his inevitable twinkle gave November its fullest attention.
Scott seemed to feel obliged to put the record straight though, which was cute of him. “She's only nineteen,” he explained.
Hackett smiled as he eyed November up and down without even realizing it. “Yes, yes,” he agreed. She smiled back. “It's really quite complex. It has to do with charged particles, electrical potentials across a moving body. Ionization. Solar winds, friction and … more friction.”
Scott raised his voice. “Hello?” Hackett looked around, sharply. “She's nineteen.”
Hackett glanced back at the wide-eyed teenager and said with as much charm as he could muster, “I think he thinks I'm deaf.”
November gazed back. Then asked innocently, “Are you on drugs?”
The laughter was loud, and Hackett's expression was hurt. But the grin and the wink she got from Major Gant suddenly made it seem worthwhile. What was it about men in uniform?.
Finally they arrived at their destination where the sign on the door read: MOLECULAR PHYSICS. QUANTUM TUNNELING, JFOT & NMRS. The room served as an observation deck overlooking the main lab below. An onyx table stood in front of the vast, thick overhang windows that were tilted out at 45-degree angles. Through them could be
seen scientists over a hundred feet below working with pieces of machinery so large that the technicians had to climb up ladders to adjust and calibrate the polished steel components.
At the end of the room Matheson set out stacks of papers on the table and rolled out maps with excruciating efficiency, as if he had rehearsed this moment for weeks. A screen was hung on the wall and digital pictures were already being displayed.
Pearce guided them over to the table and pulled out chairs like an over-zealous waiter. He leaned in close to Scott. “Sorry about your hand. I, uh …” His voice trailed off like his brain had just shifted gear into another subject. His eyes darted frantically but never focused on Scott. He turned and walked off to his papers.
Scott turned to talk to November, only to find her sitting so close they were in kissing distance. He sat back with a start and tried to smile. “Sorry,” he muttered. She flashed him a smile in return, but he wasn't quite sure what she meant by it.
There were layers and layers of paper on the table now. Much more than was probably needed. Pearce beamed at Scott. “This is so exciting.”
But Hackett's gaze was squarely on Matheson. He glanced at the picture of some icebergs on the screen. Back to Matheson. Then it clicked.
“You were on that ship,” Hackett said—and the way he said it made the others sit up and listen. Scott and November knew just what he meant. It had saturated the news all week. America was on the verge of war with China over mineral rights in Antarctica. Their position had been weakened when an American oil-ship was spotted trying to sneak out of the area. The government had claimed no knowledge. Rola Corp.'s corporate headquarters in New York had been under constant media bombardment ever since the story broke last week.
That was why they recognized him. Ralph Matheson had been unlucky enough to get caught on film, disembarking at the docks. He had been on that ship.
Matheson nodded silently.
“What were you doing out there?” Scott asked directly.
Pearce stepped in to rescue his colleague. “I enjoy your work, Dr. Scott,” he interjected. “I myself have done some extensive research on Zoroastrianism. If I remember my studies accurately, wasn't Zoroaster thought to have instructed Pythagoras?”
“Yes,” Scott agreed. “Zoroaster had a great influence on ancient Greece.”
“I'm sorry,” November nervously butted in, “but what does this—Zoroaster? Is that right?—what does he have to do with Dr. Scott's work?”
“Mithras,” Pearce explained impatiently, but cheerfully.
Gant and Hackett shared a look. They too seemed none the wiser.
“Shall I explain?” Scott offered.
Pearce grinned again and shrugged sheepishly. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Go ahead.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sat back in his chair. He tried to look studious as he gripped a pen between his thumb and forefinger and nodded agreeably to everything Scott said.
“Zoroaster came from what we now call Iran.”
“So he was Muslim?”
“No. This is way before then. At least a thousand years. The whole Middle-Eastern region has had a myriad of cultures. Babylon. The Chaldeans. The first culture ever to settle there, in fact, the earliest known civilization in the world, were the Sumerians—”
“Who wrote in a language we call cuneiform,” Pearce chipped in pleasantly.
“Right. The ancient Greeks considered the center of knowledge to originate from Babylon and the Egyptians. It's a myth that the Greeks invented mathematics. It was the Babylonians and the Egyptians who
taught
the Greeks. And alongside math, they also taught them philosophy, astrology, alchemy. Plato himself acknowledges it, but some academics out of sheer arrogance like to ignore that.”
“Zoroaster's teaching revolved around a god called Ormazd,” Pearce added. “And it wasn't until the Jewish exodus from Egypt that all sorts of Zoroastrian traditions started turning up in their own religion as they traveled further east back toward Israel. That's probably what got Moses so mad. The idea of guardian angels was Zoroastrian.”
Scott eyed him sharply. “Yes. As was the resurrection, which they believed in for hundreds of years before the Jews or the Christians.”
Hackett wanted to know: “Who was this Mithras person?”
“Mithras was a branch of Zoroastrianism. You know, like Baptist is a branch of Christianity. But Mithras was also the main god they worshipped. He was closely connected with the sun. The fall and rise of the sun related to the death and resurrection of life. And the symbol they used for the sun was a cross. Actually, in their writing it was a halo. But for architectural simplicity it was a cross.”
“They weren't alone, either,” Pearce added. “A lot of cultures around the world use the symbol of a cross to represent the sun.”
Hackett raised an eyebrow. “The sun?”
November glared accusingly. “Is that true?”
Pearce was confounded by her reaction. He shifted in his chair. “Yes,” he said defensively.

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