THE LECTURE HALL
Suspended in empty space, Milo was no more than an untethered intellect drifting within a shapeless void. Fear gripped his mind; he’d never allowed himself to go this far before. Though previous excursions had unlocked deep access within his consciousness, this was different, a true nothingness, no remaining connection to his physical form.
Alone in the blackness, Milo found himself in the awkward position of not knowing what to do next.
I need a place to work.
Searching his mind for options, Milo played with the idea of a cubicle—no, think bigger—or better yet, a scientific laboratory, a library, maybe even the familiar comforts of his Georgetown apartment.
Perhaps a lecture auditorium?
The image of Gaston Hall leapt into Milo’s mind, conjuring the 700-seat jewel of Georgetown University into being. His consciousness floated over the viewing gallery, looking across the commanding coffered ceilings, the gilt-detail frescos, the sunlight-pierced arched windows.
Alone within his mind’s projection, Milo felt wholly at ease creating an imagined representation of his body; selecting the English-cut suit he’d always wanted, the gray jacket complete with notched lapel and oh-so-fashionable ticket pocket.
I could use a few visual aids, thought Milo as he stepped up to the podium, tugging at the hem of his crisp wool jacket.
No sooner had Milo completed the thought than chalkboards and easels, projections screens and posters materialized in every corner of the room, each bearing pages of Lord Riley DeWar’s tight, scribbled handwriting and sprawling equations.
I could use some help.
As Milo concentrated, the doors to Gaston Hall burst open to accommodate a flood of former colleagues and professors followed by a veritable sea of historical philosophers, codebreakers, translators, doctors, and explorers, all neatly lining up to stare at Milo with expectant faces.
He leaned forward to the podium, tapping the microphone, the echoing thump of his finger reverberating through the revered chamber.
“Let’s get to work,” announced Milo.
Thump.
Thump. Thump.
He’s not breathing.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Goddamn it, Milo—wake up.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Milo! Wake up! Now!
Gasp.
The room came groggily into focus, the dim rays of Bridget’s headlamp like glass shards in his eyes. Spikes of pain radiated through his skull. Blood flowed freely from his nose, bubbling across his lips and collecting in his stubble. He felt weak, barely able to lift a single hand to shield his face from the light. His chest and rib cage hurt worst of all; it felt as though he’d been sacked by an all-pro defensive tackle at the one yard line.
Milo tried to speak but could only croak, lifting his head just enough to see Bridget crouched over him.
“He’s back!” announced Dale from outside of his narrow vision.
Milo slowly turned his head to see Dale sitting on the ground beside him. Bridget had hung a lamp from the nearest rock, dimly lighting the chamber in yellow tones.
“Can you hear me?” said the doctor in a whisper, gently pulling back Milo’s eyelid to examine his dilated pupils.
“Yeah,” confirmed Milo, turning his head to cough his airway clear, spitting blood onto the sand. “I can hear you.”
Bridget sighed with relief, closing her eyes in silent prayer before opening them again. “You were in that trance for hours,” she finally said. “I thought you’d stopped breathing at one point.”
“I feel like hammered shit,” groaned Milo as he attempted to sit up from the hard, cold ground.
“Just relax,” said Bridget, gently pushing him back. “Don’t try to get up. Take your time before saying anything else.”
“Did you do it?” whispered Dale. “You decoded it, didn’t you?”
“Every scribbled word,” whispered Milo, locking eyes with Dale.
“What was inside? What happened to him down here?”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Milo, shaking his head. “It was so much more than a travelogue. He didn’t use it to record events; he used it to write these . . . insights . . .”
“Insights?” repeated Bridget. “I don’t understand.”
“Conceptual insights,” said Milo. “It’s hard to explain. His journal was almost like a book of ideas, all decades ahead of their time. He extrapolated from existing research, solved theorems, conducted thought experiments. His journal held initial theorization on some of the most important scientific discoveries of the early twentieth century.”
“Like what?” demanded Bridget.
“Like . . . all kinds of things,” Milo replied. “DeWar outlined the third law of thermodynamics, the concept of the atomic nucleus. Drag and lift formulas for fixed wing aircraft. He even quantified stellar synthesis, the cosmological process by which all heavy elements are formed within solar bodies. Dale . . . he may have been the first person to hypothesize the Big Bang.”
“Incredible,” marveled Dale, his voice distant with awe as he soaked in the revelation. “All deduced by a single playboy lord, a man wholly undistinguished as a scholar.”
Before Milo could respond, a low rumble began to build in the eroded ceiling, the little trickles of dust turning into pouring streams as rocks began to fall around them. A second collapse had been triggered.
“Run!” screamed Bridget, breaking for the tight, fragile tunnel. But it was too late. Boulders cascaded from the ceiling with a grinding roar, blocking the only path of escape. Milo sprang to his feet, chasing after Dale and Bridget as the three plunged into the unstable passageway, holding hands over their heads to block a deluge of fist-sized rocks. The entire chamber shook ferociously as choking dust swirled around them, reducing their visibility to nothing. With a deafening crack, the floor beneath Milo’s feet split open, sending him cartwheeling into the void below. In his freefall, the last thing Milo heard was Bridget’s scream.