Excavation

But first, she had one experiment to perform. Before handling disease vectors, it was always best to have a way of sterilizing them. And the dead friar had hinted at a way in his cryptogram: Prometheus holds our salvation.

Prometheus, the bearer of fire.

Was that the answer? Fire had always been the great sterilizer. Joan remembered the assessment made by Dale Kirkpatrick, the metallurgist. He had noted that Substance Z used energy with perfect efficiency. But what if the metal received too much heat, like from a flame? Maybe as sensitive as it was, it couldn’t handle such an extreme.

Joan had come down here to test her theory, to steal a sample of metal on which to experiment. She risked a quick glance back at Friar Carlos. Her guard dog was clearly bored, too confident in the defenses of the Abbey to be worried about a mere woman.

Casually, Joan removed her glasses, then leaned more tightly into Anthony as he reached for a pen. The young man flinched at the sudden contact and jerked his arm back. His elbow knocked Joan’s glasses from her hands. She made sure her eyewear landed atop the tray of precious samples. Small gold droplets danced and rolled across the desktop, like spilled marbles.

Anthony jumped up. “I’m sorry. I should have watched what I was doing.”

“That’s okay. No harm done.” Joan scooted off her stool. She quickly palmed two of the rolling teardrops. Others tumbled to the floor. Technicians scurried forward to help Anthony gather the stray samples. Joan backed away.

Carlos appeared suddenly at her side, gun at the ready. “What happened?”

Joan pointed with one hand, while quickly pocketing her pilfered samples with the other. She nodded toward the flurry of activity. “It seems not even this blessed lab can escape Murphy’s Third Law.”

“And what’s that?”

Joan turned an innocent face toward Carlos. “Shit happens.”

Carlos scowled and grabbed her by the elbow. “You’ve been down here long enough. Let’s go!”

She did not resist. She had what she had come for – and more.

From where he knelt on the laboratory floor, Anthony raised an arm in farewell. She graced him with a smile and a wave. The young man deserved at least that.

Carlos quickly led her back through the underground labyrinth. She thought it fitting that the dregs of the Spanish Inquisition should end up holing themselves in the equivalent of an Incan torture chamber. She wondered if the choice of location was purposeful. One torturer taking up residence after another.

Soon Joan found herself before the door to her own cell.

Carlos nodded for her to enter.

But Joan hesitated, turning to him. “I don’t suppose you have a cigarette on you.” She didn’t smoke, but he didn’t know that. She scrunched up her face in feigned discomfort. “It’s been two days, and I can’t stand it any longer.”

“The abbot forbids smoking in the abbey.”

Joan frowned. “But he’s not here, is he?”

An actual smile shadowed his lips. He glanced up the hall, as a packet of cigarettes appeared in his hands. Nothing like the communal secrecy of a closet smoker. He shook out two. “Here.”

She pocketed one and slipped the other to her lips. “Do you mind?” she mumbled around the filter, leaning toward him for a light.

The perpetual scowl returned, but he reached to his robe and removed a lighter. He flamed the tip of her cigarette.

“Thanks,” she said.

He just nodded toward the door of her cell.

She backed up, pulled the latch, and entered her cell.

“Those things will kill you,” Carlos mumbled behind her, closing and locking the door.

Joan heard his footsteps retreat, then leaned against the door with a long sigh, smoke trailing from her lips. She held back a wracking cough. She had done it. After allowing herself a few moments to savor her victory, she pushed off the door and set to work. The missing samples might be discovered.

She crossed to the small desk and sat down. Removing the cigarette from her lips, she carefully rested it on the edge of the table. Suddenly fearing hidden cameras, Joan hunched over her desk and slipped out the few abstracts and articles on nanotechnology that the young monk had sent her. She planned on reading more about the young monk’s theory. As she scooted the papers aside, a highlighted sentence from a personal paper caught her eye: We have come to believe that each particulate structure of the metal may actually be a type of microscopic manufacturing device. But this raises two questions. To what purpose was it designed? And who programmed it?