The Blasphemies of Dr. Cuba – Sample Chapter

Chapter 1: The Bikini Scientist

[This sample chapter may not reflect the final book; elements have been removed that may act as overall spoilers.]

César was dreaming. He was sleeping deeply, his breath even and steady, his dream clear and lucid.

In the dream, César was walking through a small village. Its buildings were oddly shaped, its streets narrow and twisted. The people were dirty, misshapen, hurried. And the dream was entirely monochrome.

Despite the setting and the people rushing about him, César was at peace. He strode through the village much like royalty. The people stopped their nervous activities to acknowledge him as he passed. He was loved by these people.

César was dreaming, deeply, and could not know that while he did so, his body moved of its own accord. And his body, walking as he slept, was very much busy with the work of mass murder.

_____________________

Klaus Fuchs was walked, handcuffed, from the Crown Court and into a narrow, green-painted hallway. Having just been sentenced to fourteen years’ imprisonment, Fuchs was surprisingly calm. Perhaps he was numb.

The Court guards were met by another guard who held a hand up to stop them. “I will take him into processing from here,” the guard said. Fuchs was handed over, somewhat roughly, to the third guard. Now he was led further into the bowels of the old building, for the preliminary processing of his transfer to Wakefield Prison. Fuchs was a tall, thin man, but the guard bore nearly equal stature. If not for the two occupying very different sides of the legal system, the two might have been taken for brothers.

“You’ll wait here,” the guard said, pushing Fuchs into a small room. It had two chairs and one table. The guard removed his handcuffs. “I’ll have a change of clothes for you, and then you will be taken to Wakefield by bus.” The guard left, and Fuchs heard the door lock.

Fuchs had resigned himself to this fate a while ago, although he still felt discomfort at the realization of what the next decade-and-a-half had in store for him. Having worked previously for both the United Kingdom and the United States, Fuchs had willingly provided information on the hydrogen bomb development to the Soviet Union. He had his reasons, but the Crown Court cared little for them.

Fuchs, a German, hated the Nazis. In his home country, he had spoken against them, joining instead the competing Communist Party. When Hitler rose to power, he went into the underground until able to flee to England in 1933. He applied for British citizenship, but the outbreak of the War brought suspicion on most Germans in Fuchs’ circumstances. Despite his anti-Nazi past, the UK government chose to intern Fuchs at camps in the Isle of Man and, later, Canada. His allegiance to the Communists only grew under such conditions.

Throughout it all, however, Fuchs was improving his already impressive theoretical studies in the nuclear sciences and mathematical physics. When he eventually left internment and returned to Britain in 1940, Fuchs was recruited to work on the country’s top-secret atomic bomb program. By 1943, Fuchs was already providing information on Britain’s program to the Soviet Union, for whom he felt a kinship.

So impressive were Fuchs’ abilities in the field, the United States soon gobbled him up, bringing him to their Los Alamos National Labs to work on the US’ hydrogen bomb program. In 1946, he filed the first patent, alongside colleague John von Neumann, for a thermonuclear weapon. Meanwhile, he kept providing the Soviet Union with valuable design details for their own H-bomb program.

Eventually, the British won Fuchs back, and he returned to work on Britain’s post-war weapons programs. And, yet again, Fuchs provided details to the Russians.

It wasn’t until 1949 that it was finally revealed that Fuchs was a spy. He confessed in January of 1950, leading to his arrest and his walk down the dull, green hallway as he awaited transport to Wakefield.

Fuchs had prepared himself for this next step and had justified everything in the belief that nuclear weapons should not belong to any single country, nor be “private property.” His loathing of Fascists and Nazis remained strong within him, and he believed the Communists had the right to the same level of weapons technology as the capitalists.

The guard returned, bearing a prison uniform. “Put this on, and then wait,” the guard said, leaving him alone once again. Sullenly, but refusing to telegraph any fear, Fuchs obeyed. There was little else he could do.

The guard returned. He collected Fuchs’ street clothes into a sack, pulled the drawstring tight, and then put Fuchs’ hands back into cuffs. Now they walked out of the room, down a different hallway, down some steps, and towards an exterior door. Outside waited a small, windowless bus.

The guard opened the back door and ushered Fuchs inside. There were two benches on either side of the van’s interior, but it was otherwise empty. Fuchs was alone. The guard stepped in with him, shutting the door. A silence encompassed them as they waited for the van to begin moving. A single sliding window separated them from the driver’s compartment, but this was closed tight.

Fuchs once again tried not to telegraph his discomfort. He stared blankly ahead. The guard stared at him, however. The space inside the van was filled with tension.

Finally, the van moved, lurching forward. Fuchs heard the rattle of the axle and grumbling of the engine. The seat was hard metal and hurt his coccyx.

Suddenly, the guard stood. Fuchs looked up. Without warning, the guard began removing his clothes.

_____________________

Steve Karnes leaned on the wooden podium, his six-foot-two frame threatening to topple it. The group gathered at the Royal Science Institution listened intently, some of the thirty or so attendees out of keen scientific interest, and others with a sharp readiness to call out what they anticipated would be outrageous fearmongering.

One man, of the latter opinion, stood. “It is not for me to question your credentials as a marine biologist, Mr. Karnes, nor to besmirch your reputation. But the claims you are making are simply outlandish, and I, for one, will not be panicked.”

Karnes’ face betrayed no sense of insult, and he maintained a professional calm. He leaned in further.

“Gentlemen, your skepticism is understood. It falls on me to prove my statements, and I understand that. But remember that I was attached to Operation Crossroads at Bikini in 1946, just four years ago. My job was to measure the radioactive effects of that test explosion on the local marine life. But my team and I quickly realized that the effects were not limited to the local surroundings at all. The radioactive particles hurled into the atmosphere after Bikini spread to unimaginable distances.”

The man remained standing. “Yes, you said yourself you tested the waters. The particles were insignificant.”

“Yes,” Karnes admitted, maintaining his composure with ease. “But these particles fell into the sea and were absorbed by the plankton. The plankton were then eaten by small fish, who were then eaten by larger fish. The larger fish were eaten by seabirds. As the particles collected within the bodies of the creatures that consumed them, their radioactive concentrations increased exponentially. Our team found a single gull whose concentration of radioactive particles was over 500,000 times greater than the original samples of the seawater taken near Bikini. Now remember this, gentlemen: birds fly great distances.”

The crowd shuffled nervously at Karnes’ revelation. The standing man quietly sat.

“If there was one thing that we discovered from our study at Bikini it was that there is no such thing as an even statistical dispersion of radioactive materials. It cannot be predicted by mathematics or equations. The effects of randomness take over, and we – mankind – no longer control the results. We can create the bombs, yes; we can explode them, yes. But we cannot control the spread of the damage. Nature takes over at that point, and the particles are spread by tides and winds and the migration of animals. We men, with all our science, are suddenly helpless.”

Another man raised a hand to ask a question; he remained seated, however. “Mr. Karnes, what would the effects of this radiation be, then? Do we know?”

Karnes nodded, dolefully. “We have seen dramatic increases in cancers among living creatures affected by the radioactivity. The target ships used to measure blast effects had to be scuttled entirely by the US Navy, as they found it impossible to decontaminate them. Many of the men who participated in the test are sick. Bikini Atoll itself is uninhabitable, and we now believe it will remain so for a half-century or more. Gentlemen, these are the effects we know. But what of those we don’t? As a marine biologist, the ocean is my province, but how little we know of it. We simply cannot know what long-term effects these concentrations of particles may have on the evolutionary processes of the creatures living in the sea. Nor what end result the formation of these deadly radioactive agglomerates may be.”

With that, Karnes concluded. The room bustled as the group of international scientists, dressed in bookish suits, rose to leave. A few greeted Karnes and shook his hand, thanking him for his presentation; a few others left without acknowledging him, muttering to themselves in disbelief. One man, asleep in the back, did not stir at all.

A young woman approached; she was an oddity herself, as the only other woman in the room was a note-taker. She had jet black hair tied up into a casual bun, a naturally tanned complexion, and giant dark eyes. She wore a stylish but remarkably practical outfit: a pair of baggy pants that gathered into dark leather boots that rose to her calves, and a fitted, leather adventurer’s vest strapped over a long-sleeved red blouse. There seemed to be pockets everywhere, suggesting this woman wore her clothes for a purpose and not to impress anyone.

“Mr. Karnes?” she asked. She was about thirty, pretty, and had what Karnes thought might be a Spanish accent.

Karnes extended a hand to greet her, smiling warmly. “Yes, miss?”

“I am Ximena Alejandra Orellana Torres, from Interpol,” she said, shaking his hand.

Karnes’ face could not hide its surprise. “Interpol? That’s the international police commission, isn’t it?” His American accent was prominent.

“Exactly,” Ximena said. “Officially, it is called the International Criminal Police Organization, but we can agree that ‘Interpol’ is easier.”

Karnes gathered his papers and shoved them into a worn leather bag. He stepped down from the stage as Ximena followed. “I have to say, I’ve never had the police come to one of my lectures. Are you here to arrest me for causing a panic?”

Ximena knew he was joking and smiled. “Nothing like that.”

“Or do you count marine biology as a personal hobby of yours?” Karnes asked.

Ximena smiled. “No, I actually am here on official business. But your discussion was actually fascinating. I appreciated how you made it understandable to a layperson such as myself.”

The two headed out of the lecture hall and into the hallway. “Let’s chat down here, there’s a cafeteria just a few doors down,” he said. Karnes’ face was warm and pleasant, his tone friendly. He bore a mop of red hair with a receding hairline, a round, clean-shaven jawline, kind eyes, and a bulky frame. Ximena noticed he walked very much like a younger version of her mentor, the famous Inspector Heiner Thumann; like Thumann, Karnes did not walk as much as clomped. She sensed that Karnes and Thumann would get along rather well.

Arriving at the cafeteria, Karnes poured himself a cup of tea and offered Ximena the same. She said, “I prefer coffee, to be honest.”

“Me, too,” the American said, laughing. “But this is a stuffy British institute, so tea has to do.”

They sat. “Well, Miss Torres, you have me very curious. What on earth could Interpol be interested in with regard to my lecture?”

Ximena paused, collecting her thoughts. “Well, I am sure you noticed that a few of the gentlemen in that lecture hall left in a hurry.”

Karnes laughed. “Yes, without much to say. This topic always generates a very high level of skepticism. But these are scientists, so it’s a healthy part of the process. Science without skeptics is cultism.”

Ximena nodded. “What I will tell you would likely be met with even more skepticism. Outright ridicule, I’d guess.”

“Oh?” Karnes asked, sipping his tea.

“I need you to remain open-minded for the next ten minutes. Then, if you find this is all very ridiculous, you can finish your tea, and I will go back to Interpol in Paris. That will be that.”

Karnes’ brows met in the middle. He was intrigued. “Do go on, Miss,” he said. “I’m more interested than ever now.”

“As you said in your speech, the real crisis is over the – oh, how do you say it? English is my second language. The agglommo… agglom…”

“Agglomeration of radioactive particles,” Karnes said, helping.

“That,” Ximena said, pointing. “The particles come together into creatures, living things, plants, etc.”

“Exactly right,” Karnes said. “And we can’t know for sure what long-term effects this may have on them.”

“And rocks or minerals?” Ximena asked.

“They can hold the particles, too, but obviously there is no risk of such things dying or becoming sick since they are not living organisms. Nor can rocks mutate. But my science is marine biology, so I focus on the effects on living things. I can’t really speak on long-term effects to inorganics. You’d need to talk to a geologist, I’d bet.”

Ximena nodded. “That’s fine, our interest is in the interaction of these particles with tissues. Living tissues.”

“Oh, yes?” Karnes asked.

“But not necessarily in creatures or plants,” Ximena clarified.

“What do you mean? What other kinds of living tissues are there?” Karnes asked.

“Artificially created. Grown. In laboratories,” Ximena said. She paused, waiting for Karnes’ reaction.

“I am afraid I don’t understand,” Karnes said. He stopped sipping his tea.

“There is a science that is not well known to your community or, for that matter, any scientific community. It allows for the creation of living tissue from chemicals and other biological …  umm, well, raw materials. I am afraid I am not a scientist, so some of this is beyond me, too. But it has been accomplished. There are reports, records. Evidence. They have done it, Mr. Karnes. Life has been created in a laboratory setting.”

Karnes sat back. “I… I haven’t heard of any of this. It sounds impossible,” he admitted.

“Remain open-minded for a few minutes more, please, Mr. Karnes,” Ximena said. “Because it gets much stranger.”

_____________________

It was Didier Danguillaume’s third day with the Sapeurs-pompiers de Paris, the elite Paris Fire Brigade. He had spent endless months training, and then a year at a lesser brigade in Lyons, and now burst with pride that he had finally been accepted in the Paris task force. Yes, he had been assigned to a lesser-utilized outfit in the outskirts of the city but the nature of today’s fire was so massive, his unit had been called to assist.

Orange and yellow flames greedily ate away at the walls of the Hôtel des Anges, a lesser-known hotel that had been popular for a short time before the war. The hotel had been entirely refurbished a year earlier, and was enjoying a resurgence as tourists and businesspeople from around the world once again began booking rooms. Positive reviews of the hotel’s restaurant helped drive interest which, on any other day, might have been a good thing.

Today, it was very much not.

The firebomb blew the ground floor to bits, taking the restaurant – and all its patrons – with it. The fire spread within two minutes outward and upward, consuming the next two floors above, and setting the neighboring buildings on fire as well. Within just the first fifteen minutes, over twenty people were dead; many more would die in the next hour.

Upon arriving at the scene, any sense of personal pride evaporated from Didier’s mind and was replaced by terror. The force of the blaze and its impossibly fast spread were nothing like he had been trained for. Didier might have learned that the particular type of bomb used to blow up the Hôtel des Anges was specifically designed to wreak as much devastation as possible, in as short a time as possible.

Didier might have learned that, had he survived.

As he jumped from his truck, followed by three of his fellow pompiers, the heat struck his face like the slap of a furious, jilted lover. Didier was at least thirty meters from the blaze and yet he already felt as if he had stepped inside the burning building. The chemicals used were designed to burn fast and hot.

Didier’s mind raced as he tried to remember his training. His compatriots were likewise rattled, and only the authoritative barks of a more seasoned commandant snapped them back into reality. They began their work, some connecting hoses to the water mains and others pulling more hoses from the back of their pumper. Didier could not imagine that anything they might do would be effective here, but he pressed on.

Bodies lay in the street, burnt and unrecognizable; the poor souls who had the bad fortune of being inside the hotel’s lobby at the time of the blast. Across the street, a crowd gathered, and shaken policemen tried to keep them away, fearing another blast.

The second blast came nearly on cue. This time it was the top floor, and Didier’s ears nearly burst from the concussive noise. Shards of wood and brick flew down onto the street, and orange blobs of fire ejected like gasoline-soaked meteors. Now the buildings across the street were catching fire. More fiery human bodies joined the others on the street, these falling from above like an Old Testament curse from God.

The commandant yelled for retreat, but the noise had deafened nearly everyone close to the building. Didier’s last moments were spent trying desperately to open the safety catch on the nozzle on his hose as the entire front of the Hôtel des Anges fell forward, flaming and crumbling, burying him and his entire brigade.

If anyone were left to hear it, and assuming their eardrums had not already burst, they might have heard the clatter of metal shards hitting the ground like hail. Small rectangles of thin copper dropped from the smoke above, landing in the street. Dozens of them; hundreds.

Only many hours later, when the fire was finally contained and the smoke cleared, would someone pick up some of the metal bits and notice the engraved message on them:

 CHAOS ET TERREUR POUR LA FRANCE ET LE MONDE

~ LES VAMPIRES ~