The Second Ship (The Rho Agenda #1)(32)
“You look happy. What are you smiling about?”
“Oh, nothing, Dad. Just high school stuff. You know.”
Giving her a hug, he nodded. “I can only imagine. It’s getting late, though, and you do have school tomorrow. Not to mention, we’re all going to Mark’s first game tomorrow night. I hear he’s pretty good.”
“He'll have to be for good old LAHS to have any chance. Last year was embarrassing. I felt sorry for our cheerleaders.”
Her father grinned. “We can always hope.”
“Where's Mom?”
“Oh, she’s taking a bath before bed. I’m headed up to join her.”
“Okay, Dad. That sounds really good, think I’ll try it myself.”
By the time Heather finished her bath and tucked herself under her covers, her eyelids were so heavy she could barely keep them open. The dreams began almost before her head hit the pillow.
She was in their workshop in the corner of the Smythe garage. Mark was there. So was Jennifer.
Heather found herself staring at the oscilloscope readout, the display filling her head with equations as Mark manipulated the laser. His fingers moved the controls, delicately positioning the beam with a dexterity that he alone could manage, using the microscope to confirm his pointing accuracy.
Suddenly the images in Heather’s head changed, the equations governing the quantum manipulation decaying toward a singularity.
The laser was not generating the quantum twins. Instead a microscopic black hole appeared, a tear in the space-time fabric of the material being manipulated.
Spotting the danger, Mark’s hand moved with unnatural speed to turn off the power switch on the back of the laser, but the subatomic blackness continued to grow. And as it grew, it consumed the nearest atoms. In an accelerating spiral, the event horizon expanded until the garage itself shrieked with the force emanating from the microscopic aberration.
As Heather looked up to see the horror in Jennifer’s and Mark’s faces, she realized the truth. The end of all things lay there, growing beneath that microscope, and there was absolutely nothing they could do to stop it.
Chapter 22
High atop Pajarito Plateau, the noise inside the Los Alamos High School gymnasium was deafening. Word had spread throughout the community of the Hilltoppers’ new junior point guard, so the game was standing room only. And Marcus Aurelius Smythe had not disappointed.
The game against the high school’s 4A Division II rival, Taos, was enough to ensure a capacity crowd on the first game of the season, but never had the gymnasium seen a crowd like this one. The fire marshal had to start denying entrance to a horde of latecomers. Luckily for the home team, most of the late arrivals were from Taos, so there were few tears shed by local residents. Outside, though, police had their hands full with angry Taos High alumni and fans.
Those inside were being treated to a basketball handling magic show the like of which northern New Mexico had never seen. The young point guard wove his way between his opponents, spinning, whirling, and dribbling between his legs and behind his back in a manner that left the opposing players stumbling over themselves, often falling to the floor in a confused tangle. Mark seldom took a shot himself, preferring to dish off the ball to teammates, who responded with a scoring bonanza.
By the time the starters were pulled from the game, midway through the fourth quarter, Mark had amassed twenty assists and had scored thirty-two points, many of these on free throws as the other team had resorted to fouling him to try to get the ball from his hands. Throughout the stands people reverently whispered the names of Hall of Fame point guards, as if their spirits inhabited the building.
The game ended with the Los Alamos Hilltoppers doling out a devastating loss to Taos, 113 to 72. As the buzzer sounded, the crowd rushed out of the stands down onto the court, everyone in a frenzy to pat the back of the young star. The resulting confusion made it impossible for the teams to make their way from the court back to their locker rooms and resulted in injury to two elderly women who were knocked to the ground in the crush.
Only after the police inside the gymnasium were reinforced by those who had been stationed on the outside was order restored and the crowd escorted out of the arena. In the cold air of the late November night, Jennifer stood beside Heather staring back toward the gym.
“Oh my God. He’s done it. My crazy brother has done it. We’re as good as dead.”
Heather laughed, threading her arm through Jennifer’s as they waited for their families to join them. “Well, he’s certainly done something here tonight, but I doubt he’s killed us.”
“You watch. His fans are going to swamp us. We’ll probably have the press hanging around too. I don’t even want to think about what else might happen.”
Heather shrugged. One thing she had to admire about Mark Smythe: he never did anything halfway. He wanted to make his mark on high school, and he appeared to be well on his way to accomplishing that.
“Oh well. No use worrying about something that hasn't happened yet. We’ll just deal with it as it comes.”
By Sunday, the buzz about the hot young guard from Los Alamos had reached a new level, due to the team's domination of their second opponent in two nights, thanks to Mark’s outstanding play. As Jennifer predicted, a band of interested onlookers and newfound friends suddenly attached themselves to Mark, making it difficult for him to get any time to himself.