The Icarus moved like a ghost through the stratosphere.
There was no vibration. No roar of engines. Just a low, violet hum that vibrated in the fillings of Jason's teeth.
The "Lightning Drive"—Tesla's gift—was pulling electricity directly from the ionosphere. The copper coil wrapped around the hull glowed with a faint, purple light, ionizing the air around them.
To the naked eye, they were a blur of heat haze. To radar, they were nothing.
"Blinking in three... two... one," Hughes announced.
The purple glow vanished for a split second. The sensors grabbed a snapshot of the ground below. Then the field snapped back on.
Jason looked at the map on the navigation table. The snapshot had been printed onto thermal paper.
"Mojave Desert," Jason said, tracing the line of the San Andreas Fault. "We're right on top of it."
"Look at the fault line," Einstein said, adjusting his glasses. He pointed to a series of dark spots on the grainy image.
They looked like oil derricks. Massive steel towers spaced perfectly five miles apart, running north to south like stitches on a wound.
"Drilling rigs?" O'Malley asked.
"No," Einstein said darkly. "They aren't drilling for oil. Look at the seismic readout."
The needle on the ship's seismograph was twitching. Not randomly, but rhythmically. Thump... Thump... Thump.
"It's a heartbeat," Sarah whispered.
"Resonance spikes," Einstein corrected. "They are hammering the tectonic plate. Like hitting a tuning fork. They are finding the resonant frequency of the continent."
"If they hit the right note," Jason realized, "the whole state shatters."
"California breaks off," Einstein confirmed. "And slides into the ocean."
"Get us to Los Angeles," Jason ordered. "We have to find the conductor of this orchestra."
The sun was setting as they approached the coast.
Los Angeles. The City of Angels.
In the history books, 1920s LA was a boomtown of oil, citrus, and early movies. Dusty, noisy, and chaotic.
The city below them was silent.
From ten thousand feet, it looked like a circuit board. The streets were perfectly gridlocked, but the cars weren't moving. The buildings were pristine white and chrome.
"Where is the smog?" Sarah asked. "Where is the traffic?"
"Drop the altitude," Jason said. "Take us out over the water. The marine layer will hide the plasma glow."
The Icarus descended, slipping into the thick fog bank offshore of Santa Monica. They hovered fifty feet above the dark swells of the Pacific.
"We need to get into the city," Jason said. "Tesla's data said the control signal is coming from the Hollywood Hills."
"We can't walk in there looking like this," O'Malley gestured to their grease-stained flight suits. "We look like refugees from a coal mine."
"Then we dress the part," Jason said. He opened the crate they had looted from the "Lotus Hotel" back in Kansas. It wasn't just engine parts. It was old wardrobe trunks.
"This is Hollywood," Jason said, pulling out a tuxedo. "If you want to hide, you have to be a star."
An hour later, a small zodiac boat motored out of the fog and landed on Santa Monica beach.
Three figures stepped out.
Jason wore a sharp, double-breasted suit and a fedora tilted low. Sarah wore a flapper dress with a sequined headband, her face painted with the high-contrast makeup of the silent film era. O'Malley wore a chauffeur's uniform, looking uncomfortable but imposing.
They walked up the pier.
It was empty.
The merry-go-round was spinning, but there was no music. The horses rose and fell in silence.
They reached the street.
People were walking. Hundreds of them. Men in suits, women in dresses.
But they weren't talking.
There was no sound of conversation. No laughter. No car horns.
They walked in perfect synchronization. Left foot. Right foot.
"The Silence," Sarah whispered, clinging to Jason's arm. "Gates muted the city."
On every street corner, a massive silver screen was mounted on a pole.
The screens were flickering.
Black and white images flashed rapidly. A man hammering. A woman sewing. A gear turning.
Text cards interrupted the images.
EFFICIENCY IS QUIET.
NOISE IS WASTE.
OBEY THE SCRIPT.
The pedestrians stared at the screens as they walked. Their eyes were wide, pupils dilated. They absorbed the commands subliminally.
"It's mass hypnosis," Jason realized. "He's using silent films to reprogram them. He doesn't need implants here. He just needs their eyes."
"Hey!"
A man stepped out from a booth. He wore a police uniform, but he held a megaphone and wore a beret. He looked like a caricature of a film director.
"Cut!" the Director shouted through the megaphone. The sound was shocking in the quiet street.
He pointed a baton at Jason.
"You are off script!" the Director barked. "Where are your Cue Cards?"
Jason froze. The pedestrians stopped walking. They all turned to look at them. Hundreds of blank faces.
"We... uh..." O'Malley stammered.
"Improvise," Jason hissed.
Jason stepped forward. He adopted the arrogant posture of a studio executive.
"Do you know who I am?" Jason shouted, his voice echoing.
The Director blinked. "Unidentified Actor. Present your script."
"I don't need a script!" Jason roared. "I'm the Producer! From New York!"
He pointed at the Hollywood sign in the distance.
"I'm here to see the Head of the Studio. I have a meeting with Mr. Chaplin!"
It was a gamble. Jason knew Chaplin was the biggest star in the world in 1920. If anyone had power here, it was him.
The Director lowered his baton. A smile spread across his face. It was a terrifying, frozen smile.
"Ah," the Director said. "Mr. Chaplin. The Grand Architect of the Narrative."
"Yes," Jason bluffed. "We're late for the premiere."
"The premiere of 'The Great Dictator'?" the Director asked.
Jason's heart skipped a beat. In real history, that movie came out in 1940. It was a satire of Hitler.
Here, it seemed, the timeline had accelerated.
"Yes," Jason said. "Take us to him."
"Of course," the Director bowed. "Scene 42: The VIP Arrival."
He blew a whistle.
A sleek, black car pulled up. It had no driver. It was guided by a rail in the road.
"Get in," Jason whispered to the team.
They climbed into the back seat. The car lurched forward, speeding toward the glowing lights of Hollywood Boulevard.
"Boss," O'Malley whispered. "Chaplin? Really?"
"He's the only one with a voice," Jason said, watching the silent crowds pass by. "In a city of mimes, the man with the megaphone is King."
The car turned onto the Boulevard.
Grauman's Chinese Theatre loomed ahead. Searchlights swept the sky. A red carpet was rolled out.
But there were no screaming fans. Just rows of silent observers, clapping their hands together without making a sound. Clap. Clap. Clap.
The car stopped.
A man was waiting at the entrance.
He wore a bowler hat. A tight jacket. Baggy pants. A small toothbrush mustache.
He held a cane.
He didn't look funny.
Charlie Chaplin stood with the stillness of a predator. His eyes were cold, dead things.
He looked at Jason. He tapped his cane on the pavement once.
An assistant held up a cue card.
THE ARCHITECT WELCOMES NEW CHARACTERS.
Jason swallowed hard.
"Showtime," Jason whispered.
They stepped onto the red carpet, walking into the mouth of the madness.