Veronica Vigdis was found on a bench, in Zurich's Lindenhof park with a view of the tranquil, picture-perfect rooftops of the old town. She was positioned as if resting calmly hands resting in her lap head inclined softly toward the morning sunlight. A subtle blissful smile touched her lips. There were no indications of conflict. No signs of distress. She appeared, in every respect, serene.
The police document was an example of detached understatement. No indications of activity. Toxicology revealed amounts of Somnum's exclusive "Serenitol," a substance lawfully used during Protocol treatments. Cause of death: cardiopulmonary failure triggered by "Acquired Contentedness Syndrome." A novel,. Immediately familiar, medical term.
Somnums press statement was a work of art. It conveyed grief over the "loss of a past teammate and pursuer of tranquility." It highlighted Veronica's " acknowledged battles with existential anxiety" and described her demise as a "heartbreaking unexpected result of a body reaching a level of deep neurological calm that the physical form was unable to maintain." They revealed a research project, on "vessel capacity limits " sponsored in her honor. She wasn't a casualty; she was a trailblazer who unfortunately ventured deep into the brightness.
Ben perused the news, inside his Copenhagen bookstore holding a printed newspaper shaking in his grip. The wording, the calm image, the rapid tidy conclusion—it was a business-approved offering, disguised as a healthcare incident. He had encountered this template previously in sinister rougher groups. A caution, refined for mass appeal.
He shut the store ahead of schedule the bell's ring resembling a requiem knell. In the chamber he filled a glass with two fingers of whiskey not to savor but for the sting. He lifted the glass toward the ash-colored Copenhagen sky seen through a window.
"To Veronica " he murmured, his tone hoarse. "Who gazed into the furnace. Shared what she observed."
His protected phone vibrated. Devon.
"You noticed " Devon said evenly his tone devoid of irritation.
"I noticed. Developed Contentedness Syndrome. They've turned a diagnosis into a weapon."
"They turned her into a martyr, for their agenda. A calm death serves as their effective promotion." Devon hesitated. "Pamela Pauline has instructed me to take a month off. 'Stress-induced acuity loss.' She's urging the Protocol. Firmly."
Ben shut his eyes. The tendrils were constricting, not out of threat. Out of care. An assisting hand, steering the exhausted toward the precipice. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm traveling to Scotland. To meet Felisca. After that… I'm uncertain. The lighthouse recordings appear as cult material to anyone unwilling to acknowledge it. Veronica's demise is an anomaly. We possess fragments, Ben.. The image we're assembling… nobody desires it displayed in their home."
"Come find me " Ben declared, a resolute choice taking shape. "Not, at the store. They could be observing us by now. There's a spot. An aged ferry pier, northward of the city. Tonight. We require a barrier.. A fresh image."
The pier was a framework of timber extending into the dark icy waters of the Øresund. Wind whispered through its boards. Devon showed up to see Ben waiting, a shadow outlined against the chilly light of Helsingør's Kronborg Castle.
"They aren't merely hiding evidence " Ben started, skipping any greeting. "They're crafting a different story. Veronica didn't perish because she defected. She died due to an excess of peace. It's brilliant. It portrays dissent not as ruthless but, as a sickness—fearful of absolute joy."
Devon rested against a bollard the breeze slicing through his jacket. "So we can't establish a crime. We can't demonstrate damage. What remains?"
"The source " Ben murmured, his tone almost drowned out by the gusts and waves. "Not the plants. The starting point. The initial ceremony. Geneva. The primary conjunction location. Where Flavio Fergal originally trapped the demon."
Devon looked at him. "It's currently the Somnum Heritage Center. A place, for tourists."
Precisely. Concealed openly. The core of it. Showcased. Where the Calculus was initially inscribed, not on paper. Upon the soul of the world. We must return. Not, as detectives.. As... Pilgrims.
"To what end?"
"To grasp the recipe " Ben remarked, his eyes shining in the light. "You can't combat a product without being aware of its components. The lighthouse, the lodge… those are distribution hubs. Geneva is the source. If we locate the fissure they exploited… perhaps we can discover a method to close it.. Contaminate the source."
Devon reflected on the stillness in the glen the drone within the lighthouse the grinning deceased woman resting on the bench. An exhaustion, deeper than any he had ever experienced swept over him. The notion of facing the epicenter a spot that had nearly destroyed him five years earlier seemed as futile, as challenging a hurricane armed with a broom.
"They'll anticipate that " Devon remarked.
"They anticipate that a fractured profiler and a retired archivist will surrender " Ben replied. "They want us to encounter Veronica and succumb to hopelessness.. Even better to crave the calm she found." He moved nearer. ". Hopelessness and yearning remain emotions, Devon. They're still tension. They haven't abandoned us. Not yet. This is our strength. Our chaotic, agonizing draining determination to continue experiencing even when it stings. Particularly when it causes pain."
He gave Devon a bundle wrapped in cloth. Inside lay a brass nautical sextant its mirrors fogged.
"What is this?"
"An analog device meant for a realm " Ben remarked. "The Lethargic Calculus serves as a guide to surrender. It's an instrument to locate your position by gazing by gauging degrees of exertion. A token. Hold onto it."
Devon lifted the brass. It seemed ridiculous. An artifact standing firm against a disheartening wave. Still its firm heft in his grasp seemed tangible, than anything he had come across in recent weeks.
"Geneva " he repeated, the term carrying the flavor of fear and chilling lake water.
"We'll travel independently. I still have a connection. Thea Tove. She manages a hotel. She recalls how things were. She will meet us."
As they separated on the creaking pier Ben clasped Devon's shoulder, a firm squeeze. "Keep in mind what Felisca told us. Don't allow the silence to take hold."
Watching Ben's figure disappear into the night, Devon felt the terrifying weight of the sextant in his pocket. It was not a weapon. It was a plumb line, dropped into an ocean of stillness, measuring the depth of the abyss they were about to re-enter. Veronica Vigdis had died of Acquired Contentedness. Their mission now was to stay gloriously, painfully, discontent. It felt like the hardest task left in the world.