Guardians of the Gates - Part 3, The Osiris Gate (Sample)

 

 

 

 

 

A novel by

Jeff Schanz

-Sample Only-

 

Copyright © 2020 Jeff Schanz

All rights reserved

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

Chapter 1

The US Army C-17 transport plane was waiting on the tarmac of a remote airstrip outside the London city zone. Its shadow stretched away from the plane, climbing the wall of an unmarked hanger. Early morning sun twisted the shadows of other objects sitting on the tarmac like characters from a Salvador Dali painting. The rarity of the clear English sky and warm sun had extended another day, although the sun hadn’t been up long enough to make the air warm yet.

Though the C-17 was clearly marked US military, there was no indication the airstrip belonged to any particular military. However, it was too sparse to be a civilian airport. There were also no other planes of any kind, commercial or otherwise, in sight. Only one lone aircraft was visible in the distance, an olive drab helicopter, and Sebastian couldn’t read the markings to decipher whether it was American, British, or other. A few posted soldiers were scattered around, most in desert camos with no obvious national markings. The whole place screamed private or mercenary ownership. Sebastian would have guessed CIA if he thought the CIA needed a secret or private airbase on the outskirts of London, but that seemed overkill even for the CIA. Whatever its little mystery, the scenario was more curious than suspicious. Sergeant Major Harris ushered him aboard the bloated aircraft and Sebastian found a seat.

The cargo hold of the aircraft doubled as the passenger section. It had a broad, open floor with no barriers or breaks, flanked on two sides by fuselage walls covered in low-profile, utilitarian compartments. A straight line of seats stuck out from the base of each fuselage wall, the seats also utilitarian, with flat, cushion-less surfaces built for men who were more concerned with stability for their heavy gear than creature comforts. Considering this plane’s primary function was to transport heavy machinery, vehicles, bulky cargo, and one hundred soldiers, or so, the amenities and sitting room wasn’t much worse than a commercial airliner.

Sebastian strapped himself into one of the side-facing seats. Harris had remained outside until the last minute, talking animatedly on his phone, giving someone a severe earful, until the cockpit called down that wheels would be up in five minutes. His phone was thrust into a pocket and Harris stomped up the ramp. He strapped himself in, leaving an open seat in between himself and Sebastian. A dozen men dressed as soldiers in no recognizable nation’s uniform also boarded with Harris. They made small-talk amongst themselves, speaking in muted tones that Sebastian couldn’t hear well, but recognizable as American dialect. They, too, took their seats quickly and strapped in. AR-15 rifles were tucked into their chests, plus a few small items pocketed in their uniforms, but they did not wear helmets or any of the heavier assault gear that would be expected for an Army squad about to engage in a mission somewhere. Maybe they were just bodyguards, though Sebastian couldn’t figure out why he’d need this kind of escort. As far as Sebastian knew, they were only going to New York to assemble the field agents, not heading to battle yet, unless these guys were riding along for an ultimately different destination that might involve a firefight. None of them seemed overly tense or charged up, as would be expected from a squad that was about to encounter hostilities. At the same time, they didn’t seem at ease, and made no attempts to acknowledge Sebastian’s presence. Not that he expected to be made an immediate honorary member, but he would assume the stranger on the plane might get at least a curious glance. Their attention stayed solely on themselves, with only an occasional glance at Harris.

Their combined thoughts were a lot to process, only partially readable, and didn’t tell Sebastian much other than they were waiting for something. All of them. Orders? Their “something” seemed to be centered around Harris, but wasn’t clear on what Harris was supposed to be doing or saying to trigger whatever it was they were waiting for.

And again, this didn’t bother Sebastian, just made him more curious. And Harris, as usual, wasn’t giving off clear thoughts. Just vibes. And like everyone else, the vibes were that he was waiting for something.

The cargo door had fully shut and the plane was rolling toward the runway. Only then did Harris take the opportunity to talk to Sebastian. It wasn’t at all odd for the Sergeant Major to stay quiet for long lengths of time. He wasn’t a man of small talk. Whatever he had to say would be necessary to communicate verbally, or otherwise, he wouldn’t bother. So, the words Harris deemed necessary to say were another added curiosity in this collection of curiosities.

He leaned a few degrees toward Sebastian and asked, “Do you trust me?”

What in the world is that supposed to mean?

Sebastian searched for an answer that would be appropriate, or at least not a terrible lie. His head told him that pretty much nothing and nobody was to be fully trusted at this stage, but he didn’t want to offend the Sergeant Major, nor did he wish to create any kind of friction. If recent history was any indication, the Sergeant Major wasn’t going to fall for any kind of fib, and perhaps he was wasn’t expecting anything more than the truth. Regardless of the sore feelings it may cause, Sebastian knew he should be as straight with Harris as possible.

“No,” he said, apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t trust anybody right now. No offense.”

Harris stared at him for a short moment, then slowly bent his lips into a barbed smile. He laughed a little in his throat. “Copy that, son.”

Uh huh. Well, thanks for the chat.

Sebastian blinked and shook his head. He would have loved to have just written off that conversation and ignored anything it may represent. There had been enough nonsense and drama in the past few days, he deserved things to be simple and understandable. No more cryptic chats or mysterious agendas. Whatever Harris was up to, Sebastian wanted no part of it. The bizarre situation of his kidnapped ghost brother was enough to mull over. Harris could do without him for a while, so Sebastian could just close his eyes and drown everything out for the plane ride until they hit the states.

Unfortunately, things weren’t that simple, and Sebastian wouldn’t get his wish.

As soon as the plane leveled off at cruise altitude, someone descended the stairs that led from the upper-level cockpit. Sebastian turned his head and cracked his eyes open only far enough to satisfy his curiosity as to who it was. He was expecting maybe a pilot or engineer, or some kind of personnel associated with directing the plane to its destination. What he saw made him shudder and sit up so fast his seat harness bruised his shoulder.

Severinus stood at the bottom of the stairwell.

 

 

 

The Saint council leader took a seat near Sebastian. Sebastian was still stunned and couldn’t decide whether to graciously welcome the leader of the Saints, or punch him in the face, or just jump out of the plane. The set-up at Westminster, the manhunt that made Sebastian an outlaw, and the humiliation of trying to disavow him and maybe even get him killed on the Tierra Perdida mission, had to have been sanctioned or even cooked up by Severinus. There was nobody on the council that despised Sebastian more. And maybe it was Severinus’ men who had been following him this whole time? Could that have included Harris?

There was another man with Severinus that Sebastian did not know. The man was tall, dressed in dark, Goth-style clothing, and was introduced as Lucian. He stood next to Severinus, refusing a seat, instead, planting his feet wide like a gunslinger, trying to stand with cool command. Sebastian couldn’t see a weapon on the man from his vantage point, but everything in Lucian’s demeanor said he had a firearm very handy. Severinus’ last right-hand man, Pee-Wee Herman’s lookalike, Turibius, had outed himself as Ashe’s double agent, and was last seen bolting from Ashe’s office in a panic, not looking like someone who had a plan B. Is this Pee-Wee’s replacement? Whomever Severinus’ new buddy might be, it concerned Sebastian far less than the presence of Severinus himself.

Severinus is in England. He’s freaking here! Why in the hell is Severinus here?

Sebastian felt like he was acting in a soap opera that wouldn’t let him leave character, or leave set. He stared at Severinus like the man had two heads, which in a way he did. Sebastian cut a quick look at Harris, who had casually removed his Ka-Bar knife and was dragging it across a whetstone, ignoring the scene like nothing unusual was going on at all. The dozen soldiers who had boarded with Harris sat neutral in their seats, no longer avoiding the sight of Sebastian, but not looking like they had one ounce of sympathy for the situation. No one except Sebastian seemed surprised that Severinus and his new sidekick were on this aircraft. Severinus wasn’t able to hide his thoughts and Sebastian didn’t like what he heard. Strangely enough, he couldn’t make out much from the Goth gunman. But Severinus’ thoughts were plenty clear for both.

Sebastian took in a deep breath and held it in perplexity. This is a goddamned trap. Probably all the way back from – from – when Harris was told to tail me? So, why now? Why wait this long?

Sebastian shifted in his seat to get even with Severinus’ eye line. His first preference would be to slam Severinus’ head into the wall, then see what happens next. Despite the satisfaction of it, he doubted starting a fight would accomplish anything. Perhaps it would be to his advantage to remain calm and almost flippant. Hey, it works for Bond.

Using willpower he wasn’t sure he possessed, he stared at Severinus with an almost dismissive gaze, like the Saint leader had a bad smell that Sebastian wasn’t allowed to comment on, yet couldn’t disguise the disgust. Severinus, for his part, stared back with a confident and superior air.

“Sebastian,” he said finally, with intentional weight, like it meant something to say the name aloud. “I believe it is time to stop running away from your messes.” It sounded like an old-timey schoolmarm scolding a student.

Sebastian again felt the urge to reach out and throttle Severinus right there, though unwise with the current glowering onlooker who had probably been brought in just to make sure Sebastian behaved himself during this melodrama. He said nothing and tried to keep his placid expression.

“I tried to stop you from digging too deep, but you just wouldn’t be handled would you?” said Severinus. “You really had no idea that what I was doing was for your own good, did you?”

Uh – apparently not. What are we talking about? Sebastian kept his thoughts to himself and maintained his unimpressed gaze.

Severinus sat back a little, adjusting his legs for a more comfortable position. He was very pleased with himself about this situation. However, Sebastian could also sense that Severinus was concerned about what led them here. There was something else important that Severinus was keeping close to the vest, and hadn’t given whatever it was away yet.

Sebastian remained still, his only acknowledgment to Severinus’ baiting was a raise of a brow. He was avoiding turning back to Harris to give away his cucumber coolness, but he was interested to see if he could deduce any thoughts from the Sergeant Major that would shed any light on Harris’ allegiances. Had Harris been playing the double agent the whole time? Or did someone get to him recently and maybe threaten him somehow? Sebastian could figure that out soon enough. For now, he would focus on whatever Severinus’ game was.

Sebastian gave the tall man next to Severinus a quick once over. Lucian, he had been called. Younger than Sebastian, maybe in his late twenties, with long, dyed black hair, deathly pale face, and an entirely black ensemble. The pants were snug, tucked into boots that were fastened by an array of buckle clasps. His shirt was a collarless button-up, with no button undone. His black jacket was similar to a dress topcoat, though much longer, reaching down to his knees. He tried to carry off the cool Goth warrior look, but it looked very put on. If he was in a room full of actual Goths, they would have sneered and called him a poser. Lucian had his right hand resting on his waist, opening the jacket enough to reveal a belt that had something attached on his right side. No doubt, a holstered pistol. Dracula meets Doc Holiday. He was extremely confident in his ability, which Sebastian gathered from both his brain waves and his posture. Sebastian shook his head. Even if the guy had legit gunfighting skills, he didn’t seem to have a clue that his proximity would only allow for a close-quarters fight rather than a gunfight. Right now, if Sebastian wanted to, he’d have Lucian unconscious in two quick moves before the guy could unholster his sidearm.

Lucian scrunched his brows and narrowed his eyes at Sebastian. He held up two fingers in a question, then shook his head. He gave a sinister smirk like he was amused by his cleverness. If he had a Dick Dastardly mustache, it would’ve been the time to twirl it.

The bastard can read me. Holy shit!

Severinus had found another empath like Turibius. It appeared that the “Sidekicks-With-Freaky-Powers” store wasn’t completely out of stock, and Severinus had a running tab going. Sebastian turned his own eyes up at Lucian and grinned like was the proverbial cat with the canary.

Two moves, Angel Eyes. Try me at your convenience.

Lucian slid his right foot back and slowly leaned his weight onto it. While doing so, he drew his coat edge back behind his holster as a gunslinger would. The holster was enclosed by a top flap that was still fastened. Lucian’s hand hovered above it for a small moment, then relaxed.

Severinus snapped the tension by speaking. “At ease, Lucian. There’s no reason to be hostile here. And our safety can be assured,” he said, making a general wave motion at the seated soldiers. The soldiers made no acknowledgment or disagreement at the mention. It seemed pretty obvious that they were Harris’ crew, and they would act when and if Harris told them to do so. And since Harris appeared to be a traitor, then that made them friends to Severinus by association. Or something like that. Whatever. They aren’t on my side.

Severinus continued. “As you can see, you’re sufficiently covered. So, I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here?”

Yup. Sebastian smiled and said nothing.

“I understand that you now know I have been an acquaintance of Mr. Morgan Ashe for a long time,” said Severinus. “He was the Saint that recruited me actually. After I got my field commission, he left the organization, but we never lost touch. Morgan trained me as his apprentice.”

Uh… No, didn’t know any of that. But, I do now, thank you. And it makes sense.

“He and I never saw eye to eye on politics, or the fate of the world, and the purpose of the dimensions and their incidental offspring, but we both saw the incredible opportunities that might come from harnessing the kind of power and energy that dimensional intersections could generate.” Severinus paused to let that momentous insight sink in. Sebastian said nothing. Severinus continued. “I knew he was up to some very undesirable things, some very dangerous things indeed. I’m not an idiot, Sebastian.”

I was thinking asshole, but no, not an idiot.

“We thought we had him in check, but we hadn’t counted on his usage of outside groups like those Tierra Perdida ranchers to further his research. So, you did us a favor there, yet still brought too much attention to both of us, and that was a bad thing.” Severinus paused, gathering his thoughts. “I’m not a bad guy, Sebastian, even though Morgan is. And yet despite that, Morgan still handed the world the amazing cancer treatment it celebrates, based on a formula that was made for his own damnable goals. So, likewise, I thought some aspects of the experiments he’s working on now could be a real benefit to the world in some way, even though the current result of what he’s working on is just terrible abominations. But there have never been significant advancements in science without breaking some rules, and a few people unfortunately getting hurt. It’s an ugly fact of history, yet unavoidable. And though I do not approve of Mr. Ashe’s methods, I do think there is some merit in parts of his research. Things we could gather and use to the benefit of all mankind. No longer would the world be a victim of the randomness and danger of dimensional intersections. We could safely use the kind of hybridizations and abilities that dimensional intersections create. Perhaps to cure diseases, or solve birth defects. Perhaps to engineer more exceptional human beings like yourself and ensure a better future for all humanity. And perhaps when we are done, there will no longer be a need for The Saints. We would no longer have anything to fight if everyone had both an immunity and a connection to the alter dimension.”

Ok, I changed my mind. You’re an idiot.

Lucian sighed and shook his head to represent his disappointment in Sebastian. Severinus picked up on the gesture and sighed.

He waved his hand dismissively. “I suppose Morgan already attempted to convince you to a similar agenda, which obviously failed. And he’s far better at persuasion than I am, so I won’t waste any more of your time trying to make you see it my way. Here’s where the situation stands. I recognize my mistake in letting Morgan go too far, and certainly, he is now a threat, but I simply can’t have you go mavericking around exposing everything like a bad sore, and destroying not only myself, but our whole organization because of the associations.”

You already did that yourself, dickhead. Sebastian was working harder to hold on to the spiteful smile, which now was probably on the verge of looking Joker-esque.

“Unfortunately, that means we need a scapegoat, which obviously is you. And since you’re the only Saint who has been seen in Ashe’s association recently, it will make as much sense as anything else.”

Sebastian laughed aloud. “Right, as long as you forget to count Turibius. He’s not exactly stealthy. Somebody probably saw him come and go from Ashe’s office. You going to kill him too? Gotta say, I wouldn’t really mind since he helped Ashe kick my ass.”

Severinus tried to ignore that comment, but apparently couldn’t. His voice caught before he could utter his next word, and he blinked several times before finally managing to say, “Excuse me?”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “Turibius. You know, Pee-Wee Herman’s evil twin? He was one of Ashe’s helper elves. The little shit tried to read my mind to help Ashe get information from me. Then, when I busted free, he ran like a pussy.”

Severinus was stumped for a moment. His brain waves pumped frantically trying to decide if Sebastian was lying, or somehow misinterpreted what he saw.

Sebastian paused his self-righteous defense to evaluate Severinus’ surprised reaction and ponder what it meant. Severinus didn’t know Turibius was there? Hmm. So, Pee-Wee went off-script. But, Harris would’ve already told Severinus that, wouldn’t he? Or would he? Maybe Severinus is as confused as I am. Sebastian decided the confusion was to his advantage, so he pressed his point with Severinus, hoping Harris wouldn’t intervene. Harris’ continued calm vibe indicated that he wasn’t going to.

“I hate to tell you this,” said Sebastian. “No, I don’t hate to tell you this – but, you’re getting played too, mein Fuehrer. I may be the scapegoat, but you’re the chump. The stooge. The mark.”

“Stop!” burst out Severinus. His skin was visibly reddening. It wasn’t necessary for Sebastian to read Severinus’ thoughts. Severinus was doing a poor job at hiding his astonishment at being double-crossed by his little double agent, Turibius. And he was angry at the world for it, Sebastian was just the closest target.

Lucian unsnapped the clasp on his gun holster, not necessarily as an act of aggression, but as a gut reaction to conflict. The guy was not only a douche, he was also a dangerous one.

Severinus leaned closer to emphasize his seriousness. “I had no intention of killing you unless you tried to resist with force. But I will not let you take down everything I worked for with your stupid mind games.”

I only hear minds, I don’t put thoughts in them, jackass.

Sebastian was about to say, “That’s my brother’s territory,” then was reminded of his brother’s dire situation, assuming Harris hadn’t lied about it. You read it in his mind before he said it, so I don’t think so. He was also struck by the fact that Severinus did not comment or ask about Marcellus. He had always done so in the past. It was a bad joke that Severinus was genuinely freaked out by Mars’ presence in general, and would almost always ask if Mars was around. The son of a bitch knows Mars isn’t here. That means that either he got briefed about it before, or he was part of the plan. But Harris hadn’t briefed him on Turibius either, so… So, what the hell? I have no idea what it means. This game is really freakin’ complicated.

Lucian looked a little nervous now, no doubt sensing some of Sebastian’s thoughts. How much he could read was still an unknown. Sebastian tried to mask his own uncertainties and leaned back against his seat, attempting to look at ease.

“You’re not going to do anything to me, Severinus. You’re going to get found out and get your own ass in a sling. Then blaming me for anything will be a distant dream.”

Severinus tensed his neck tendons as he spoke. “And who do you believe will help you defend this ideal of yours? Hmmm? Those gentlemen behind you work for Sergeant Major Harris, and he…” Severinus paused for dramatic effect, “…works for me. Does that surprise you? Oh, don’t think Benedict can sway him. Unlike you, Benedict obeys orders. And so will this gentleman next to me who will put a bullet in your head if you make any kind of move against us.”

Sebastian smiled, genuinely amused, surprising himself that he didn’t have to fake his bravado. “Lucian will be the first and easiest to put down. Two moves, like I said before.”

Severinus tried to hide his bemusement, and perhaps was also hiding a touch of anxiety. “Your overconfidence is entertaining, but I’ve seen Lucian in action, and he’s never failed to best an opponent. But – to humor you, even if you got by Lucian, Mister Harris would be able to handle the situation, as would his men.”

Sebastian tried to keep his smirk, and he managed it to a degree. He needed it for the script he had just concocted in his head, which counted on a good acting performance. “Severinus, you may be a tough old bastard, but you’re a dumbass when it comes to airplanes. We’re in a pressurized tube way up in the atmosphere, and if one of your trigger-happy boys puts a bullet in the fuselage, I won’t be the only one in the morgue tonight.”

Though Severinus made a game attempt to keep his confident glare, it twitched and faltered a little.

“Besides,” said Sebastian, “they wouldn’t shoot after I incapacitated our dear Sergeant Major, and held him in front of me like a shield.”

Harris, who had been ignoring the banter, suddenly stiffened. His knife stopped scraping against the whetstone and he slowly wiped it on his pant leg. Lucian’s hand graduated from being in the vicinity of his holster to flicking the unfastened flap of his holster back and forth nervously.

“Son,” said Harris, drawing the word out very slowly and deliberately. “You are going to get yourself in a world of hurt in a moment. Screw with me at your own goddamned peril.”

“Please. You couldn’t shoot straight to save your life. Or mine for that matter. Not one damned wolfer did you hit on that rooftop. Not one. You’ll probably cut yourself with that knife.”

Sebastian sensed that Harris hadn’t wanted to be dragged into the game until it was absolutely necessary, but pride is a funny drug that dulls rational judgment. The unexpected circumstance was that Severinus was once again taken aback by new information. Sebastian sensed that Severinus hadn’t known that Harris was involved in that rooftop escape.

Harris should’ve reddened, but instead paled. Sebastian sensed that whatever plan Harris had in mind was still in effect, though there may be a new complication. He may have to take action to make it work, now. Good. I don’t know if I’ll win this – whatever this is, but you three will definitely have to work hard for it.

In a near growl, Harris, said, “Son, I have dragged myself through jungles, deserts, and swamps to kill the world’s most dangerous men while you was suckin’ at your momma’s tit. I hunted and killed men in pitch-black tunnels inside mountains that were wired to explode, while you were shittin’ your diapers.”

Sebastian nodded casually. “Well, that makes you really old, then, doesn’t it?”

Harris’s mind snapped the moment before he followed through with an action. That was just enough time for Sebastian to counteract what he was already expecting. Harris was extremely fast, and against anyone else who couldn’t hear thoughts, Harris’ target would’ve have been at his mercy. The move was only supposed to intimidate, no harm intended, but it didn’t matter to Sebastian. As the knife came up, Harris attempted to grip it so he could hold it to Sebastian’s throat. Sebastian’s timing, however, was perfect, and he reached out like a snake strike to grasp Harris’ wrist, jerking it forward and flipping the loosely gripped knife in the direction of Lucian. Lucian saw the blade spinning at him, even if it was not at fatal speed, and reacted how anyone would by dodging the projectile. As Sebastian let go of Harris’ arm, he aimed his already poised elbow at Harris’ head and hammered him in the bridge of the brow, sending Harris limply back into his seat. Harris had never unbuckled himself, so he slumped and bobbed in his trappings.

Lucian had quickly recovered his wits and his balance and was already grasping his pistol. But Sebastian had not been exaggerating about the speed he could overtake someone in close quarters, drawing from many years of hand to hand fighting in both underground MMA matches, and more recent run-ins with craven creatures. He hooked his leg behind Lucian’s leg and jabbed his hand against Lucian’s shoulder, pressing the man to either spin and fall down, or stagger and recover his balance by leaning the opposite way. Lucian did exactly what Sebastian expected and leaned forward to counteract the pressure, his arms thrown forward as counterbalance, his gun simply a waving hand weight. Part two of Sebastian’s move was sliding behind Lucian, gripping the other of Lucian’s shoulders, then propelling him forward, adding to Lucian’s counteraction momentum, and slamming the gunfighter’s head against a steel box that extended from the fuselage wall. With a sickening thud, and a small squeak from Lucian’s mouth, followed by a “whump” of expelled lungs, Lucian’s head bounced off the unyielding metal and wobbled like a bobblehead toy as his body crumpled to the ground.

Severinus had almost finished drawing his feet and body into a fetal position as the whirlwind-fast melee happened in front of him. It had taken only three or four seconds in total, barely giving Severinus a chance to suck in two halting breaths. Sebastian reached down and retrieved Harris’ knife which had come to rest near his feet. He then stepped forward and pried Lucian’s gun out of the unconscious man’s hand before Severinus had a chance to rediscover his balls and recognize that there was a weapon nearby.

The biggest gamble in his plan was what the soldiers might do. They were Harris’ boys, and Sebastian wasn’t certain what Harris’ overall intentions were, though he still suspected the soldiers would hold their fire until they had some kind of definite order. As Sebastian rose with the gun, he finally took the time to see what the soldiers’ reaction had been. If their orders had been to defend Harris and Severinus on their own accord, then Sebastian would’ve already been shot, and there would’ve been no time to worry about it. So he hadn’t worried about it. He had made the decision to take the risk, and all he could do now was see what new situation he was in, then make adjustments to his plan accordingly. In other words, he wasn’t dead, and his unlikely plan had gotten him this far, so now what? The soldiers were all still seated, their rifles gripped in ready postures, no longer slung, or laid across laps, or propped against knees. Their feet were firmly underneath them and ready to move if called, but they were most definitely awaiting some kind of order. Sebastian had bet his life on that guess, and he had won the bet for the moment. Not wanting to tempt his fate any further, he moved quickly to an open area behind the unconscious Lucian and flattened his body against the wall. Should anyone decide to shoot him, they would be hesitant since they might miss and blow a hole in the fuselage, or potentially have the bullet go through Sebastian and still go through the fuselage. The risk of either scenario gave him a modicum of breathing room and time to think of his next move.

Severinus’ head resembled a volcano on the verge of erupting. “What in the hell are you doing!” he barked, spittle flying from his lips. “You are going to destroy us all and the entire Saints organization!”

“Nope,” said Sebastian with a calm he did not feel. “Just you.” He tucked Harris’ knife in his boot and kept the pistol in his hand. He checked the chamber and saw that a round was already loaded. “Told you guys. Two moves. You feeling lucky, punk?”

He was hoping to goad Severinus into making a move without Harris, and by the look of the Saint leader’s lava-colored face, it may have been possible. Although Severinus was trembling with rage, he flipped his head at Harris to force the Sergeant Major’s hand.

One way or another, Sebastian was about to find out where Harris really stood.

Harris stood, crossed his arms in an easy posture, and stared at Sebastian with an expression somewhere between amused and curious. He either had himself a foolproof plan for solving the problem of Sebastian, or didn’t need nor care to do anything at the moment. The latter made more sense, as they were expecting to touch down somewhere Severinus likely had his men waiting to escort Sebastian to whatever fate they had in store. Since they had barely left British airspace, this stand-off would have to last quite a while longer. Sebastian’s figured he was in for a very long, awkward flight.

Harris stayed still for a few pregnant seconds, then turned to his men with an arm extended and palm down. The soldiers all relaxed and let themselves sit deeper into their seats. But they kept their rifles ready in a two-hand grip. Harris re-crossed his arms and cocked his head as he resumed his stare at Sebastian. He made a small gesture that looked like a brief chin point at Severinus. The kind that two conspiring people would use to tell the other person to notice or look at something. Unfortunately, Sebastian had no idea what Harris meant. Sebastian glanced at Severinus to observe whatever it was Harris might be alluding to. The Saint leader was sitting there. He was angry. Those were the only visible observations he could make out at present. So? What am I looking at?

Severinus was still very much enraged, but stayed quiet, waiting for Harris to do whatever the backup plan called for. The carefully orchestrated primary plan had been so thoughtlessly ruined by Sebastian, creating this complicated stand-off scenario. Sebastian could sense that Severinus still had plenty of confidence that the overall result would culminate in Sebastian being taken out of the way, with Severinus remaining in charge, continuing the ultimate plan to rein in Ashe while using his research more beneficially. Unfortunately, Severinus may have to get his hands dirty, which was something he despised. Sebastian was curious what Severinus’ next move would be. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Severinus got up and strode toward Sebastian with very deliberate malice. His eyes were narrowed, but calm, not like the rage they had held just moments ago. Sebastian hadn’t canceled his plan, just complicated it. Severinus stopped himself about three feet away. Lunging distance. He crossed his hands behind his back looking very confident, albeit still angry.

“Assaulting Lucian has solved nothing,” said Severinus, in a tone like a mother at her wits’ end, scolding her child after the kid bit another kid. “There is no situation where you win, Sebastian. One way or another, you will leave this plane in custody. I’m truly sorry it came to this, but you refused to abide by my judgments, which ironically would’ve kept you safe and out of harm’s way. And would’ve spared Lucian your usual barbaric method of handling adversity.”

Give it a rest you hypocritical piece of shit. You bring an itchy-trigger-fingered assassin as your heavy, and you’re surprised that his intended victim defends himself?

Without removing his eyes from Sebastian, Severinus waved once in Harris’ direction. Harris apparently understood the signal and stepped slowly forward. He also made a casual gesture to one of the soldiers who stood up and approached the three men. Behind Severinus, Lucian was stirring, still not fully conscious.

Sebastian imagined popping a few bullet holes in Severinus, threatening the other two until he could locate a parachute, and then finding a way to jump out of this crate. But the armed soldier walking toward him made a complicated plan even more impossible. Plus, his initial look around had located no parachute, a new precaution from the all-too-recent memory of having to leap off a tall building with a patio umbrella after someone stole his parachute. He acknowledged that it might be paranoia, nevertheless, it made him temporarily obsessed with parachutes and backup plans whenever being very high in the air. And this plane was fresh out of both umbrellas and parachutes.

Lucian was attempting to prop himself up, making slow gains. Swell. As soon as Lucian clears the fog from his brain, I’ll have one more guy that I need to incapacitate and don’t have a plan for. He was reluctant to shoot anyone at all, even Severinus, who was testing Sebastian’s code of refraining from killing non-demons. Especially not the soldier. That guy was just doing his job. But witty commentary wasn’t going to keep them at bay very long, and threatening them with a pistol was half-hearted at best, since he had just smugly informed them all that firing a weapon in a plane was near suicidal. So, he had a decision to make whether he was suicidal, or surrendering.

Twice in a week now I’ve had to wonder whether I’m suicidal or screwed. I already decided on that roof before I jumped off. Has anything changed?

The situation felt nothing like the roof. This one still felt winnable. But what the hell gave him that impression? Severinus thought he had the situation in hand, with good reason. Harris was muting his thoughts somewhat, but he did give away the fact that things were very much under control. The soldier had no compulsion to disobey orders, and seemed to not be at odds with those orders at all. That was actually the weird thing. You’d think a soldier would at least have some kind of conscience about working for this son of a bitch, even if he ignored it to carry out his orders. Money wasn’t enough to completely bury disgust at your task. But the soldier was completely at ease. He and Harris were now next to Severinus. Sebastian held the pistol forward, unsure if he would dare use it, though at least it made his adversaries hesitant.

“This is dead wrong and you know it, Sergeant Major,” said Sebastian, appealing to what he hoped was the most reasonable person in the general vicinity. “I don’t care what you do to me, but this asshole is helping an even bigger asshole destroy innocent lives. Ashe is going to poison this whole world with dimensional energy that could victimize billions of people. You’re the one who told me that. There’s no way you can really be that ok with this, despite whatever money or favors this dickhead promised you. Come on, you don’t have to do this. No one needs to get hurt, and we can all stop that monster, Ashe, together.”

Epic speech, Braveheart, said the voice inside Sebastian’s head. His conscience, or argumentative shoulder angel, spoke with Mars’ voice, and Sebastian called it Jiminy Mars. Got goosebumps, it said.

Sarcastic tone aside, Jiminy Mars was right to mock his speech. These men had already weighed the value of what they were doing long before this moment. Sebastian’s little entreaty was pathetic and useless. There was one small consolation, however, which was that he truly doubted that any of the three standing men would kill him. Severinus had come here to arrest Sebastian. Granted, not “arrest” in the civilized world’s manner of the word, but in the kangaroo court, “Salem witch trial” sort of way. Harris wasn’t here to kill anyone either. Sebastian could’ve died on the rooftop, and even in the river, without Harris’ help, so it made no sense to save his butt just to off Sebastian on a plane. And the soldier behind Harris would do whatever Harris said, which made him a secondary consideration. Lucian was the wildcard. He was the backup plan should Sebastian resist arrest. Which, of course, he did. Then Sebastian resisted the backup plan as well. And yet, according to everyone’s minds, the “plan” was still in place. That meant Sebastian had some kind of value in staying alive. Was Harris’ plan to just slap a pair of cuffs on Sebastian and wait until Severinus’ men could take custody once they land? Or were his orders to take Sebastian down in event of an emergency? And was this moment an emergency?

Harris wasn’t giving up his answer mentally. And Sebastian was starting to believe he had accomplished nothing except piss off two dangerous men and gained no ground. Maybe Severinus was correct when he had said, “There is no situation where you win.”

Suicide or surrender? He was sick of this particular choice.

He was still internalizing the debate when the soldier handed Harris a little device that looked like an overweight electric shaver with pinchers. Harris touched a button and a spark crackled between the prongs. It made a loud pop like someone bursting a bubble on a sheet of packing plastic.

Harris gave Sebastian a strange, conspiratorial smile.

Sebastian was at first confused, then angered by the enigma, and then resigned because he assumed he was misinterpreting the gesture and Harris was just being sardonic. Harris would’ve correctly guessed that Sebastian wouldn’t shoot. And even if he did shoot, there would be a dozen soldiers on Sebastian before anything else could happen. So, since gunfire was off the table, Harris would’ve calculated Sebastian’s most dangerous option would be to use his martial arts skills to fight them all off. Which, against fourteen trained fighters, would result in the same end for Sebastian. Well, he may not shoot, and he may not succeed in fighting them all off, but whoever attempted to take him down would not leave without injuries and some sour memories of the encounter.

Sebastian quickly tucked the gun into his waistband and shifted into a ready stance. Harris looked strangely satisfied. Severinus looked downright happy, in an evil way. If Lucian was too incapacitated to twirl his Dick Dastardly mustache, maybe Severinus could borrow it. As it was, he only had the same nefarious glint as the cartoon villain. Harris reached forward with the stun gun and Sebastian prepared to knock it out of his hand. What happened next was unexpected and made Sebastian freeze in dumbfounded shock.

The Sergeant Major swung his hand abruptly to the side and pressed the stun gun against Severinus’ neck. He pushed the button and Sebastian heard the pop from the full charge, though no arc of electricity was visible. That had gone through Severinus’ neck. The sudden intense nervous system overload made him jerk for several seconds before he collapsed to the floor. Sebastian’s dumbstruck look begged the question – “What the hell just happened?” Instead of explaining, Harris turned and took a step back toward the still struggling Lucian. Lucian had managed to get one knee and one hand firmly underneath him as he wobbled from the concussion’s lingering fog. He was blinking away the cobwebs and reaching into his empty gun holster when Harris hit him with the stun gun. Lucian blew a wad of saliva out of his mouth before he shivered and crumpled back onto the floor.

Harris stood up and motioned for his team of soldiers to gather up the two incapacitated men. “Tie ‘em up, and stick ‘em over there behind those crates. I don’t want to see their ugly goddamned faces until we land,” said Harris.

Sebastian couldn’t remove the stunned expression from his face. He probably resembled a dying fish on a dock gasping for breath. With effort, he gathered enough control to utter a question. “What do you plan to do with me?” he asked Harris, cautiously.

Harris narrowed his eyes in a pitying stare and shook his head. “Nothing, son. I think we got enough out of that sum-bitch. No need for more games.”

Games? We’ve been playing games?

Although he did not feel immediately threatened, Sebastian was off balance with the new twist to an already twisted situation. Harris wasn’t advancing with the stun gun yet, but perhaps he should be discouraged from doing so, just in case. Sebastian placed his hand on the handle of the pistol in his waistband. Harris gave him an annoyed glance and pocketed the stun gun.

“You want me to explain, or would you rather just have a goddamned shootout right here?” asked Harris. “I thought you were a mind reader.”

Sebastian wanted to flip the Sergeant Major the bird and argue for the umpteenth time that he didn’t read minds, he heard thoughts that are spoken within said minds. But he wasn’t exactly in a prime position to either defend his honor, or defend his life. He decided to roll with this new development and removed his hand from the pistol.

Nodding, Sebastian said, “And I thought you were a guy who didn’t play games. I still don’t trust you.”

Harris shrugged. “I don’t give a shit what you think. But I’ve been ordered to brief you, and since we have a few hours ‘til touchdown and nowhere to go, you may want to listen. Fair enough, son?”

Fair enough.

Sebastian was still a little warm from worrying that he may have to blow a hole in the plane and die along with everyone else. He was recovering quickly though. To initiate the explanation, he figured the direct approach would be the most effective with Harris.

“You can start by telling me what all that shit was about,” said Sebastian.

Harris was in no hurry to do anything. He took his time settling himself back in his seat and produced a cigar and a match from one of his pockets. He lit the cigar and placed it between his grinning teeth. The smoke wafted into Sebastian’s face as he took up Lucian’s former standing position. Sebastian said nothing, just raised a hand and fanned the thicker portions of smoke away.

“Have a seat, son,” said Harris. “We’ve got a while, and it’s a long story.”

“I’m fine where I’m at. Get on with it.”

Harris darkened his expression. “I’m on your side, you jackass. You can quit being a rude sum-bitch and maybe I’ll explain.”

“Stop stalling and maybe I won’t send your head through that wall.” Sebastian’s bravado surprised himself, but he could feel the burn of anger in his belly. He wasn’t sure if his expression matched his emotion, but Harris only briefly looked perturbed before he calmed down and nodded with eyes closed.

“Alright, son,” he said. “I guess you really couldn’t read the situation, huh?”

Sebastian chewed on his lip in an effort not to say anything else. He did get the distinct impression that Harris wasn’t playing another game. He was just being stubborn and combative. As Sebastian was himself feeling right then.

Harris shrugged. To himself, he said, “Where should I start?”

 

 

 

Harris launched into full briefing mode. “Benedict asked me to keep an eye on you. He figured you were being thrown to the wolves, and he was right. He had come to me some time ago with his suspicions that Severinus was playing a traitor’s game, and we had started keeping tabs on him. We didn’t have any proof until that little shit, Turibius, got recruited. Severinus was always a dickhead, but he got worse when Turibius showed up. I still don’t have any official proof, but I’ll be a horse’s ass if Turibius wasn’t using some brainwashing or mind-bending shit on him. We knew the asshole was trouble, we just had to find out what the hell the trouble was.” Harris paused and nodded toward Sebastian, blowing a plume of smoke in his direction. “That’s where you came in. You were on the same trail we were, just different angles. We figured we could use your intel to nail the sum-bitch and get to the bottom of the whole shootin’ match. And it just so happens that you did, and in spades. We didn’t know anything about them ranch assholes you took down, but they added up to a big puzzle piece, didn’t they? Well, we knew we had to get to the endgame quick once Severinus knew you were on his scent, ‘cause you would eventually trace everything to him and Ashe.”

“Honestly, I had no idea that Severinus was even…” started Sebastian. As before, in Jillian’s kitchen, Harris gave him the heavily annoyed stare. “Sorry. Continue.”

“Severinus wanted you out of his hair, so he shut down your status and your Saint account, and then apparently thought up a better plan, reopened your status, and went ahead and turned you in to the London cops. Or at least tried to. Benedict knew what was happening and got his own men, including myself, ready to bust you out if you were captured, but you managed to avoid that.”

Harris paused, expecting Sebastian to interrupt with something self-congratulatory. Nothing came. Harris continued.

“We knew you’d head for your demon friend’s place, so we paid him a visit and got him on board. Or at least we thought so. He’s a shifty sum-bitch. I have no idea if he changed any of his plans knowing we were there, but I took it upon myself to just camp out on the rooftop and wait to see what happened. I saw some of what was happening in Ashe’s office, but I would’ve probably blown the whole thing if I had taken any shots through the glass. I was hoping you’d make it back onto the roof, and you did. I figured you’d have a backup plan to get off that rooftop if you didn’t have a parachute. But you didn’t, and I saw those things closing in on you, so I sent a few shots their way to give you some time.”

Harris paused, chuckling to himself. He stared at his cigar like there was something written on it that he needed to memorize. He abruptly turned to Sebastian and said, “An umbrella. Holy shit, son, that’s got to be the craziest goddamned stunt I’ve ever seen.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “You would’ve had a better plan?”

Still chuckling, Harris said, “I wouldn’t have lost my damned parachute in the first place.”

“Ashe’s thugs took it,” said Sebastian defensively.

“Uh huh,” said Harris. He placed the cigar back in his mouth. “Well, you’re lucky we had men on the river waiting for your parachute drop. You were unconscious when they fished you out of the river. We got you to the hospital on the east side. It’s the only place we could get some operatives to stall things. Your pal Nigel followed us there and used some of his…” Harris paused, searching for appropriate words. “…Associates to help delay the paperwork and procedures, and get supplies. We held folks at bay until we could get some meds and get you out of there. Your friend, Miss Stewart, appeared at a very opportune time and gave us a better option where we could stash you.”

“Yeah, I was there for that part.”

Harris shrugged and puffed his cigar. “Well, while you were convalescing,” Harris drew out the word and gave Sebastian an accusatorial stare, “we got word back from your associates in L.A. that they had procured some samples of the drugs that were being used at the ranch. Since the ranch blew up, there wasn’t any other way to get the information.”

“I know. I was there for that conversation too. And I didn’t blow up the ranch.”

“Yeah, we figured. Probably Turibius. Hiding the trail to Severinus and Ashe. We were following both of you, but the little turd managed to get out of our sight for a while. He’s a slippery little bastard.”

Harris’ admission cleared up a few things for Sebastian. Sebastian knew someone had been following them since they got to Tierra Perdida, but he had no idea who it had been. Apparently, it was a combination of bad guy and good guy. Or maybe bad guy and possible good guy. Sebastian was still having his doubts about Harris, though the man’s thoughts and intentions seemed to be sincere now. Sebastian was tired of being jerked around by his so-called friends. Despite everything starting to make sense, these revelations from Harris should be taken cautiously. He said nothing and allowed Harris to continue.

“Anyway, the drug samples had an initial evaluation, and just got back from detailed evaluation, so we’ll get that briefing after we land.” Harris stopped and gave Sebastian an open invitation look. Sebastian wasn’t sure he was interpreting it right, but again Harris wasn’t hiding his thoughts any longer, and he seemed sincere.

“Sure, ok,” said Sebastian, hoping that was the interaction Harris was expecting.

Harris seemed satisfied. He nodded and blew out another puff of cigar smoke. “I already told you about what we understood from the documents you photographed, and about the situation with your brother.”

Sebastian wondered how Harris found out that Marcellus was a ghost. Probably Benedict. Sebastian had never told Harris he even had a brother, much less a spirit one, yet when Harris briefed Sebastian at Jillian’s kitchen table about Marcellus being captured, he acted as if the knowledge of Marcellus being a ghost was a simple fact. And like most everything else, Harris offered no further insight into how he obtained his knowledge.

Harris said, “I’m sorry about your brother. We didn’t anticipate anything like that. And it complicates what we’re dealing with. We’ll discuss that in detail also after we land.”

Sebastian nodded, not wanting to invite the usual scornful stares from Harris for interrupting.

Harris drew in a large, smokeless breath, and stared off blankly for a moment. Then he seemed to either remember something, or it was suddenly time to talk again.

“We found out Severinus was in London just before I came to get you. I knew what he was coming for – namely to make sure you didn’t give anyone else the slip – and Benedict and I thought we’d play the double agents, and see if we couldn’t catch him with his pants down, and get him on record.” He held up a small rectangular device that had an LCD display in time code. “Audio recorder. It’s amazing that no one thinks that folks might be recording them, and they just say whatever the hell is on their minds.” He replaced the device into his pocket. “And as you saw, Severinus brought along another of his freaky, mind-power cronies. God knows where he digs these assholes up.”

Sebastian agreed with Harris on that subject. It also bothered Sebastian on a greater scale. As he assembled the scattered pieces of this puzzle, some things seemed to stick out. One of those things was the fact that there were more human anomalies in this world than just himself and Marcellus. There were probably common factors that could be figured out about them, and he would love to just sit and ponder the answers to that question alone, but he needed to keep his focus on the situation at hand, so he pushed his puzzle-building interest aside and tuned back in to Harris.

Harris continued. “We weren’t sure what this Lucian guy was capable of. Benedict had heard rumors and we decided to play it safe so he couldn’t guess what we were thinking. Of course, that meant deceiving you for a little while.” Harris turned to Sebastian again with the patronizing stare. “And we couldn’t be sure how you’d react, or if you’d do something we’d have to control. But…” He glanced over toward a crate of stacked boxes that were wrapped with overlapping sheets of plastic. It was the same general direction the soldiers had carried Severinus and Lucian, tied up somewhere behind that obstruction. Still quiet for the moment. “…We had to risk it. And, you incapacitated the assassin without too much incident, so all’s well.”

“How’d you know he was an assassin?” asked Sebastian.

Harris chuckled. “Didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I had the benefit of getting some vibes from his mind.”

Harris chuckled again, a little softer this time. “Son, anyone who’s seen the shit I have knows an assassin when he sees one. And this clown was as obvious as it gets.”

Sebastian felt a twinge of embarrassment seeing Harris’ point, and agreed.

“I could stand to count on my special skills a little less sometimes,” said Sebastian. “Admonishment noted.”

“Kid, I ain’t admonishing you. But you would do well to listen and learn when someone with my experience talks.”

“Understood, pops.”

Harris bit down on his cigar and shot Sebastian a dangerous look.

Sebastian sighed. “You keep calling me son and kid, so I… It’ll help if you grow a sense of humor, Sergeant Major.”

Sergeant Major Harris glowered at Sebastian for a pregnant moment before he spoke again. “I have a goddamned outstanding sense of humor.”

“Sir, yes sir,” was on Sebastian’s tongue, barely managing to catch himself from saying it.

Sebastian examined the laces on his boots for a second before Harris dialed back his glare. Harris decided to finish his story.

“Well, you heard what the old sum-bitch said, and some of it we suspected, and some of it was news. Either way, we have good intel for Benedict. The Saints are making base camp somewhere near the Grand Canyon, so that’s where we’re really headed. We’re only refueling in New York. The stuff about gathering the field agents there was bullcrap just for Severinus. Everyone’s already headed to Arizona, and we are too.” He paused for dramatic effect and removed his cigar. He revisited the patronizing stare once more. “That is if that’s ok with you? Or are you still planning to have a shootout?”

Sebastian hadn’t noticed that his right hand was resting on the butt of the pistol tucked into his waistband. He removed his hand quickly, chagrined, then sat down next to Harris.

He was deciding how to apologize to Harris, but his ego was boiling to the surface, and his apology turned into a retort.

“Look, Sergeant Major, I appreciate everything you and Benedict have done, and at least you finally told me what’s been going on. But I do not appreciate being someone’s pawn, and being pushed around on your little chessboard. If you need my help with something, you ask. Don’t ever pull that shit with me again.”

Harris smiled, still that paternal “kid, you have so much to learn” smile. “Son, I’ve been in the military most of my life, and we’re all pieces on someone’s chessboard. Get used to it, nut up, and get over it.”

“I’m not in the military. And you just got finished telling me how we needed to turn the tables on the guy that’s been pushing us, the pieces, in the wrong directions. So, clearly, neither you nor Benedict is over that. You can’t have it both ways. You either do what you know is right, or you do what you’re told. You’re saying one thing and doing another.”

Harris narrowed his eyes. Sebastian could hear the man’s reply in his head, weighing whether he wanted to get into with Sebastian. He knew he did not, for the sake of diplomacy, but needed to set the kid straight on respect for his elders.

Sebastian shook his head. “You don’t have to set me straight. I don’t care if you disagree with me, or if you like me or not. Just let me do my job, and you do yours, and we can all work together and stop Ashe from doing whatever the hell he’s doing. And for the record, I actually like you Sergeant Major. People can count on you, and I value that. But I don’t stand for anyone treating me like their Guinea pig. I’m in this for the end result, and I could care less if I end up in the dog house or the White House when we’re done. I will stop Ashe, with or without help, with help preferably, and if anyone has other agendas, that’s their business. Just keep me out of it. I wouldn’t want to tangle with you Sergeant Major. Likewise, I advise nobody to screw with me.”

Sebastian meant what he said, though he was regretting just throwing it down on the table like he was playing gin rummy. For all his steely posturing and iron will, Harris had a sensitivity to being personally challenged, as did Sebastian. He knew his own ego would want to fire back at that kind of diatribe. But Harris was either biding his time to reply, or soaking in what Sebastian said. He puffed his cigar once, his gaze somewhere far off, contemplative. The thought waves Sebastian was receiving were more of a debate than an argument. At length, Harris turned his body toward Sebastian and grew a smile slowly underneath his teeth-clenched cigar.

“Son,” he said, and drew out a long pause after the word. “You’re more of a soldier than half the soldiers I’ve known. That’s a good thing. I like you.” He reached out and slapped a frying-pan-like palm against Sebastian’s back. The impact was enough to send a cough through Sebastian’s lungs. “No need for anything further. We’re square.”

For a supposedly simple man, I don’t know anyone who’s more of a mystery to me. He and Nigel would have a hell of a poker game.

Sebastian swallowed to relieve the coughing feeling. He had temporarily forgotten about the soldiers seated across from him, and now gave them a once over. All of them still had their rifles ready, feet planted to spring from their seats. Harris wasn’t in need of rescue, and seemed a little perturbed that the soldiers hadn’t figured that out.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Captain, tell your men at ease,” said Harris.

The captain was the man on the far end of the line of seats closest to the cockpit. He raised his hand and said, “At ease,” as if the remaining eleven men hadn’t heard Harris themselves. On his order, they relaxed their posture, their rifles becoming one-handed parcels rather than two-handed weapons.

Harris leaned closer to Sebastian and said, “They’re mercenaries. Most of them retired Marines, all of them handpicked by me. They’re sum-bitches in a fight, and they’re loyal as long as the checks clear. Benedict wanted me to create a personal platoon, so I goddamned did.” He laughed like a king on a throne watching his knights joust. “They ain’t seen your monsters yet, but they won’t run. The monsters might.”

Sebastian nodded. He was somewhat amused by the casual acceptance of the so-called monsters by Harris. Ghosts, monsters – it’s all good to the Sergeant Major. Yet, at Harris’ house, the Sergeant Major had alluded to an ignorance of the kinds of things The Saints organization defended the world against, offering respect for that work based solely on Sebastian’s word. Since then, he had witnessed a telescopic view of hideous creatures that should only belong in movies, but were instead running around on a very real London rooftop. Even an old hardened Marine should have been shaken by the sight of those things. But not Harris. Regardless of his real feelings, he remained stoic and flip, only deepening the mystery that he had created in Sebastian’s mind.

As for the mercenary soldiers, Sebastian would just have to trust Harris’ word. Sebastian had faith that his associate field agents could handle a fight with any kind of creature Ashe could throw at them, but it never hurt to have military-trained troops backing you up. A good call overall. Plus, he had no idea the numbers they might be facing, wherever this ground zero was going to be. Ashe was a smart guy, and he would guard what was important with his best defenses. Likely, that would include purported private army armed with guns and explosives, plus a subsidiary army of ugly looking things with fangs, claws, and maybe wings. And probably a few technological booby traps for good measure. But Ashe also didn’t know what information Sebastian managed to get out of GPI’s office. And he didn’t know Sebastian survived his fall into The Thames. So, there was the distinct possibility of catching Ashe off guard. Somehow, that just sounded too hopeful.

Maybe Severinus had communicated with Ashe. Maybe Ashe had eyes and ears that had told him that Sebastian was doing just fine. Maybe Ashe knew that The Saints and their allies knew too much about his operation. He knew that they knew that he knew that they knew. Or something similarly confusing.

Harris produced the little recording device he had held out earlier. He tapped it for effect and smiled at Sebastian, but this smile had less of the patronizing mood than the previous one. Harris bowed his head and lowered his eyes. “I am sorry we put you in the middle of that drama, Sebastian.”

Sebastian, not son. Ok. A step up.

Harris did not meet Sebastian’s eyes, which was normally a good thing, but it seemed like he was attempting a real apology. “Benedict and I thought it was the only way to be sure you played your part to get Severinus to blab. Which he did in spades.” Harris tapped the recorder again. “We knew you could handle yourself, and if that assassin thought you were wise, he might try to do something stupid.”

“With a dozen soldiers sitting right over there?”

“I didn’t say he’d get away with it. But no telling what some crazy asshole might do. Or what abilities he has.” Harris aimed his chin at Sebastian’s own eyes to allude to Sebastian’s ocular abilities. “Maybe he’s got stuff like you, and he can zap us with some kind of mind control, or fry our brains.”

Sebastian blinked and shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m not like Dracula or a wizard. You have to be really staring at my eyes to…”

“Whatever,” interrupted Harris. “We don’t know what he can do, and how it may work. Understand?”

Sebastian did. Which was a whole new can of worms as to why, who, where, etc., all these specially gifted humans were cropping up. But he could get into that mystery later.

“Ok. So, Lucian was an unknown, and best to let one freak take care of the other freak. I get it,” said Sebastian. “I still don’t appreciate being used.”

“Copy that,” said Harris.

Sebastian nodded. He had said his piece and now needed to get the Sergeant Major squarely back on his side. He smiled meekly and held out his hand for a handshake. Harris spent an awkward moment to react, eventually bringing his hand up to accept Sebastian’s proffered one.

Sebastian offered an apologetic smile and said, “And, I’m – uh, sorry for the elbow to the face thing, earlier.”

Harris shrugged and took back his hand to cross his arms. “Ehh. I’ve had worse.”

Not exactly an acceptance of apology, but ok. “And also all the other stuff I said. I was just baiting you. I didn’t mean it.”

Harris shrugged again and gestured that it wasn’t worth a further response. He pulled out his Ka-Bar knife and worked the blade with an oil rag. The signal was pretty obvious that Harris was done conversing.

However, Sebastian wasn’t quite done. “Forgive the question, but I’m really curious. Why did you miss those wolfers on the roof?”

Harris took a deep breath, not saying anything. Sebastian didn’t look away. He waited a few more moments, then said, “I know the bullets wouldn’t have killed them, but it might’ve helped.”

Harris breathed out in a quiet huff, looking disappointed. He paused his knife oiling, shook his head slightly and said in an almost inaudible voice, “I was just rusty.”

Sebastian almost asked him to repeat the comment, though he had heard it clearly enough in Harris’ head.

Oh. Well – copy that.

 

 

 

The next few hours went by in pockets of awkward silence. Sebastian tried to get information from Harris about what came next, while the Sergeant Major deflected most of the questions and countered with variations of the phrase, “You will be briefed on that later.” The only information Sebastian was able to pick from Harris’ brain was that Benedict would meet them at base camp, and there would be transportation from the airstrip to said base camp. Where base camp specifically was, and what kind of support existed there, remained unknown to Sebastian. He wasn’t even sure The Saints, as an organization, were the authorities in this case. In the past, there would’ve been no doubt. But now? With Severinus undermining the project, and also now deposed, plus Sebastian’s murky status within the organization, he had no idea who was in charge, and what was to be expected. Despite this, and not even knowing what kind of team was being assembled, whatever it was, he wanted in. Saint or not, he believed himself to be valuable.

Harris kept mentioning Benedict as if he were the person making all the calls. Now that Severinus was outed as the traitor, maybe it was that simple to Harris. Benedict had the seniority, support, and experience to take temporary command in an emergency situation. But Sebastian felt like there was more to it than that. Plus there were the other elder council members, any of whom would have claim to the lead role. Had Benedict seized control? Had he purposefully sought to usurp Severinus’ position? Sebastian was fine with that, although he worried what power grabs did to organizations. But, even the simple question of who was in charge wasn’t answered by Harris. As with most other answers, Sebastian would be briefed on that later.

The authority structure of the Saint organization was not the only problem vexing Sebastian. He was deep in thought about his brother, and Ashe, and the meaning of the drugs. He had temporarily put those puzzle assemblies away to deal with the 3-act drama he had just been a part of, plus the insurrection against Severinus, and now that the newer distractions had subsided, the remaining time of the long flight called him back to his inner Sherlock. Like the iconic detective, he steepled his fingers and bowed his head in thought. He took an off moment to glance over at Harris who was tucking the recording device into a pocket. Sebastian wasn’t sure what his interest was in the device, besides the obvious, but it kept nagging at him that there was something about the device he needed to consider. Nothing had hit him, and he wasn’t going to rack his brain to figure it out since there were so many other variables in the bigger puzzle that was occupying his mind.

Quick thoughts of Jillian would occasionally invade his head, and he would shake those off because she was something that would have to wait until this operation was over. Yet there was a small spark in his mind that said she was something important that needed his attention now. At first, he thought it was just his little voice trying to help him not lose another girlfriend. No, there was something more to it than that. If he considered it rationally, she was at least a small factor in this play. She was an employee of GPI. She had helped him research Ashe’s dealings, even though she was unable to find anything of real use. Regardless of success, she had put herself on the line for the cause. It certainly wasn’t safe for her to do what she did, especially helping him recover. That also didn’t make her a prime factor in the operation going forward, though it probably puts her as a puzzle piece somewhere. Was she only a little unique piece that nothing branched from, or was she something more important, and he just wasn’t seeing the connections?

Though she was associated personally with Morgan Ashe, it was no more than any other assistant or common employee of a façade company. She didn’t know she was part of a façade. She just did whatever it was she was hired to do. Obviously, Ashe had never confided in her about his real activities, so besides being associated with the company, she wasn’t a part of the ugly side of Ashe’s plot.

Something clicked in Sebastian’s brain about the recorder again. It and Jillian were related. Something obvious. Beyond obvious. Harris had done surveillance on Jillian’s apartment for no other reason than security. Sebastian was no longer upset about that, but it reminded him that Harris wasn’t the only one who could do that. Jillian was Ashe’s assistant. She didn’t have access to his secrets, yet she did have access to him. And like his files, he would want to keep her close. She wasn’t anonymous anymore. She had been in the news. She was the one who had been attacked by Ashe’s monster and was associated with the mystery man who Ashe knew was actually Sebastian. Jillian would be a potential lead to Sebastian. If Ashe was smart, and he was, he would keep her under surveillance. He would’ve already done it a long time ago.

Ashe knows that I’ve been in Jillian’s apartment. The realization hit Sebastian like a sucker punch. He had been so preoccupied with his own little storm, he had forgotten that Jillian was now spinning inside that tornado with all the other potential casualties.

So, if Ashe already knew this, why didn’t he press that advantage yet? Maybe he didn’t really know, and the assumption was merely paranoia. Maybe Sebastian was giving him too much credit. No. Ashe couldn’t risk not bugging her apartment. He knew. He knew that Sebastian was still alive. He knew they were plotting to stop him. He knew that Harris knew. He may have been the one to call Severinus. He could’ve supplied Severinus with some special muscle to help take care of the problem. Someone like Lucian. Ashe would be still one step ahead of them.

And there was one more thing.

Ashe now knew Jillian was a traitor. Or a mole. Whatever else she might be, she was now a liability. She knew too much and was too close. Though she had no proof, and there was no paper trail, she still knew the truth. And she knew Sebastian. Maybe loved him. Or Ashe might assume so even if she didn’t. Sebastian was feeling a little sick in his stomach knowing he had been too distracted to notice this earlier. He should’ve seen this and been more cautious. At very least, he didn’t have to put the woman in jeopardy by disclosing what he knew and turning her into possible leverage for Ashe.

A liability or leverage, that’s what Jillian was now. Liabilities get eliminated, and leverage is a threat to do the same. Either way, Jillian was in severe danger and Sebastian had been oblivious to it, going so far as to intensify her jeopardy. He knew he was responsible and he started to shake from the combination of anger and despair.

What could he do now? Tell Harris to turn this plane around and go rescue her? They wouldn’t do that. And even if they did, would Ashe’s goons be there at the apartment waiting for him? Did they already have her? Ashe could’ve taken her somewhere secure, and that would be one more goose chase, one more maze to run through. There was no easy answer to this problem. If it really was a problem.

Am I overthinking this?

There remained the possibility that none of this had happened yet. Maybe Jillian wasn’t important enough. Maybe Ashe wouldn’t bother with her. Maybe Sebastian was overestimating both of their values, and Ashe was too confident in his plans that he wouldn’t ultimately regard Jillian or Sebastian as a real threat.

No. Sebastian knew that wasn’t true.

He turned to Harris, unsure how to tell him these suspicions. Intention was easier than action, and he hedged, searching for the best way to explain.

He wouldn’t have to. The cell phone in his pocket rang. The vibration made him jump like a scorpion was in his pocket. He dug out the phone and looked at the screen. “Call From Jillian Stewart.” His spine felt like a frozen iron pipe. This wasn’t a coincidence. He hesitated to answer it, somehow sure it wasn’t Jillian on the other end. She wouldn’t have called him first. She would wait for him to make the first return contact. Only she and Harris were the only two that had the number of his burner phone, except that the number was written down in plain sight on a piece of paper in Jillian’s apartment.

Jillian’s phone was calling him, but that’s not who was on the line.

Don’t answer it. He didn’t. The vibration stopped, and a moment later, the phone gave a sharp buzz that it had a voicemail. Sebastian breathed deeply and tapped the phone to access the voicemail. He held the phone to his ear, keeping his eyes closed in anticipation of hearing what he feared to hear. As the message played, Sebastian’s hand gripped the phone with trembling fingers. When the message finished, he handed the phone to Harris who was confused by the gesture. Harris eyed Sebastian waiting for an explanation, but Sebastian couldn’t speak. He slumped in his seat and buried his head in his hands.

 

Chapter 2

Justin should have been tired after hauling Jude’s big-screen TV up two flights of stairs to the attic office, then helping set it up. On the top edge of the giant screen was an HD webcam, on the sides were speakers, and on the table in front of the couch was a conference phone unit. Jude had owned most of these things for a while, though rarely got to use them. Everything except the TV, of course, which was the usual focus of the living room downstairs. The Guardians decided that if they were going to do a conference call with “End of the World” importance, it should be on a sixty-inch LCD screen. So they hauled it upstairs and created a conference room that consisted of their beat-up Goodwill couch, a plywood table supported by milk crates, a particle board TV stand, and thousands of dollars worth of technology. Jude and Valentine were giddy from creating their big-boy conference space. Justin was more anxious than giddy.

The top Saint scientists would be calling them in a few minutes to do a full discussion of the situation, which, despite the Guardians’ excitement, was grave. Justin had found a mathematical pattern in the documents, confirmed the association of several groups and events that had been suspected of being related, and were now identified as indeed related due to the newly found latitudinal and longitudinal grid pattern. Add to that a mysterious hypothesis by Valentine about something he found among Ashe’s documents, and the result was a reluctant, yet official, inclusion of the Guardians into the scientific round table discussion of Ashe’s impending evil plot.

Justin rubbed his knees frenetically, leaving a slightly darker smudge on his jeans from skin oils. He was excited, nervous, petrified, and stoked all at once. He had less anxiety running into the Tierra Perdida ranch compound with an assault rifle against freaky bat monsters. These were the top scientific minds in the world (at least, he thought they were the top minds), and they were going to be conferring with him. Him! And, of course, Valentine and Jude, but – him!

Valentine finished making sure the connections worked, then took a seat next to Justin on the couch.

“Dude. You ready?” asked Valentine.

“I’m going to throw up,” said Justin.

“Cool, bro. Can you do it before the call? It’ll look embarrassing.”

Justin gave Valentine an icy stare. Valentine smiled.

“Messing with ya, dude,” said Valentine. “Relax. You don’t even have to present anything. I do.”

Valentine was referring to his mysterious discovery that had something to do with physics in reference to the pattern Justin found. Whatever summary he had given to the Saint scientists, he hadn’t bothered to explain it to Justin and Jude. Valentine wasn’t a physics wiz, though he did have a peculiar background in theoretical sciences that he gave up to pursue computer sciences. He would occasionally offer that knowledge to explain some strange problem, but most of the time it just sounded like fantasy gibberish to Justin. Apparently, he had teased the Saint scientists’ interest enough to be a big part of the discussion today.

Jude joined the two men on the couch and held the TV remote in his hand. Other than using his house and his equipment, he was just along for the ride in this discussion.

“You guys ready?” asked Jude.

Justin nodded.

Valentine said, “Justin’s gonna puke.”

Jude raised a brow. “Need a bucket?”

“Goddamnit. I’m fine!” said Justin. “You two assholes aren’t helping.”

“Geez. Alright,” said Jude.

He mashed a remote button, the TV popped on, and a moment later all three of them were looking at themselves on the screen. Jude was just checking their feed, which looked fine, then he reversed the feed back to outgoing. The TV screen had the call window up, waiting for the incoming notification.

Valentine had a goofy smirk on his face watching Justin struggle with his calm. Jude shook his head and said to Valentine, “Please tell me you’re not going to get us all laughed at by whatever theory you have. You do understand how big a deal this is, right?”

Valentine kept his smirk, but his eyes darkened. Justin had never seen that look in Valentine’s eyes before, and it shocked him.

Valentine said, “Better than you do, bra. But if I’m going down, I’m going down with a grin. I’ll try to save the world, an’ all that. But if I don’t? Screw the world.”

Jude breathed slowly in and out for a pregnant moment, probably deciding whether to cuss out Valentine or just roll with it. In the end, Jude nodded subtly and said, “Ok, then.”

The green icon that signified an incoming call blipped onto the screen. Jude pressed “answer.”

 

 

 

Justin’s head was about to explode. Not from the influx of amazing information as he expected, but from the monotony of the way it was presented. Five scientists had gathered around the screen during the call, and each one had a vocal tone that resembled burned-out professors teaching quantum physics to uninterested jocks. The monotone and disdain in their voices got progressively worse as the call persisted. Jude and Justin were trying very hard to keep up with what was being said without asking too many questions, regardless of how many questions Justin wished he could ask. Valentine, on the other hand, acted like he had a hot date waiting at the end of the meeting. He nodded and made thumbs up, finger guns, and yatta-yatta gestures.

The discussion began by revealing the test results of the drugs that Justin, Kasey, and Mars had pilfered from K & D Labs. The critical drug in question, the one that was code-named Osiris, had yielded a lot of expected results, confirming a few hypothetical guesses. There was no doubt that it was engineered to selectively draw in certain kinds of radiation and energy, while shielding cells from other types. If no one had known about the effects of rifts, the accelerant would’ve been hypothesized as a kind of DNA manipulator, or an affecter of base pairs. In a number of years, maybe the scientific community could’ve drawn provable conclusions that would’ve matched the realities of human hybrid entities, but since the clock was most definitely ticking, and they already had the resulting creatures as the answer to what happens when dimensional energy interacts with the drugs, they made a few leaps that they would normally dissuade.

The other drug, the one referred to as Oscar, was a surprise. It had already been widely tested, and studied by countless scientists, and so seemed a waste of time to study any further. But a comparison of Oscar with the baseline findings of Osiris, and comparing the interaction with healthy cells versus cancerous ones, a few new conclusions could be drawn. The one that was hardest to stomach was that the Oscar treatment would create a kind of shield against the damages of dimensional energy exposure. It altered the cells enough that it made the body like Teflon against radiation. And since just living under the earth’s sun slowly wore down a human body with small doses of fatal radiation and soaked in damaging chemicals through the air, this drug treatment could be considered (in larger doses) as a kind of regenerative formula, or fountain of youth. But taken in the doses that were delivered for battling cancer, it had no ulterior motive other than to give cells the power to ward off the attacking mutations, and brace against the damage of radioactive therapy. So, in summary, the cancer treatment seemed to do the opposite as Osiris. It offered a chemical levee against whatever came from a rift. That seemed too big a coincidence to believe that the Oscar drug had no connection to Ashe’s global plot.

At first, Justin’s head was swimming trying to keep up with the bio-chemical talk, then he gave up and just took in the main gist and tried to ignore the rest. Jude was in roughly the same position. Both men turned to each other and shook their heads occasionally. Justin was starting to wonder what the hell the three of them had to contribute to this conversation. But noticing Valentine’s casual smirk, they had the notion that this was Valentine’s game. Whatever was going on, Valentine believed he was about to play some big part.

The conversation eventually steered to the grid pattern that Justin discovered (though he didn’t know why it was significant). The next scientist then proceeded to describe that machines were being stationed across the globe using Justin’s grid pattern, and how the energy from the rift would be directed throughout those stations, like electricity through circuits. Another scientist alongside the speaker then proceeded to argue that the grid wasn’t designed to do that, and the rift energy couldn’t be directed over such vast distances, to which the first scientist argued that the stored energy at each station attracted the incoming energy, and the pull was great enough to transfer the energy flow, to which the second scientist argued it still would not be enough, and that the stored energy would doubtful be used for that. There was a very distinct debate on whether this elaborate network would even function in any capacity at all. Perhaps it was simply a failed design that posed no real threat. They argued more on the hypothesized purpose of the stored energy, agreeing in general that it mainly had to do with mutating the humans in the limited area of its influence.

And once again, Justin and Jude would’ve liked to dive into that discussion, but they had no new information to offer, and wondered again why they were included in this heated exchange. Through it all, Valentine remained quietly confident, looking like a student who had found the test answers in the trash.

When one of the scientists asked Justin a direct question, it was as if electricity jolted Justin’s body.

“Wha?” said Justin, shaking away the daydream haze in his brain.

The scientist who was arguing in favor of the networked devices functioning as a conduit was staring directly at Justin. Justin hadn’t heard the question, or why it would be directed at him. Presumedly, the scientist was finding his side of the debate inadequate to squash his associate’s arguments, then figured Justin was his best (and pretty much only available) option.

The scientist sighed with a little frustration, then repeated, “I said, don’t you agree that the structure of the network is adequately stable enough to draw the dimensional energy through it? With each station focusing its stored energy to both attract and repel, it should increase the speed and power enough to offset the inherent loss of source energy due to distance.”

Justin felt he had a partial grasp on this concept, but only partial. His knowledge of rift energy was limited to what Sebastian told him in the car the first day he had joined.

“Well, uh, the design is a pretty standard web, so in theory, its design is the same as stuff that is built for stable energy transfer and flow.”

“Right, that’s what I was…” started the first scientist.

“But,” broke in Justin, “we have no gauge for the strength and frequency of the kind of energy from the, uh, source, so it may die long before it gets to the following points outside the source generator.”

“See?” said the second scientist.

Justin stammered, “But, I, uh, don’t really understand the rift and dimensional stuff much. Sorry. I could be wrong.”

The first scientist sighed again. He gave his colleague a conspiratorial glance, complete with eye roll that seemed to say, “See, we told our superiors these guys don’t belong in our discussion.” Despite the dis, Justin was beginning to suspect that for all their bluster, credentials, and experience, these guys knew just about as much about the real nature of rifts as Justin did. They could carry on like they had the answers, but on the whole, they were just guessing. Guessing pretty darned well, but still guessing. These rift things were supernatural and nonsubstantive, producing nothing to scoop up and place in a Petri dish for study in a lab. That meant a whole lot of theory, hypotheses, and chalkboard debate. They could be as confident as they liked that their theorems were solid because testing the theorems was nearly impossible. So, even though they couldn’t be proven right, they also couldn’t be proven wrong. To these particular scientists, that seemed to mean that they were free to claim themselves as winners of the debate.

Justin was about to slump into his chair when Valentine decided to break his silence.

“Hey, dudes. I think I can clear this up,” said Valentine.

The two arguing scientists arranged themselves in front of their webcam, obviously interested. One scientist had a scowl. The other scientist squinted and drew his arms behind him.

Valentine stood up. “Ok, first – you’re both right and you’re both wrong.”

Both scientists blanched at that remark, but stayed tuned to Valentine’s floor show. The three other scientists gathered in a little closer. Whatever individual fields they were each expert in, this subject was at least entertaining in its argument.

“It’s a magnet pulling the force through, and yes the energy will not only travel all the way through, but past.”

Scientist number one smirked and was about to elbow his comrade.

These guys actually give a shit what Valentine says? For real?

“But,” said Valentine, milking his pause and beginning to pace, “it has nothing to do with acceleration or flow. It won’t move conventionally.”

Scientist number two seemed momentarily satisfied, then stared at the screen with an inquisitive face.

Valentine worked his hands like an infomercial salesman. “That rift wasn’t chosen because it has the most energy. It was chosen because of the shape of its dimensional plane, and that plane’s position relative to our world.”

How the hell would Valentine know the shape of the dimensional plane? And what the hell is a dimensional plane?

Valentine continued. “It’s in the document, guys. Back page which discusses the physics of the plane. Our dimensional plane is concave, and the nearest one is convex.”

Jude captured a large breath in his cheeks and blinked rapidly. Justin pinched his eyebrows together between thumb and forefinger. Oh – my – God. What the hell are you doing, Valentine?

There was a page at the rear of Ashe’s documents that was a hand-drawn concept sketch of dimensional tension. It was a demonstration of a mathematical effect on the imagined surface tension of the dimensional plane. Dimensional planes were a subject that existed in theory, and not even widely accepted theory. It was represented by two crude blobs, one convex, one concave. An unknown scientist (or someone claiming to be) came up with the concept which was mentioned in other papers in Ashe’s documents. Just because Ashe and his people held the theory in high regard, it didn’t mean anyone else on the good-guy side would. Honestly, no one who had assessed the documents had given the drawings much thought. It seemed poorly demonstrated, fanciful, and factless. Not all of Ashe’s other documents read like well-sourced material either. There were a whole lot of “we think this” ideas. But the drawings seemed to be the weakest part of the packet. And Valentine was brandishing them like he had found Excalibur.

“Uh,” said one of the previously quiet scientists. “You mean those scribbles in the back?”

“Duh. Of course, I mean the scribbles,” said Valentine.

The five scientists as a group turned to look at each other. Several of them grimaced and rolled their eyes. A couple of others held their mouths open incredulously. Again, without saying a word, their body language said, “Why the heck are these lame bloggers even in this discussion?”

Valentine was not blind and easily noticed their frustration with him. His reaction was to smile crookedly and shake his head. “Guys, guys, guys. You may have brilliant minds, but you don’t spend a whole lot of time reading history books, do you?”

Neither do you, Valentine. You watch TV and consult Wikipedia. That’s your counterpunch?

Again, the scientists were lost for words and probably thinking Valentine was wasting everyone’s time. Justin wanted to crawl away from the camera’s range as soon as they turned their backs.

Valentine, however, wasn’t remotely fazed. “Ok, ok, I don’t want to hold you in suspense. Seriously though, you guys are being ignorant.”

While the scientists now changed their frustrated expressions for ones of outrage, Valentine cut them off by hitting a button on the computer driving the conference call. Instead of their angry faces, the image of the simplistic drawing of the two blobby curves and a few scattered formulas took up the screen. Several vague phrases and words were hand-written, none of them making sense by themselves. Words were scrawled like “FLEX,” “TENSION,” “SNAP,” “FORCE,” and “BAR.” The handwriting was in all capitals, and most of the words were encircling the two curved blobs, except for the word “BAR,” which appeared in the lower right corner. The most pronounced formula was a small phrase that made no more sense than “e = mc2” would to the uninitiated. It had no legend or reference for its letters, so it seemed indiscernible.

There was a strange pause where everyone was expecting Valentine to start yammering away, but he waited. And since no one could see the five scientists on the other side of the call, one could only imagine their growing annoyance.

“Just wanted to see if anyone got it last second,” said Valentine. “No? No one’s into history?”

Justin couldn’t stop himself. “History!? All you watch is that conspiracy ancient alien shit on a channel that calls itself ‘History.’”

Valentine looked genuinely taken aback. “You watch it with me, traitor.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but I don’t claim it means something to real scientists.”

Valentine shook his head, disappointed. “Well, the source doesn’t matter as long you learn something from it. Figured you’d get it, Justin.”

“What!? What don’t we get?”

“Bar,” said Valentine. “It isn’t a word. It’s a name.”

Justin cocked his head at the explanation. It didn’t ring a clear bell, but something popped within his memory.

Valentine wasted no more time. “Josef Bar. He was a theoretical scientist back in the twenties and thirties. Totally crapped on for his theories. He was a constant source of both debate and ridicule, but his theories got people thinking. He acted like he knew the things he said, not just guessed. His biggest theory was the existence and intersection of multiple dimensions and alternate timelines. He discussed them like he knew they were there, kinda like he’d seen them. He drew a lot of diagrams like this one, and some of them got put into picture books next to fairies, aliens, Nostradamus, and Cayce. Just because people didn’t understand what he said, he was totally dissed. Anyway, he disappeared during World War Two, everyone assumed he died. He was Jewish, and there were reports he was sent to a concentration camp, but once they were all liberated, nobody found him or his name written on any registers. The rumors were that he was kept in secret to work his experiments for some Nazi bosses. Then once the shit hit the fan for the Nazis, they escaped with him to South America. But no one ever confirmed it, and no one ever saw him again. Occasionally, some new theory or crazy claim would crop up that reminded everyone of his ideas, and made folks wonder if someone was continuing his research. The biggest conspiracy theory is, of course, that Bar actually made it to an alternate universe, or dimension, or something.”

The room was silent. Justin’s own opinions raced back and forth between fanciful curiosity and genuine interest. But no one was mocking Valentine anymore. Not necessarily on board, but not mocking.

Valentine took a breath and spun on his heels, beginning his pacing again. “So, supposedly Methusela Ashe has been working on this stuff since World War Two, and he and Bar happen to be twinsies with their dimensional interest, so I’d expect him to know some of Bar’s research, and sure enough, here it is.” Valentine turned on his heels again, pacing the opposite way. “And considering our buddy Ashe has actually found and used this so-called dimensional energy, I’m guessing the reason he kept one of Bar’s drawings for all these years is not because of sentimental value, but because it means something important. And to make the last big leap, since it’s included inside the primary instructions for Ashe’s Armageddonapalooza, and it’s the only drawn diagram, it’s probably accurate. So – who still thinks I’m full of shit now?”

Jude stood up. “You are full of shit, Valentine.” Jude shook his head with a hint of a reluctant smile. “But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.” Jude pressed a button on the keyboard, the diagram disappeared, and the five scientists came back into view. All of them had slack mouths as they fidgeted, shooting awkward glances to one another.

Valentine crossed his arms, in part enjoying the triumph, and in part shrugging off Jude’s insult. Two of the scientists on the screen snatched up a printed copy of Ashe’s file. One of them flipped through the pages quickly until he found the crudely drawn diagram. They both scanned it with renewed interest. The other three scientists timidly observed their partners, then turned back to Valentine.

One of them asked, “Ok. Um, strictly for hypothetical purposes, let's concede this theory of yours about Dr. Bar. So, what does it mean? And how does it affect the network debate?”

“Good question,” said Valentine, as if he were conducting a college class. “You’ll notice the two different shapes, the convex and concave, don’t touch in their default positions. They kinda fit like puzzle pieces. Imagine they’re a pliable but semi-stiff material like aluminum, and normal force applied in normal directions only bend it here and there. Once in a while, the pressure creates a secondary reaction that gets too close to another section from the opposite piece. That would be a good bet for a rift, right?”

Scientist number one, who had been the most vocal, and most annoyed, just shrugged. Whatever ground Valentine was covering was outside the scientist’s wheelhouse. He stood politely at attention.

“Anyway, say one of these curves gets stretched, the base gets wider, the tension shifts…” Valentine stopped for a moment, looking for a better explanation. “Ok, any of you guys ever see one of those toy bracelets that snap around your wrist? Snap – no, ‘Slap’ bracelets they’re called. They’re straight pieces that have a concave curve, lengthwise. You hit your wrist with one and it flips from concave to flat, redirecting the tension to curl it widthwise around your arm. You know?”

Justin did know. He’d seen them before and knew exactly what Valentine was talking about. But until now, he had never associated them with a global dimensional cataclysm. “The kinetic force provides the pressure to switch the shape to its opposite shape,” said Justin.

“Yeah, pretty much,” said Valentine.

Scientist number one still seemed a bit lost. Scientist number two, however, had been conferring with his colleagues and reexamining the diagram. Dr. “Two” spoke up. “In this case, however, there’s no way to generate an impacting force comparable to your bracelet.”

“Yeah. I mean, no, there isn’t,” said Valentine. “But, the bracelet will still do it without impact. Just a good push. So, the two-dimensional pieces…”

Dr. Two finished Valentine’s sentence. “The pieces need sufficient pressure only to eventually overcome the tension and retarget it in the opposing direction. The resulting change will be near instantaneous.”

Valentine looked slightly irked at being beaten to the punch, but he raised his brows and decided to play the proud professor. “Excellent. Yes, that’s correct.”

To his credit, scientist number two didn’t notice or care about Valentine’s patronizing. He was already deep in thought.

Valentine became silent. He maintained his arrogant expression, but had no further comment. Justin figured Valentine had already delivered his coup de gras and was waiting for additions to his theory.

A scientist in the rear helped him out. “If dimensions are specifically shaped, and that shape was to be deliberately forced to bend, it would possibly snap, quite literally, into another dimension’s space. There’s no way to predict that kind of effect, but I would guess it’s catastrophic.”

Another scientist speaking from the rear of the room added, “Not necessarily. We’ve been examining the phenomenon of dimensional overlap for years. We think that’s what rifts are. Two dimensions that are not similar can coexist in the same physical space, as long as their matter is inconsistent. But once there is an anomaly that consolidates their similar components in a single spot, that’s where we get a rift.”

The previous scientist also in the rear of the room argued, “I don’t think these are somehow the same kind of dimensions that we’re familiar with. It’s possible there are other kinds that we don’t understand.”

Scientist number one finally found his voice. “Not that I agree with either of you, but going out on your limb, if dimensions already coexist with us, what would it take for the dimension to affect us catastrophically?”

“Well,” said scientist number two. “It would have to be essentially just like our world, or close to it. A parallel version.”

“Bill, if I’ve put up with your lectures on many occasions, which I have, I recall that you mentioned that parallel worlds do not generally exist near each other. Right?”

“Uh, yes, right,” said Dr. Bill.

“So, how does the similar world get near our world to penetrate?” asked Dr. “One” with an air of triumph.

“It, uh, shouldn’t, or can’t. It – well, it’s just a theory anyway.”

“You’re assuming it’s a world from the same time,” said Justin, not exactly sure why he suddenly said that. Maybe it was echoing all those sci-fi stories about alternate universes he had read. More likely comic books. The Flash could travel through time and dimensional universes. Apparently, that was actually possible. Maybe not the way Flash did it, but… Dude, that’s about as lame a scientific reason as they come. Might as well quote Star Trek to them. Maybe Ashe only wants to bring some humpback whales back in time. Justin grimaced and hoped they would ignore the fact that he spoke.

“He’s right,” said scientist number four or five.

Justin pried open an eye. I am?

“Bill, that’s how your similar worlds line up,” said one of the rear scientists. “Time slides it around. Our world could, maybe, certainly, possibly line up near another nearly identical world, just a different time. How different would be the question. Would we be talking about Nazis, or ancient Egyptians, or cavemen, or dinosaurs? But if it’s the same world just younger, maybe that’s enough of a difference for proximity?”

Bill considered this. He nodded slowly. “I’d have to run some math, but – yeah, maybe. Without the math, I’d only be able to guess, but I’d have to guess that the times would have to be significantly apart in age.”

“How significant?” asked Justin. “Like, maybe, thousands of years?”

Bill shrugged. “Possibly. Thousands of years are a drop in the bucket of universe time, but – I simply haven’t done the math. Sorry.”

Like scratching some chalk on a board would be definitive. And – damn it, I just heard something that got me thinking, and I forgot what I was thinking about. “Shit,” said Justin.

“Pardon?” said scientist number one.

“I said, shit!” said Justin, annoyance contained no longer. “I had a thought and now I forgot where I was going with it. So, uh, Bill, right? What happens when two dimensions, two worlds, that are almost the same, but in separate times, collide? Explosion? Do we split inside out like a cat in a microwave?”

“Well, obviously we don’t know, but – the implication is that the worlds would infringe on each other, perhaps hybridizing, or perhaps one world will overwrite another. Or at least attempt to, likely resulting in devastation, a tornado of incalculable chaos, possibly the sweeping destruction of anything organic. In theory. The kinetic energy would make sure the two physical worlds merge to keep the dimensions balanced.”

“If they even are normally balanced,” said number one. He rolled his eyes for emphasis. “I still haven’t heard a shred of evidence to suggest that anything other than some sort of radiation would occur, which just happens to be the focus of all these drugs we seem so concerned with. I mean, do we really need to overthink it this much?”

“Right, Doug, ‘cause being simple and ignorant rather than thorough and prepared never harmed anything,” said Bill. In a playacting voice aimed at an imaginary audience off-screen, Bill said, “Gee, Captain, I wonder if there’s icebergs around. Pbffft! In freezing cold seas? At night? Fiddlesticks. Let’s go faster.”

A scientist in the rear raised a tentative hand. “Uh, actually, it was the Star Lines representative who demanded that the Titanic increase…”

“Not the point, Jerry,” said Bill.

“There wasn’t a point to be made, Bill,” said Doug.

“You’re making it for me, Doug. You’re ignorant of your ignorance.”

Jude, who had been quiet for most of the discussion, was suddenly feeling like an impatient parent. He waved his hands and shouted, “Ok, enough! We get it. It’s all theory. Nobody knows for sure, but everybody thinks they’re right. Could be the end of the world, could just be some radiation. Could be a door to the Twilight Zone.”

An awkward silence followed for a moment before Doug finally spoke. “Crudely put, but yes, pretty much.”

“Fine,” said Jude. “So, what the hell does it mean to us? What are we going to tell the agent guys? They’re going to expect answers from us, you know?”

The three rear men on the monitor shrank back subtly, yet noticeably, around the row of tables they were standing near. Both Bill and Doug glanced at each other, seeming to inch closer and stand taller. Justin got the impression the two men, although rivals, were used to standing by their theories and recommendations. Bickering pros, but pros, nonetheless.

Doug, who had been the least excited about Justin, Jude, and Valentine’s inclusion in this discussion, inclined his head slightly and placed a serious and dry expression on his face. He said to Jude, “We’ve just been giving them our best advice and ideas for a while, basically highlighting both sides of an argument, and letting them decide in the end.” Doug managed a polite smirk and shrugged. “But we’ve also never had persons such as yourselves as part of our group discussions. So – perhaps you have a new suggestion, or even a theory to add?”

Jude shrugged and fanned his hand out in an invitation for Justin to add something. Justin made an absent look over at Valentine who had started this confrontation just a few minutes ago and hadn’t murmured one word since. Valentine noticed the returned attention and blinked a few times while holding a shrug. “I did my part a while ago,” he said.

“Your part?” said Justin, stunned. “You acted like you had the map to the lost ark. What happened to that?”

“I led you there. Up to you to dig it up.”

“Oh, come on! You can’t just claim that you know all the answers and then withhold them.”

Valentine’s implacable face showed a crack of doubt. He made a noticeable effort to regain his smugness, then held Justin’s gaze for a few seconds. “I have a few puzzle pieces you didn’t have before, Justin. I don’t have the whole puzzle.”

Justin wasn’t surprised at this retort, and he also wasn’t willing to accept it and let Valentine off the hook.

“Well, if you’re done with your metaphors, then maybe you have some further nugget of wisdom to impart on us ignorant philistines?” asked Justin.

“Nope. I’m good.”

Justin took in a deep breath, aiming an intense glare at Valentine.

Valentine let out a long sigh.

“Geez, man, I don’t know,” he said, his voice losing all the previous bravado. “Break me down, dude. I mean, I do have a kind of crazy hypothesis because the whole damned thing is crazy. But I don’t know. It’s stupid. I only knew that little bit about Dr. Bar, and I wanted to get a rise out of you guys. Sorry, I didn’t mean to carry it so far. I don’t have an answer. Not a real answer.”

Bill continued playing the good cop. “None of us here deal in certainty, Valentine. You get as certain as you can, then dig in.”

“I’m really not sure,” said Valentine, making the final transition from his earlier smug demeanor to a sheepish one. Neither personality fit his normal attitude. “Sorry. I don’t want to screw it up any farther than I have.”

“Screw what up?” said Justin. “Just say whatever is on your mind and let us debate it. It’s ok to debate things.”

Valentine examined his shoes for a moment. Justin knew Valentine pretty well, and knew he wasn’t used to debates. He was used to being right, or not trying. Despite his attempts to shame everyone earlier, Valentine looked embarrassed.

“Alright,” he said, his voice meeker than even a minute ago. “Listen, I’m really sorry about being an ass before. I just was… never mind. I guess I’m scared and I show it differently than most people.”

“Valentine, don’t blubber all over us,” said Jude. “We’ve all had theories we thought were stupid. Maybe it’s not. Just spit it out.”

“Fine. Ok, then. Here goes. Um, the network was built to pull something from ground zero, whether it’s the dimensional energy, or whatever, I don’t understand it. But if it’s just radiation, something that just poisons people, that would be a waste of resources. A dirty bomb, or some shit like that, would be easier to come up with if all he wanted to do was radiate people. This is something bigger. And if the diagram is right, then the convex-concave snap would fit the design and would make the most sense. If it is something like dimensional planes overlapping, then I would think that he expects only living things would be affected, or he would’ve spent his money building a space station or something to survive the physical destruction of the world. So, he expects the ground to stay underneath him, with just people and maybe animals being affected. Or morph. Or disintegrate, or whatever. The drugs are like personal shields to stabilize certain folks against the effect. Why cancer survivors? I don’t know other than maybe it was convenient. Maybe he just needs slaves, and since they’re so damned grateful to be alive at all, they would worship him as a god, or leader, or some shit. So, maybe regular people get screwed up and his personally chosen people stay safe. The privileged ones are the monsters, and the underprivileged ones just function like serfs or worker bees. But what doesn’t make sense to me is if only living stuff gets whacked, there’d be a lot of technology still left to overrun Ashe at some point. Maybe he blows up an EMP later on, or something. Maybe this dimensional thing affects electronics too. But if what you guys said is true, then it shouldn’t. The initial part of the plan I can sort of understand, but holding onto his power seems impossible. To me, the plan is pretty doomed, so I figured I missed something. Sorry. That’s all I got.”

Justin swallowed hard. He was still trying to catch up to Valentine’s discourse, but he hadn’t found a glaring flaw with Valentine’s reasoning yet. Perhaps that’s what surprised him so much? How could Valentine, the poster child for the “talented but not living up to his potential” slacker/hacker/pervert/gamer have just rattled off a cohesive explanation of the doom they faced? It was no crazier than any of the ideas they had been discussing so far. And it even summed up the same flaw that everyone had been mulling, believing that Ashe’s plan was broken even if it worked. Could Valentine possibly be right?

The other scientists murmured amongst themselves. Nobody was crying out for Valentine’s head. Nobody was barking about how crazy that explanation was. Unfathomably, in the company of distinguished professors and professional scientific minds, Valentine had somehow just thrown a knee-buckling curveball right into the strike zone. It didn’t seem possible that the weird things they had all been discussing had come down to this insane scenario. And yet, here they all were discussing the insane as if it were the apple that bonked Isaac Newton on his noggin, and now they had to validate gravity. Two scientists had alterations to offer, two others were ready to support the theory as is. One thing everyone agreed on was the inescapable issue that regardless of the validity of anyone’s theory, nobody still knew the precise location of Ashe’s dimensional gate. The only geographical clue about the source was that it seemed to be in Arizona, somewhere around the Grand Canyon, a pretty massive area.

Meanwhile, Justin hadn’t been paying attention to the scientists’ debate over Valentine’s hypothesis. Though Justin’s mind was spinning, it was also calculating. Cogs turning other cogs and flywheels. He had been close to epiphany earlier and it had slipped away. Now, whatever had been teasing his mind was coming back. Slowly creeping thoughts and ideas snuck up on one another, rolling around in his head until they were a ball of something substantive. The conversation around him was background noise. He was deep inside his mind, hearing nothing anyone said except his own desperate inner voice trying to explain what was rumbling around in his brain. The voice was just not making sense. Too many words, no structure. Then it seemed to change to a simpler solution. It said one word. The word repeated. It became a chant. One word to sum up his missing piece to the grand puzzle.

Egyptians.

Justin was expecting a revelation. Instead, he got some random geography.

Really? That’s all you got, brain?

Egyptians.

Need more, brain.

Egyptians. Pharaohs. Sphinx. Pyramids.

The last several words were mashed together at the same time, but for some reason, Justin caught the gist of each one. He was about to sigh and curse his brain for babbling on about ancient Egypt like a travel agent pushing a cultural holiday. Then he suddenly got it. All the things that had been toying with his memory were highlighted like a neon marker.

The Colorado River; the Grand Canyon; an intersection of an ancient earth thousands of years younger; a rift hole that was big enough to travel through. These previously jumbled up thoughts were coming together as a strange hypothesis.

The first poke at Justin’s subconscious came from the mention of Valentine’s TV show on Dr. Bar. On that same channel, Justin had watched a TV show on an old mystery about a turn of the century explorer claiming he found ancient Egyptian relics in a cave on the Colorado River gorge in the Grand Canyon. At the time, the hypothesis seemed silly. Just another baseless controversy to spawn ridiculous TV fodder. But now? If there was a real bridge to an ancient, alternate earth located in the Grand Canyon, why couldn’t the explorer have been telling the truth? Ancient Egyptians. They had really been here. Nobody had believed it. The evidence was debunked, the hypothesis was preposterous. How could ancient Egyptians have wound up in a cave in Arizona? And even allowing for that insane notion, why had they not moved on, spread out, and settled a town? Only a heap of handcrafted artifacts that resembled Egyptian work were left as testament to their supposed existence. And the artifacts had been officially deemed a fraud. But – what if they weren’t? As stupid as it might sound, it was suddenly not only a valid explanation but the only explanation.

“Holy shit!” said Justin.

“What?” said Valentine and Bill in tandem.

“Egyptians!” said Justin.

Now it was everyone else’s turn to be argumentative with Justin. They replied with confused glances to each other, then pinched their faces to express concern without words.

Doug decided to poke Justin. “Perhaps you’d care to elaborate on that, uh, hypothesis?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” said Justin with sudden enthusiasm and near glee. “Like a century ago, someone found a cache of ancient Egyptian artifacts in a cave in the Grand Canyon. Nobody knew what to think. Some of them got tested, some got taken to museum basements. Then later, a bunch of people stole the rest, and some got sold. Sebastian’s brother even checked out one of the sellers. A bunch now are forgeries.”

“Riveting,” said Doug. “Can we get to the point?”

“Getting there. The artifacts were tested and found to be frauds. They were carved by hand, and not bad craftsmanship, the style was just a departure from the known designs of ancient Egypt. The carved rock ones they couldn’t date, but they did notice that the rock was the same kind of rock from the Grand Canyon. That wasn’t even the big thing. The big thing was the pottery. They were less than three hundred years old. All of them, roughly the same date. Definitely not ancient, and not made in Egypt. Seemed like a fraud, right? At best, a bunch of old Indians or settlers making facsimiles.”

Doug sighed loudly and hung his head.

“That’s rude, bro,” said Valentine to Doug. To Justin, he whispered, “You going somewhere, dude?”

Justin nearly laughed. “You were drunk and asleep when it was on. Couple years ago, same channel as your show about Dr. Bar.”

Valentine’s brows flew up. “No shit?”

Justin nodded. “I was half asleep, myself. Barely cared. It sounded stupid. But Marcellus took a trip there not that long ago. Told me about it. It jogged my memory. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it then. But I think I got it now.”

“And you’ll share it with us before we die?” said Doug.

Unfazed, Justin continued, “The cave was supposedly found in the Marble Canyon area, in Arizona. And that’s the general area everyone thinks Ashe’s network source is.”

Doug was also unfazed. “So?”

“Don’t you see? Even if there was a bunch of Indians making copycat Egyptian trinkets, how the hell would they even know what they looked like? No photographs back then. Indians didn’t have any reference of Middle Eastern art. What were they copying from?”

“Ok, so it’s weird. I’ll agree to that. But…” Doug wasn’t able to finish his sentence.

“But it wasn’t Indians. It wasn’t Vikings or Mongolians. And it wasn’t a fraud either. What if they were created by actual Egyptians? Real ancient Egyptians. The only thing is they weren’t actually in ancient Egypt anymore. Or in ancient times anymore.”

Doug blinked slowly and mashed his lips together. It was an expression somewhere between annoyed and bored.

Justin plowed on. “And they didn’t sail over here. They walked. Right through a hole in a dimensional wall. The same hole we’re talking about here.”

Doug wasn’t immediately respectful hearing Justin’s other shoe drop, but he did, at least, force his professional façade back. Bill’s jaw slipped open and he straightened up.

Justin addressed Bill. “You said similar worlds aren’t next to each other. At least, not in a similar timeline. But a few thousand years could make a difference, maybe, right?”

“Uh, well – of course, I don’t – um, it’s a possibility,” stammered Bill.

“Right. A possibility. Like all the other crazy stuff we’re running with. So, the other earth is thousands of years older, but that’s not when the Egyptians came here in our timeline. Had to have been more recent. So maybe a few hundred years ago they came through, who knows why, and got stuck. They made the best of it and died here.”

Valentine came to life like he just remembered a hot girl’s phone number. “Damn, dude. I think I remember hearing something about that cave. But…” Valentine went pale and hung his head. “Uh, I remember it being thoroughly searched. Crazy conspiracy people have made treks to that area. Nobody’s ever found anything like – you know, a gate to another world.”

“Of course not,” said Justin. “Why the hell would the Egyptian pilgrims live near the rift? Rifts are dangerous, right? They suck people in, or make them go crazy and stuff, right? They probably explored the area and found a better place to live. They probably thought that they were being brought to some god’s dimension. Like it was their equivalent of heaven, or Mount Olympus, or Valhalla, or the underworld. They came over and stayed. Who knows why? They eventually found themselves a safe cave to live in, lived their lives, and died. I’m guessing there were no women, or we would’ve had Egyptian ancestry roaming around somewhere in Arizona. Just a bunch of rift explorers from ancient Egypt that got stuck here, made a few items, and left them there. And since nobody except us knows about rifts, the only sensible thing to claim was fraud and fakery.”

Bill was nodding slightly, his eyes focused on nothing in particular, deep in thought. Doug scrunched his brows, seeming contemplative, though still not looking agreeable. The three scientists behind Bill and Doug started mumbling to each other.

Jude stepped forward. “So, if I have this right, the rift is somewhere unknown, probably nearby to this cave, and it just so happens it’s the same one we’re looking for?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You can’t walk through rifts,” said Doug.

“Not ones you know about,” said Justin. “Sebastian said we were looking for something like that though.”

Bill frowned at his contemporary. “Doug, come on. You read the document same as we did. Ashe thinks he’s found a rift large enough to physically enter.”

“So? It doesn’t mean he’s right. Rifts aren’t holes. They are fingers that overlap and affect each other.”

“So certain are you?” said Valentine in a decent impersonation of Yoda.

Doug raised a brow sharply. “Have you ever seen one?”

“No. Have you?” asked Valentine, smugly assuming the other scientists hadn’t seen one either.

“Yes, I have.”

“Yeah, well…” Valentine was close to saying “your momma,” but refrained.

Bill stepped forward. “Doug, you’ve only seen six yourself. We’ve calculated there could be hundreds or thousands. You truly think there’s not a possibility that a gateway like this could exist?”

Doug grimaced. His glare reinforced his dissension, though he seemed out of valid arguments. His last recourse was to be pessimistic. “It still doesn’t give us a specific location for this dimensional gate.”

“It’s closer than we were a few minutes ago,” said Justin.

Everyone shared an awkward moment of contemplation, or perhaps just rest for their over-taxed brains. No one seemed to have another comment or response to add.

Jude decided it was time to take control of the meeting. “Alright, guys. Let’s let everyone soak that in. There’s been a lot of crazy stuff tossed around here today. And it’s possible some of it may actually be true. So, maybe we need to summarize some of this. Write it down. Run over it again and see what we have.”

The scientists on the screen all nodded except for Doug, who shrugged.

Justin nodded. Valentine scratched his chin and held a comical contemplation pose.

“Dude! Stop joking around,” said Justin to Valentine in a harsh whisper.

“Fine. Ok, already. Do whatever Jude said,” said Valentine.

Jude pulled a laptop over to the table and started typing. “Ok guys. Summarize and I’ll write it down.”

Justin sat down next to Jude, and Valentine stayed standing, placing himself nearby.

Justin said, “You wanted to do something important, Valentine. Something that mattered. You finally have.”

Valentine blew out a horse-like snort. “Just remember that when you get to my fee.”

 

Chapter 3

Thousands of years ago, on another version of earth, several priests wandered the Egyptian desert searching for shelter. Their exile was caused by the new pharaoh, their loyalty to the old deceased pharaoh a threat to the man-god who not only took the ruler’s throne, but killed the old ruler to get it. The official cause of death, as told to the populous, was that the old pharaoh fell out of his chariot while hunting and was trampled. The announcement was not disputed publicly. Few people knew for sure what had really happened, but the rumor was a whisper within the kingdom. To most people, it was merely the succession of kings, not always amicable, and not always legal, but it was none of their business. It was widely known that you did not question the new king, regardless of how the old one left, or you may find yourself and your family killed or jailed for your doubts. To the very brave, the only way to fight an unlawful succession was to gather an army and depose the usurper. Then the vengeful vanquisher becomes the new usurper, solving nothing, and creating yet more future opposition. So, all in all, it was best to simply accept the new rule with quiet and unfaltering acceptance.

The priests of the old regime had no interest in making opposition. But they also knew the truth. And the new pharaoh didn’t believe they would keep quiet since the murder took place in the sacramental hall, right in front of many of the priests. The old pharaoh had come to pray on his own. His enemies followed him, meaning to kidnap him and take him elsewhere to kill him. But a struggle occurred and the pharaoh was killed as a result. A heavy bronze pedestal for a sacramental cauldron was swung at the pharaoh’s head, crushing his skull. The dead pharaoh was carried off and eventually thrown in front of a chariot and horses. His crushed and crumpled body then better resembled the lie being sold about the pharaoh falling out of the chariot and getting trampled to death. The majority of the public, knowing what was best for them, questioned nothing aloud. So, the new pharaoh took the throne. Though the priests were the only ones who saw what really happened, the new pharaoh decided not to kill them immediately, thinking he needed the weight of the well-known priests coronating him to be accepted. But once that was over, the priests needed to go away. This much the priests understood.

They took their futures into their own hands, feigning a pilgrimage, a journey of discovery, or a journey to commune with the underworld. Whatever anyone would believe, as long as they left the kingdom with their lives. In the dark of a post-midnight evening, they gathered their meager possessions consisting mainly of a few idols, some sacramental accessories, a change of clothing, and all the food and water their backs could support, then set out through the sacred valley where the past pharaohs were buried.

They traveled on foot for many days, walking farther than anyone would ever dare to go without horses. The priests came to an old structure supposedly built by the god Ra himself. It was a place they had visited only once because the distance was so extreme, it would normally mark the turn-back point for anyone not wishing to permanently leave the kingdom. But they walked on. The days passed. They journeyed farther than they had ever been, through the wastelands where the spirits of the ancient ones were said to live: gods and beasts that lingered from the days before the great Egyptian civilization. Unfamiliar markings and small pictograms of a strange people were carved on large rocks. Raised areas looked like bases for walls that had long ago crumbled. Or perhaps, it was their imagination. No one could have ever lived out here. There was no water anywhere for days and days’ journey. No animals to hunt, no way to plant or find vegetation. Nothing but desolation. Yet, people had been here. The carvings proved it. And then again, perhaps they weren’t people. Whoever, or whatever had been here, weren’t visible now. Who was to say they weren’t spirits as the priests were told. Perhaps they were watching at that moment, unseen, but ever-present.

The priests had wandered for months, their food exhausted, their water, though tightly rationed, was within a cupful left to each man. Each of them had begun to worry that they had done nothing more than delay their deaths by placing their fate in the gods’ hands.

They begged Ra not to abandon them. They had been faithful. The new pharaoh was a believer is something that was a bastardization of Ra. An abomination of two gods in one. Apparently, no one was supposed to mind that Ra had changed. How could two gods be one god? How could Ra change who he was? Ra was always Ra, not Amon Ra. The priests believed that Ra would bring his judgment on the kingdom, and besides their escape from the pharaoh, they did not want to stay and become part of Ra’s punishment. Since they struck out far away from the kingdom, Ra would notice, and he would take them into his bosom and secure them in a place where they could once again honor him the way they always had. Ra would deliver them once they went far enough. But they had traveled farther than they believed they could and should go. Surely, something else was out here, somewhere.

The ends of the world couldn’t be far away. They had expected to fall off the earth and arrive in the underworld by now, yet nothing except sun and sand existed here. Maybe they were already in the underworld? Nothing could exist in that desolation but death and beasts of undying heat and fire. Perhaps they, themselves, were dead, and they had been punished to continue walking forever as their torture. But their water was near gone. If a god wished to punish them, he would’ve given them never-ending small rations of water so they would be encouraged to keep walking for eternity instead of accepting their fate and laying down on the sand to die of either dehydration or heat.

The band of eleven priests had begun to climb through some uneven terrain, populated by a combination of dunes and rock formations. Unlike the flat desert plains they had come from, many slabs of rock had been turned, twisted, and pushed from the areas deep underneath the earth’s surface. The priests assumed they had either arrived in a brand new land, or they were so close to the world’s edge that the underside was bending upward to meet them. Strange formations or not, there were areas of shade and overhang that would shield them from the sun’s relentless torture. Nearly starving to death and exhausted in all ways both mental and physical, they decided to take refuge under one of the larger structures.

They entered what looked like a cave, though it was actually a gap between two layers of earth’s crust which had tipped upward and nestled next to one another. The mouth of the cave was larger than its depth, just enough for temporary refuge from the sun. It wasn’t large enough to function as a more permanent dwelling. The priests weren’t certain, as a group, if they should be traveling any further than this, or if they had come to some sort of destination that was appointed by the gods. But at least, for a little while, they could recover in shade.

There was no water or springs anywhere, and certainly no rain, nor any way to capture the rainfall if there ever was any. If they were going to die from starvation and dehydration, at least they could do it in relative comfort. They spent a day resting and recovering. Several members went on scouting forays to see where else in this strange land might be worthwhile to go, and possibly stay. Much of the same kind of tilted earthen layers populated the landscape, none of which offered much more than shallow shelter with barely room to maneuver. One priest, however, made an interesting discovery.

His name was Ptahhomhet, the youngest and newest of the priests. He had gotten lost on his scouting mission and missed his landmark to turn back to the place they were currently making camp. He found temporary shelter for the night, then set back out for “camp” the next day. Passing a familiar landmark, he was relieved to know he was only a half day’s walk back to camp. However, while passing another landmark, he noticed something odd to his right. He had been in Egypt’s desert all his life, and had seen his share or mirages and heat-induced fantasies, so at first, he assumed that’s what he was seeing. But after a moment to focus, he was sure it was nothing he had ever seen before. There was a craggy mound of earth and rock (hard to tell which was more prominent) that shimmered and warbled in and out of clarity like it was a reflection in a pool of disturbed water. Not heat radiation. Not a mirage. And he was not delirious since he was decently rested and still had a little bit of water in his waterskin. This was something else.

Ptahhomhet steeled himself and approached the mirage-like scene. As he approached, the shimmering waves of thick air did not recede. No heat illusion survived closer scrutiny. This was something magical. He walked forward, ready to defend himself against either evil or benevolent gods should they notice him entering their realm unbidden. But no being of any demeanor accosted him. He walked through what seemed like a nearly invisible waterfall, and suddenly the sand no longer felt hot. The sky seemed dimmer. Nothing made sense. One moment the image of the rock formation was in front of him, and then it was to his side, and something else was in its place. A cave? A night sky? A river? Some kind of den of creatures? He could swear that he saw beings moving around, but the moment he tried to determine what he was seeing, they were gone and the rock structure was there. It was like he was standing inside someone else’s dream. His feet no longer felt tired, and didn’t feel the pressure of his weight standing on them. He was flying without moving. The rock structure beckoned like it was a street vendor with a wonderful product to sell. There appeared to be a different sky through that cave tunnel. Ptahhomhet felt it as certain as he was alive that this was an invitation to another realm. Perhaps a realm of the gods themselves. The priest took a deep breath and resisted the temptation to run into Ra’s arms. Or perhaps Osiris. It made more sense that he had found the entrance to the underworld, which was ruled by Osiris. Whatever it was, it was real. Ptahhomhet hesitated to venture further, believing this place was not his own to accept or deny. He made up his mind to show his fellow priests and let the group decide.

Exiting the strange dream bubble was as easy as walking in. Like walking through a gust of cool air. He passed through the immaterial membrane and found himself near the same lump of hardened dirt he had stood near when he had decided to enter the strange shimmering bubble. Finding his way back to camp, he told his fellow priests what he had seen. Though many were skeptical, most of them thought they had little to lose by making the half-day journey to see for themselves.

The next day they all set out. With almost no trouble at all, the shimmering spectacle was exactly where the young priest said it was. They had brought all their gear with them, some hoping that they would be traveling across a true passage to another world, others figuring that even if it was a delusion, they would be able to find somewhere more favorable nearby to remake camp.

The small band of exhausted, starving, and desperate priests were from a world where earth had not seen Jesus yet, had not discovered electricity, or gunpowder, and the Egyptian pharaohs were the most powerful beings in the known universe. They all passed through the bubble and entered the cave. For a few brief steps, everything melted away and they found themselves walking across an invisible floor surrounded by what seemed like night sky both above and below them. Confused, but determined to trust the gods’ guidance, they continued moving forward. Eventually, their feet touched dry earth again. They pressed forward through a narrow, dark tunnel that left them no room to turn around. When they finally emerged into light, they were in a rock cavern that had been likely carved by a fast flow of water. The rock walls had red, orange, and brown striations like a continuous linear painting. Though dampness lingered in the air and the cavern walls, no water was immediately visible. After a short rest to light torches, they found their way through a myriad of low-ceilinged, winding passageways, finding one that led to the surface. They were back in the desert sun, though a very different desert. A short walk brought them to a cliff, with a long, sheer drop down and no visible way back up. It was part of a crevasse-like valley being cut by a rapidly moving river.

The wide and opaque river that flowed directly beneath them was vast enough to travel on by boat. Though muddy, they could capture and filter it enough to possibly drink. The opposing cliffside was similarly steep to the side they were on. The sun shone bright above them, just like the place they had left, but the desert flavor was different. Wherever they were, it was no longer in the same world they had walked from, and yet their journey to it had been no more than forty or fifty feet.

Unbeknownst to them, they had not only traveled thousands of miles in that simple walk, but thousands of years. They had no way of understanding that they were in an entirely different reality than the one they had left. To the priests, they had entered the afterlife: a version of the underworld that had been granted to them for their survival so that they may remain faithful priests of Ra. And now would also have to honor Osiris.

The priests agreed they had come to the end of their journey. Whatever this new world offered, they would accept it, and allow whatever gods had brought them here to guide them however the gods wished. The only concession they gave themselves was that they needed to find a more comfortable shelter that they could come and go from easier. The cave-like tunnels they had been in were so narrow in places that they needed to crawl, and the access to the surface was difficult at best. They waded along the river’s edge until they found a nearly hidden entrance to a cave that had been covered in a dense tangle of bushes. But a little group effort cleared the brush and showed them an interior area that seemed to have unfathomable depth. Inside were many separated caverns, numerous enough to make a room for every priest.

They settled in. Small desert creatures were plentiful enough for their meager band to capture and eat. They collected and filtered the river water. Though they were not accomplished artists, and did not have good references to work from, new idols were made to honor both Ra and the god Osiris, who they assumed had presented this section of his underworld for them. They worshipped and lived in quiet acceptance that this simple existence was their salvation from the wrath of the usurping pharaoh. The water level receded, the shoreline deteriorated, and their cave became harder to get in and out of, so they made fewer trips outside, stored larger sums of food, and stayed in their isolated caverns alone. The small band of priests grew old, sought no mates, and denied themselves contact with any other human-like beings that may exist in this plane. Osiris had offered them refuge, and it was not their place to overstep their bounds and try to be anyone’s friend or enemy. Many of them believed they had found Duat, the Egyptian version of the afterlife. The priests were happy to live out their lives in solitude and obscurity.

All except for one. Young Ptahhomhet was more curious than the others. He never forgot the initial wonder of passing through Osiris’ veil, across the in-between place, and into the underworld. Perhaps the other priests believed this was Duat and ignored everything leading to it, but Ptahhomhet had been fascinated by what he saw floating around them as they crossed over the invisible bridge. Creatures, beings, other gods, and places that defied explanation had flowed around them like light dancing on the walls of a reflecting pool. If the gods wished him dead for seeing such things, they would’ve killed him already. And if they did not want him to see them, they would not have allowed it. So, what was the harm in viewing these places and things again?

Ptahhomhet saw no reason not to explore further. He made many trips back to the gate they had originally entered, standing in front of a crack in a rock that seemed banal by most standards, except if one stood still and stared, one would notice the slight shimmering and pulsing of the air in front of it. Like it was both alive and not there at the same time. When he reached out for the surface of the rock, there was nothing to touch. The closer he got, the surface of the rock seemed to be different, the crack wider, becoming a tunnel which was blacker than any corner of hell. Walking through it, he once again entered the strange space where he couldn’t see any ground in front of him and the forms of countless visions danced around him. Some were vistas, some had beings, strange creatures which stared at Ptahhomhet, enticing investigation. All the floating visions seemed like passageways to things he did not understand. But he was careful not to venture too far into the center of that space. It pulled at him to come further, like a steady gust of wind. He kept his feet on what felt like a cliff, with a length of rope he had tied around his waist and attached to a boulder back in the cave he had come from. He watched, listened, felt, and remembered. Then he made his way back to his new home where he recorded his observations. He carved all the stories of his journey, from Pharaoh’s wrath, to his eventual settling of the strange god-given land, to his experiences in the tween world. He carved them on slabs of rock he had found and carefully prepared. Ptahhomhet had no idea what he was witnessing inside what he called the tween world, but it was more amazing than any amount of punishment he could receive. His obsession with it continued until one day when his narrative simply stopped. No hint of illness, or trouble. It was as if the world swallowed up Ptahhomhet and left behind only his meager possessions and carved records.

The other priests barely communicated with each other as they got older, preferring to meditate and worship in silence. Ptahhomhet’s carved journal ignored them entirely once he began visiting the tween world. None of them, including Ptahhomhet, understood where they really were, or what they had done. And they died remaining in that ignorance.

Unbeknownst to all of them, the priests had found a rift so rare it defied explanation even among the most knowledgeable rift scholars. It was a gateway to another reality, a time-space overlap that served as a kind of bridge that would, over time, withdraw its stability like the melted ice bridge that once connected North America and Asia. By many accounts, it could be called magical, and science would have a hard time disputing it.

The priests’ new home was a very real place, not an underworld god’s plot of real estate. It was a place on a nearly identical earth, thousands of years later than the place they had come from, and thousands of miles further away. It was in a land that would eventually be known as Arizona, alongside a river flowing through a place now known as the Grand Canyon.

In 1909, the Arizona Gazette published an article about an explorer name G. E. Kincaid who claimed to be exploring areas of the Grand Canyon for the Smithsonian. The article told about his amazing discovery of a vast cavern that held many ancient Egyptian style artifacts like mummies, idols, tablets with inscriptions, and copper utensils. Entrance to the cave was only accessible via the river, and was supposedly precarious to climb. He was said to have brought back several artifacts to the Smithsonian for analysis. No other follow-up stories were ever published. No records of any artifacts, Egyptian or otherwise, were kept by the Smithsonian from any Grand Canyon expedition in 1909. No proof was ever made public. Despite the stonewalling, supporters of Kincaid maintained that a secluded, ancient Egyptian civilization had once lived in the Grand Canyon.

The times were such that newspapers regularly published sensationalist fodder to attract readership, and Kincaid's discovery, as told, was dismissed as fiction. Kincaid could get no permission or funding to return to the site, as it was officially government-owned land. The Smithsonian claimed they had never heard of Kincaid, and he was labeled a fraud. The subject was summarily forgotten, only occasionally revisited whenever a curious crackpot or two tried to find the spot for themselves. No permissions by the government were ever given to excavate it. Kincaid disappeared from the public eye shortly after the article was published, and was not heard from on the subject again.

Throughout the years, the occasional person would mount an attempt to uncover the “truth,” but requests from the government were met with stiff denials. Kincaid never officially shared further findings other than the original artifacts said to have been given to the Smithsonian. The Smithsonian held no records of any turnover and categorically denied ever having anything of Kincaid’s. Rumors circulated that the artifacts had been stored in non-secure places, since they were believed to be fraudulent, and eventually those artifacts found their way into private collections. A few more recent investigative, entertainment-type publications attempted to track down the artifacts and get them tested by experts. The few artifacts that were found stumped the experts, further complicating the strange, assumed hoax.

The kind of items that were offered as authentic artifacts, like shards of pottery, copper utensils, idols carved from both wood and stone, were a conundrum. The things that were not stone could be dated and were found to be only a few hundred years old. That fact led most experts to assume that Native Americans created the artifacts. But the subjects that were represented, in addition to the styles and methods, were closely associated with ancient Egyptian culture. Even some of the materials were said to have originated outside of the continent. And since no native tribe could have had contact with, or influence from, any Egyptian, this led to a hypothesis of a broader hoax. The hoax, it was said, would have been accomplished by finding old, not necessarily ancient, items that had been created by hand in the middle east, then bringing them over to America and depositing them in the caves, staged to seem like they had existed there until Kincaid “found” them. However, most of the raw materials in the items were native to the Colorado River valley. For his part, Kincaid never admitted to any kind of fraudulence, staying quiet in general, rarely commenting on anything. Some conspiracy theorists went so far as to claim that Kincaid was strong-armed by some powerful entity like the government to stay silent. They also claimed that all the artifacts were intentionally hidden to dissuade further study.

One set of artifacts, in particular, were said to have been a kind of diary written on a series of stone tablets. The tablets were not made from hard stone, and the years of exposure wore away some of the inscriptions. The carvings were rumored to have been made by an Egyptian priest, though there was no way to prove it since the tablets had been “lost.” Disproving the rumors was also impossible, and like everything else, they added to the conspiracy theory. At one time, an Arizona family claimed to have owned the tablets, and they allowed only one official viewing and one set of photographs to be made. The photographs wound up with another eclectic collector. When that collector died, his family never cared for the photos, which were boxed up, stored in an attic, and eventually burned up in a fire. The original tablets were never seen again, and most assumed they had been faked just for the photographs. Later generations of that family could never locate the tablets.

Once in a while, a new television show would decide to bring the old tale to the surface, but no new information ever comes to light. The families that once owned the purported artifacts claim they are no longer in possession. Other individuals occasionally assert to have found them, or found the site, and some offer crude copies of the artifacts, or inspired works, for sale. None of those items have been authenticated to date. Or at least, none that anyone would admit to.

Deep inside Morgan Ashe’s secret vault in New York are several unique items stored in a series of locked drawers. All the drawers are marked with a number and an Egyptian symbol. Several drawers have shards of pottery. One drawer has a stone idol that crudely resembles the god Osiris. Another drawer has a figure of unknown explanation that best resembles a Christian demon, but with the trappings of an Egyptian deity. Several pieces of rock have crude pictures carved on them, enhanced with blue and copper tones. One resembles a cavalcade of Egyptian priests. Another resembles a map or diagram of what looks like celestial bodies. And seven drawers in a column have a series of flat stone slabs that have been carved with hieroglyphics. Although not all the hieroglyphics are easily readable, on most of them, the author’s name survived. The inscriber identified himself as Ptahhomhet.

The helicopter hovered fifty feet above the landing spot, its rotors driving waves of sand in a circular pattern across the Arizona desert ground. The helicopter set gingerly down, its skids sinking into the soft earth. As the pilot decreased the power, the rotors reduced their tornado-like effect, and the doors opened for passengers to debark. A dozen men in orange jumpsuits exited the helicopter, most looking like this was nothing new to them, except for one man. He squinted against the severe brightness and ducked his head so the back of it took the brunt of the rotors’ downdraft. He hurried to the edge of the rotor wash, then stood upright again.

In front of him was a bald man in a tailored silk suit and sunglasses. The silk-suited man held a clipboard and confronted all the men who had exited the helicopter. Silk Suit looked unfriendly. He was a well-built man, his broad torso and arms straining the fabric of his silvery coat. His Italian leather dress shoes were mostly covered by sand. Despite the excess of clothing for the desert environment, he was not sweating, but his bald head was glowing pink under the hot Arizona sun. He held out a hand for all the newcomers to halt.

“Line up here,” said Silk Suit, without gesturing to a specific spot.

The orange-jumpsuited men organized themselves into a single file line. Silk Suit scanned the paper that was flattened against the clipboard, then looked up at the men in front of him. To the closest one, he asked, “Name and task?”

“Ed Sargent,” said the first man. “Engineer.”

Silk Suit examined his clipboard, nodded, and without looking up, walked to the next man. “Name and task?”

This scenario continued for all the men. The last man in line was the one who looked the illest at ease.

“Name and task?” said Silk Suit.

“Uh, Robert Ernst,” said the uneasy man. “I’m a communications specialist. I, uh, specialize in old analog equipment.”

Silk Suit made more than a cursory glance at his clipboard. He scowled and stepped closer to Robert Ernst.

Robert swallowed. “I just go by Rob,” he said, emitting a nervous laugh. Silk Suit was not impressed. Rob swallowed again. “They told me that I needed to replace someone who got sick or injured.” His statement sounded more like a question.

Silk Suit was still silently evaluating Rob’s face. Silk Suit then briefly sniffed at Rob’s neck. Rob wanted to object, but remained still, shivering like a burglar standing in front of a guard dog. Silk Suit blinked slowly and took one step back.

“You’re replacing Silvio Bana?” asked Silk Suit. The question had an air of menace, like a wrong answer might mean Rob’s life.

“Yeah, that’s what Charlie told me.”

“Charlie Palin?” Silk Suit was reading the name from his clipboard.

“Yeah. We had worked together before at the plant. He said he gave you my name.”

Silk Suit seemed satisfied enough and walked back to the front of the line. He spoke into a small device in his coat sleeve, then folded his arms in front of him, waiting for several seconds.

Rob was beyond nervous. This whole thing had been hush-hush, not seeming on the up and up at all. But the promised pay was astronomically high. Way too high for anything Rob could normally imagine doing with his skills. His daughter had almost nothing in her college fund, and they couldn’t afford a car for her either. The savings had long ago dried up and they couldn’t afford to do much of anything except exist. This side project would take care of all that in one day, as long as they gave him what they promised. Even though it sounded a little shady, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. But now that he was here, he wondered if he had made the right decision. He knew Charlie from a few years ago, but Charlie hadn’t actually called him, or even emailed, to explain what this was about. Rob simply got a call from someone saying that they got his name from Charlie, and telling him he could make a wad of cash in a single day. Rob was starting to regret seeing dollar signs.

In front of all the waiting men was a huge buried boulder that resembled a giant tortoise sunk halfway into the sand. They were all standing in front of it, pointing at it. Rob had no idea why until it suddenly moved. A heavy rumbling sound coincided with a small tremor in the ground, signifying that something was happening, and then the rock lifted like a gigantic crocodile’s jaw opening. It moved slowly, driven by hydraulic steel rods. Once it reached its full height, it stopped. Inside was too dark to see much except the beginning of a stairwell. Rising from the stairwell was a slight man, medium height, with platinum spiked hair. He looked like Billy Idol’s kid brother. The man wore a shiny dinner jacket with the sleeves pushed up, and a torn concert t-shirt claiming to be from The Beatles’ 1964 U.S. tour. Either the shirt was authentic, or was purposefully distressed to simulate it. Faded jeans and some penny loafers completed the ensemble.

He waved at the men in line, then strode to Mr. Silk Suit. The two men in dress jackets talked for a moment. Then Billy Idol Jr. bade them follow him.

All the men entered the underground facility slowly, still in single file. They halted in front of a machine archway and waited as someone turned it on. Various electronic items incorporated into the archway hummed and buzzed as they passed through one at a time. After they were all through, Silk Suit (Rob overheard him called Martin), told them that any electronic devices on their bodies had now been deactivated. Rob initially panicked and patted his pockets for his cell phone. Then he remembered that he had been ordered to leave it behind before he got on the helicopter.

This job is getting less and less reasonable every second.

The group was led through several maze-like tunnels, with hardened sediment walls that all seemed mostly organic in creation. The facility was beautiful on its own merits. Each tunnel they walked down had subtly different coloring, but they all shared a mesmerizing array of colorful striping that looked like it came from a designer’s palette. Purples, oranges, tans, yellows. Upon closer inspection, none of those colors were as vivid as they seemed, but the proximity to each other made them seem more vibrant at a glance. If Rob had to guess, most of these had been made by flowing water and likely dated back to the ice age. He was no geologist, but he had friends who were, and being from the nearby area of Flagstaff, he understood the features one could find if you were lucky. He almost forgot about the crappy position he had voluntarily put himself in.

The spiky-haired man led them through a corridor that had been widened by mechanical means, and which ended in a steel door embedded into the rock wall. The door had some kind of keyboard-operated lock.

“I think most of you know that I’m Morgan Ashe,” said the spiky-haired man, addressing the crowd. “This is my facility. It took me about… well, it took a long time to get these tunnels cleared, and some of them enlarged, to turn this place into the control center of the coming of the new age.”

Oh, terrific. This guy is some new-age lunatic.

Ashe continued. “Most of you have worked for me before, elsewhere, but for those who haven’t, or have forgotten, I am very serious about the secrecy of this project. There’s something you’ve never seen before behind this door, and unfortunately, that means absolute secrecy.”

Whatever. I’ll do my one day and get the hell out of here. Sign whatever they want, keep my mouth shut, and never come back.

Ashe tapped on the keypad and the lock clunked open. The door swung out to reveal a room that looked no different than the corridors. Everyone was ushered inside. In the middle of the room was a boxy machine that looked older than it probably was. The rest of the room looked fairly uninteresting. As Rob glanced around, looking for the epic secret, he noticed something odd about the wall on his left. It was not exactly a wall, rather the intersection of two slabs of rock meeting at a concave angle. Though there was no doorway there, out of the corner of his eye, it almost seemed like he saw another scene, like it was open to the outside. The moment he focused in that direction, the illusion was gone. However, there was a kind of almost imperceptible sheen to the air in front of the crevice. It was like there was a smudged pane of glass in front of it, but the glass was absent and only the smudges remained.

Mr. Ashe went to the center of the room, picked up a rock the size of a grape, and held it up to show the group. Rob stared like everyone else, having no idea what was so important about the rock. Ashe smiled, then tossed the little rock toward the weird wall crevice. One moment, the little rock looked like it would collide with the wall, and then the little rock was gone. No sound, no collision, no rock.

Everyone’s dumbstruck reaction seemed to satisfy Ashe. Mouths opened. Men walked toward the wall crevice looking for the rock. Ashe moved quickly to cut them off.

“Sorry, sports fans, but no one goes near the gate yet. I don’t think you want to find out what it will do to you,” said Ashe. “Admire from a distance, please. Ok, ok, I understand its way cool, but that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because this gate will serve a very important purpose shortly, and all the equipment in this facility is vital to making that a reality. You all have different skills that are needed to keep the facility running properly, so if you’ll come with me, we’ll get to the point.”

Ashe brushed past the group and exited the steel doorway. Rob and his comrades followed, keeping the same linear ranks as before. They were led back down one corridor they had already been down, then banked into a new one. There was an open doorway twice as large as the “gate” room. Though this one also had a steel door, the door was already open. They all went in.

Inside were several men in black military-style jumpsuits. Those men carried automatic rifles.

Ashe raised his hands to calm everyone. “I know, I know. What’s with the guns, right? Don’t worry, these men are here for protection, not to threaten you. So, don’t let them scare you.” Ashe continued speaking, but Rob was no longer listening.

I’ve about had it. Screw the paycheck.

The room they were all in was lined with old-looking machinery that would look at home in NASA’s mission control from the 1960s. Whirring wheels, dials, bulbs, and switches. That sort of equipment happened to be Rob’s specialty, so he assumed this was why he was brought here. But his doubts had peaked, and he wanted to exit this place the minute Ashe stopped speaking. Desert or no desert, he wasn’t going to be shoved in a room with armed lunatics.

“And so, that’s the real issue,” said Ashe. “I know all of you would gladly sign documents to secrecy if I asked. But I’m not going to do that. Basically, human beings are a bunch of lying sacks of shit, and it’s not that I don’t really trust you, but – I just don’t need to.”

A loud murmur began amongst the men. Ashe once again raised his hands.

“I already told you, you have nothing to fear from these men,” said Ashe, patronizingly. “They are only here to protect you. Well, protect me. And this base. No, what you should really be scared of is the men I have threatening your families if any of you decide to leave.” Ashe made a throat-cutting gesture. “We have all your addresses, and you have no phones to warn them. But, there’s no need to harm anyone if you all do the jobs you were sent here to do. And, yes, I will absolutely pay you the money I promised. I’m not that kind of monster, after all.”

Rob couldn’t breathe. His spine felt like a popsicle.

“So, this will be your new home for a while,” continued Ashe. “Honestly, there is nothing to worry about if you all just do your jobs. Then you can all go home to your lovely families and share your horror story of the maniac who held you hostage. It’ll be a cool story. And you’ll have plenty of money to get some professional therapy if you like.” Ashe chuckled to no one in particular. “In the meantime – you have work to do.”

This is the end of the sample.

For the full book, please visit any of these retailers.

 

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.04.2020

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