The door lock clicks and opens—they have overridden the electronic lock—and as expected, the first person coming through the door faces away from his position to clear the right half of the room. Good. Professionals, he thinks quickly. That means number two should come in just about now. He fires his first shot into number two's face just as he clears the door and turns toward his side of the room. He then drops down and hits number one in the neck before he has a chance to turn around. His shots are rapid and precise. He watches them stumble as they go limp, drop their firearms, and fall to the ground.
Good thing the TV is on the other side of the door, he thinks to himself. It kept number one from hugging the wall and using the door as a shield. He is also glad he'd taken the time to design and build his custom semi-auto dart gun. He dislikes killing; he has done more than his share and is tired of it. Once death is dealt, it cannot be undone. These guys were well trained, but experience trumps theory every day, and this isn't Rolle's first rodeo. He quickly moves the guy with the dart in the face out of the way and nonchalantly shuts the door. It's 0100, so there are few people wandering the halls. Now to get to business.
He finds they are both carrying handcuffs, which is a bit surprising. His first guess is they were under orders to kill whoever was in the room, based on the heavily suppressed 9mm sub-machine guns they both carried. Still, he doesn't want to make assumptions. A lot of these guys use standard load outs, so he shouldn't read too much into it. He makes good use of them, however, by handcuffing each of them to opposite sides of the bed. He smirks a bit as he thinks these probably aren't the first two men chained to the ornate bed posts in this high-end hotel. He gently removes the darts, which have a small barb to keep them from easily falling out, and places them in a small folding case. He moves quickly; he probably has only a couple minutes before back-up arrives, which will lead to complications he doesn't want to deal with. These guys are pros and carrying weapons that only licensed professionals would be legally allowed to possess. They must have ID on them. He quickly ruffles through their gear until he finds what he is looking for. Private security. That is a good solid lead. Now it’s time to make his escape. He jabs Things One and Two with naloxone, an antidote to the fast-acting opioid derivative he used. They'll survive, but he doesn't envy them the hangovers they'll have. Or the dressing down they'll get after failing in their mission. He picks up his bag and connects to his phone as he calmly leaves his room and closes the door behind him, heading for the south stairs.
Clive picks up on the third ring. “I need pickup at Market and 18th; you have ten minutes. I'll need security; my whereabouts have been compromised. Take precautions, my friend.”
Clive swears, then acknowledges in his rich baritone, “Pickup in 10. I had a feeling something like this might be needed; precautions are in place.”
He's good, Rolle smiles to himself. As he should be. He trained him himself, after all. He takes the stairs up two floors and listens. After no more than a couple minutes go by, he hears hurried footsteps coming up the stairs. They stop two floors below and go into the hallway. He heads down as he hears his door being opened, followed by exclamations. His lips twist into a tight grin; after thousands of years of conflict and combat, humans still haven't made a habit of looking up.
Once he reaches the ground floor he calmly walks out into the night air. This exit is fairly well concealed from the surrounding areas, but he probably has one more perimeter to breach before he is safe. He steps behind the dumpster, slips out of his shoes, and pulls off his shirt and pants. He quickly changes into a set of blown out sneakers and disheveled clothes. He musses his hair, throws on a greasy baseball cap, and smears a bit of dirt mixed with spit on his face. In less than a minute, he has transformed from a well-groomed tech industry giant into just another homeless man wandering the streets of Denver. He slowly makes his way down the alley after giving the dumpster a loud bang or two, grousing about hooligans running through the night. How better to disappear than by making noise and being seen? Being seen for something you are not. Nothing is more easily dismissed in Denver than another dirty beggar. He starts to make his way to Market Street, staggering a little for effect.
Then he feels it. A very curious sensation. Voices in his head—distant, indistinct, jumbled, and frustratingly unintelligible. He feels just on the edge of being able to make out what is being said, but he can't. It's as if he is in a large room trying to hear what each person is saying, but then finding out he doesn't speak their language. This isn't the first time he's heard voices in his head. But it has been a long time. He pauses and looks around, finding a new rubbish bin to dig through. He can't see anyone out of the ordinary. He spots the two people guarding this side of the hotel, but they have already dismissed him. He doesn't see anyone else. Just as he is about to resume his journey, he sees a shadow come out from around a car and take out the nearest guard. Silent, effortlessly, and sans weapons. Very efficient. It’s a woman, athletic, and abnormally tall. Her attention is on the other guard, who is just as suddenly dropped by another, unknown assailant at the other end of the alley. She then starts to head for the hotel when she stops, alerted, and begins to look around. She sees him, and their eyes lock for an instant. “Who are you?!” He feels the imperative question more than he senses it before he breaks contact, hawks, and spits onto the ground. He starts to move away. He appears to stumble and looks back as he reels to see that she has moved quickly back to her mission. That was too close.
He will have to have a very serious discussion with Clive about their operational security. He does not want to hold a convention of enemies and other interested parties every time he goes somewhere. Especially, he grimaces, when he doesn't know who any of them are.
∞∞∞
Back at his home in Idaho, it is time to take stock. Clive has done a good job following up all their leads but still has not been able to discover who'd hired the private security firm to hunt him down in Denver. Oh, he'd found a couple of front companies, cut-outs that quickly fell apart after just a cursory examination, but they are no closer to finding the source. Their only conclusion is the source appears to be foreign, outside the United States—perhaps somewhere in the Middle East. There, the trail runs cold.
Equally concerning, he appears to have his butt hanging out somewhere. He is being tracked, not just by his newly aggressive adversary but also by the other people who showed up—whose motives are completely unknown. They knew where to find him, so either he is getting sloppy, or his security has been penetrated. It could be a mole, or more likely technical surveillance. They will need to do a full security review. There is much more riding on this than his ability to move freely about the country. Clive is on it. He is a good man and has taken the security lapses personally.
Could it be a mole? Rolle regards Clive as he thinks about this. Very few of his own people know his actual whereabouts when he leaves Elk's Grove. Clive's loyalty is beyond question. He has proven himself on many occasions. Besides, he wouldn't be that sloppy. Rolle has trained him too well. Clive also hand-picked their security team. No, he doesn't really expect any of them are involved. They are too competent. If one of them had turned, he doubts he would've been able to evade the trap so easily.
Technical surveillance? That is far more likely. They will have to review his electronic footprint. Cellular service is certainly a vulnerability. If his adversaries somehow managed to work out his private cell number and had access to cellular records, it could explain things. But such an operation would be very sophisticated and require a highly capable person. Or organization. Or government… Hmm, something to consider.
He's always tried to be apolitical; it is a bad business practice to needlessly polarize potential customers, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to not offend someone anymore. People just seem to want to make everything a political statement and are happy to make stuff up just to have an opportunity to pontificate. However, it is unlikely any of those types of malco
ntents would be capable of technically pulling off the attack in Denver. They are no more than useful tools. This seems much more deliberate, methodical. He wonders… Has a more ancient force suddenly turned its interest toward him?
Rolle appears to be a man of north European descent, stocky but slightly shorter than average, somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, energetic, brilliant, and with a peculiar style that seems to combine the nostalgic and the modern. His grand house appears several decades behind the latest styles but also has all the modern conveniences, commingled tastefully with a large and eclectic collection of antiques. This is because Rolle, in reality, is just the latest in a long string of aliases, personas, and lives the man originally known as Achi has constructed. The explosive advancements in science, especially as they relate to personal identity, are making it increasingly harder to create new personas. Rolle is concerned about how hard it will be to create a new life when this persona is no longer credible. He is confident he can disappear and reappear as a new person, as he has done thousands of times before, but keeping access to the wealth accumulated over multiple lifetimes? Well, that will be the challenge, although he has already put several plans into motion that can be matured on short notice, just in case. If his unknown enemy gets lucky, he wants to minimize his down time. But he's not willing to give up on Rolle just yet; he much prefers to find a way to at least neutralize his antagonist, whose suddenly aggressive behavior is becoming worrisome.
The operation in Denver was brazen. He has not experienced its like in a long, long time, and that was from a more tangible and expected source—tribal warfare, brutal but predictable. No, this is different. If everything is advancing as he's theorized, it may be that both he and his adversary feel they are running out of time.
Time. The one thing he never gave much thought to, and the one thing he can never escape. It is hard to think that it is all coming to an end point, in at least one respect. If he is right. If… He shakes his head a little. This is getting him nowhere. However, there is new evidence to process. An unknown element has emerged into the mix. Perhaps this will give his adversary pause?
Achi has known for eons that two forces appear to be guiding humanity, pushing and pulling in different directions. He thinks he met representatives of one of these sides once, long ago, but he has never been sure. And based on the circumstances of that encounter, he has come to believe that group has violent enemies. One, Zaleria, spoke to him just once, but the words have been forever burned into his mind. Because after their meeting, he changed. For over ten thousand years, he has never known why. He has revisited her words, examined every possible meaning, and he still has no idea why. He stops himself. He knows the anger that lies down that thought pathway, and he doesn't have the luxury of time to wallow in it. It does no good.
Instead, he redirects his thoughts to the potential motivations of these “forces.” Here at least he has more data. He has labeled them for many thousands of years as the Annin and Ereshki, gods of the heavens and of the darkness, for lack of any better labels. Sumerian was the first written language he learned, so he likes to pay it homage where he can. As he wandered out of what is now known as northern Europe, through central Asia, and down to Asia Minor, he witnessed firsthand the transition from hunter gatherers to farmers to the rise of city-states and the beginnings of civilization. As he followed the advancement of man's knowledge over the millennia, it became increasingly clear there are at least two other races of beings in the universe aware of the Earth and mankind—he assumes there may be many more—and that they might be interacting with humans in subtle ways, probably to guide or influence humanity's development. It all goes back to when he changed.
The being Zaleria appeared kind but hadn't hesitated to kill the beast that attacked them, probably with some kind of directed energy weapon he now suspects. Whomever sent the beast clearly indicated what steps they were willing to take to achieve their objectives, so he has to factor in that both sides are willing to use violence when necessary. But what are their objectives?
He has noticed certain patterns over time that lead him to believe there are at least two principle motivations in play. It was a couple thousand years after he was changed that he began to sense these forces trying to shape mankind's development. He would see certain patterns emerge time and again, in place after place, that he felt were too consistent to chalk up to coincidence alone. Moral frameworks appeared to be initiated, then undermined. He'd experienced so many different cultures, but he saw the same themes repeated, over and over.
Cultures grew, aided by a common sense of morality and norms of behavior, only to be overcome by greed, lust, or hedonism. Decadence would then lead to a collapse. Or internal turmoil would make a culture weak, unable to defend itself from an outside invader. While always implemented by the hand of man, how many of these movements also included stories about contact with gods or angels or other heavenly beings? And how many included devils, and demons, and other forces of darkness? Even as mankind grows more aware of their diverse history and notices these trends, they can't seem to understand that they might result from real forces trying to shape their development. Such discussions more often than not devolve into fights about which is the true religion. But what if they are all aspects of a larger conflict?
Rolle believes this is the most likely explanation, because he has seen firsthand that they are not alone, and there are beings far more evolved than man—fully capable of interfering in its development. And the last piece of evidence is the one he hasn't ever shared with anyone. The voices in his head.
He first experienced it when Zaleria had spoken with him that one time. He didn't know how she could have done that for most of his life, and at first chalked it up to “magic” or “god powers,” but he doesn't believe that now. Every so often, every few hundred years at first, but becoming much more frequent, he would experience them again. Usually very faint, but sometimes strong. The strongest was yesterday in Denver when he'd actually heard her voice. Zaleria. He isn't sure why, but he knows it was her. He seemed to react to her presence. And she came dangerously close to knowing it was him. He isn't ready for that to happen. Because even though she seemed to be going after the same foe—perhaps one they shared—he has his own agenda, and he doesn't know how her people fit into it. He needs to find out, because while the Ereshki are a known adversary, he doesn't assume Zaleria's people represented anything but a different form of interference. And he doesn't have time to figure out how to deal with that, because time is running out.
He has lived for over 10,000 years, but the advancements in just the last few hundred have been truly astounding. And they are accelerating. He believes humanity is heading for a crossroads, where their technology will either uplift them into a more advanced race or destroy them. He is focusing all his efforts and resources on ensuring the former outcome. But he is beginning to think it won't be enough. He might need help.
What he needs is a plan. Zaleria knew where to go in Denver, so perhaps they are monitoring his adversaries' movements. If they can do that, he thinks, so can we. Or, he realizes in a sudden flash of insight, perhaps they are following me! Just how bad has his security gotten?
Chapter Three
In Excelsis
Zaleria is troubled. That in and of itself is odd, for the galanen are not by nature a troubled people. There is little outside their experience or understanding and very little in creation that can bother them. Yet Earth seems to be particularly vexing for at least one galan. Zaleria smiles despite herself. Why does it always come back to Earth? She has been tending this planet off and on for its last 10,000 cycles around its home star, Sol. Galanen use the names local sentients prefer for their home celestial bodies, and the humans who inhabit Earth seem to prefer these names. Perhaps they should have named it Nemesis. Yes, that would have been far more fitting. This last mission went well enough, though they are no closer to finding evidence they can use to name and neutralize whichever r
ace is trying to sabotage humanity's advancement. Humans are close to making the next evolutionary leap, and things are growing increasingly delicate. And every time it seems they are growing in a positive direction, something happens to pull them toward one of the many pathways that can lead to their demise, or worse. Vexing. But that is not what troubles her the most.
At one point during this last mission, she felt a connection with a local primitive. That should not be possible. She originally thought perhaps she'd imagined it, but she is too confident in her abilities to believe that, and a post-mission review she felt obliged to conduct reaffirmed her instincts. She had made a connection briefly with a human who appeared to be a vagrant. She ran further diagnostics and rechecked the results. Her symbiots are sure. They had established a local connection with symbiots uniquely indexed to a galan named Zaleria. Since her symbiots, like every other galanen, were coded to her specific DNA, there couldn't possibly be another galan with her symbiots. But she is sure. The quantum cross-links had been established, basic ID datum had flowed, and the genetic ID of the other galan's symbiots is an exact match for her own. It is not possible.
She decides against sharing her findings with the collective despite her growing unease. She is already viewed as a bit eccentric, and this would not help dispel those views. Not that she really minds. Galanen treat each other with love and respect regardless; it is their way. They may tease each other a bit over their unique traits, but it is always good-natured and fun. But this event is deeply unsettling, and she wants to explore the issue on her own.
She smiles a bit as she reflects how much she is becoming like her mother. And, at such an early age! She is sharing less as she gets older, which is frequently normal for her kind, but not for someone her age. It isn't that she doesn't want to be social or part of the collective, it is more that she knows more about the limitations of the collective now. They are far from omniscient, and while they would help her solve this mystery, it feels too… private. A personal matter in a race that gave up almost all their personal space during their evolution into an advanced species. Perhaps this is how it is for the more ancient members of the collective. Like her mother, who almost never shares with anyone anymore—not even her only daughter.
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