by Jack Conner
“I . . . don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Damn you, Lars. Don’t treat me like a child. Are you saying she’s somehow alive in there?”
He blew a column of smoke at the ceiling. “Her researches lasted many years. She, like the rest of her race, the true Atlantans, were superior beings. Superhuman. They had changed their bodies, their genes, infused themselves with their technology. She was able to live for many years after the Fall, but she did not have enough time to rebuild her culture completely. One of her experiments poisoned her -- a long, lingering death, giving her time to fashion this Sarcophagus. She designed it to heal her in time, and she meant to be awakened when she was ready. It would take many years. Before she was healed, the City was overrun by the Atlantans’ enemies.”
“They must have been quite cruel for their former slaves to hate them so.”
He didn’t respond to this. “Those of the royal house fled, taking her Sarcophagus with them, for they knew that reawakening her was their only hope of reestablishing their way of life, by then their parents’ ways of life. Those remnants founded Casveigh and placed the Sarcophagus here. Over time they forgot its meaning, forgot how to awaken their ancient queen. But there were some . . . some survivors that did not go with the others, but drifted, trying to establish their own kingdoms. Lord Wilhelm is the descendant of such a line. His families kept the stories, the old traditions, and he and his brother knew from an early age that it was their destiny to reawaken the Queen and renew the race of supermen.”
“You believe it?”
He blew a cloud of smoke at her, and she coughed. Fieglund chuckled. “You will see the proof of it momentarily.”
She stared at him, then shook her head and moved off.
“She’s a ripe one, boss,” Fieglund said after her.
“That she is,” Lars agreed. Neither bothered to lower their voices. “But there’s a reason Commander Higgins never chose to indoctrinate her in the deeper truths.”
Eliza glared at him over her shoulder and walked on. To her right Lord Wilhelm continued touching the Sarcophagus, continued inserting jewels, very carefully, sometimes twisting them, sometimes removing them and inserting them into different niches. The Sarcophagus glowed brighter and brighter, a startling emerald green. A strange hum emanated from it.
Eliza itched to run away. She couldn’t help but think whatever was inside of it as unholy, awful. An abomination.
She leaned against a tomb at the edge of the room and tried to get her bearings. A hand clamped over her mouth, an arm crossed over her chest, and someone dragged her behind the tomb. A voice whispered in her ear, “It’s me.”
“Lynch!” she whispered into his hand.
He turned her around and released her. She stared up at him, at his once-handsome face, his large dark eye gazing down at her, his full lips, slightly parted. Impulsively, she kissed him. He kissed her back, hard, squeezing her to him. He felt wonderful in her arms. His lips were hot and firm. His body, too.
“But how?” she whispered, tearing away.
He shook his head. “No time. What are we going to do? How can we stop this?”
Before she could answer, a great hiss filled the catacombs, and Lord Wilhelm cried in delight.
“Ha! I’ve done it! Behold, the awakening of a goddess . . .”
Eliza jerked out her pistol, pressed it into Lynch’s hand.
“Use it well,” she said.
“Wait -- ”
She shook him off. “They’ll miss me.” She paused, staring into his eye. She wished she had time to kiss him again. She wanted to say something, but there was no time. She broke off and stepped out from behind the tomb.
In the center of the catacombs the Sarcophagus opened. The jade tomb glowed green, and its center section lifted upward, revealing a cavity within. Vapor poured out, drifting lazily across the floor. Shapes that must be Lord Wilhelm, Lars, Fieglund, Prince Michael, the Grand Vizier and the troopers knelt before the opening, from which green-white light poured out, suffusing the vapor, making it glow. Following their example, Eliza knelt down, as well.
A footstep.
Eliza glanced up to see a figure emerge from the vapor. Silhouetted against the light, the figure stepped down a series of jade steps only half-glimpsed in the roiling fog. Eliza wasn’t sure what she expected, perhaps some ancient crone, someone who had lived for centuries. Instead, as the lights the troopers carried -- but did not dare shine directly on her -- revealed the Queen, Eliza saw what appeared to be a young woman, tall and beautiful, wearing a cream-colored gown cinched at the waist with gold thread. Her arms and shoulders were bare, her skin flawless. Golden bands adorned her upper arms. A gold circlet gleamed in her black, coiffed hair. Emerald eyes gazed out of a pale face that could have been sculpted from marble, and a fierce intelligence burned behind them, though Eliza could not tell if it was for good or evil. The full, red lips were straight, without smile or frown. It was a face of stone, save for those burning green eyes.
Lord Wilhelm, bowing before her, spoke in some tongue Eliza had never heard.
Queen Iasolla, if that was her name, responded in the same language, her voice melodious but cold, and the language she spoke sounded vaguely Greek to Eliza’s ears, but much softer, more fluid. Iasolla held out her hand, and Lord Wilhelm kissed it. He said something else, she nodded, just slightly, and he rose, turned and made for the exit, cleaving a path through his troops.
At her own pace, her white gown flowing behind her, the Queen followed. Vapor danced at her feet.
Eliza and Lars glanced at each other, and she could see the excitement in his eyes. They gave the Queen some space, then followed, and the troopers followed immediately after. Eliza hoped Lynch wasn’t fool enough to leap out from hiding and shoot the Queen. The troopers would gun him down before he got off a round.
Eliza swept past his hiding spot and up the stairs. The Queen climbed them with quick, elegant strides, her feet bare, and Eliza caught Lars eyeing her legs through the gown, which was not quite opaque, offering tantalizing hints of long slender limbs.
“What next?” Eliza whispered to him. “Does she take the throne?”
Lars laughed. “Silly Eliza! What does she know of Casveigh? She died before her descendents even founded it.”
“What then?”
“We go to the City Above. There the Ascendance will begin.”
Chapter 19
Lynch waited till they filed by. The Queen smelled faintly of honey and cloves, and she was the most beautiful woman Lynch had ever seen. Just the same, he would have shot her if he thought he could before the troopers plugged him. Lord Wilhelm and his Society had killed many to find and rouse the Queen, thus whatever she could do for them could only mean disaster for Casveigh and the world.
Lynch waited for them to vanish up the stairs and slipped quietly after them on bare feet. He had kicked his shoes off climbing down the tower.
Queen Fontaine’s guests and retainers had put up a fight when the Grand Vizier and Prince Michael had placed her under custody, but they could do nothing as Michael locked his mother and Lynch in her tower, there to “await trial”. Somehow Lynch had been sure that neither would live to see it. There would probably be a “murder-suicide”, with Lynch the perpetrator. He had one eye, after all -- and a hook! He was clearly deranged and dangerous. Prince Michael would weep at her funeral and put Lynch in a pauper’s grave.
The tower, however, was not made to keep people in -- quite the reverse. While Royal Guards blocked the door to the suite, Lynch ventured onto the terrace. Wind battered him, but he found plenty of handholds in the ornate surface of the tower and proceeded to climb. He quickly found, however, that climbing about on the outside of the tower with one hand and a hook was quite different from shimmying up trees as a lad with two good hands. He found a convenient crenellation to squat on, kicked off his shoes, and continued down. Being able to grip the grooves in the wall with his toe
s helped tremendously. His hook found holds his fingers couldn’t and served as a serviceable tool, but it did not replace a second hand.
The dirigible surprised him.
Quickly he had reached a low balcony, broke in through the glass doors and made his way through the Palace in time to come across Lord Wilhelm’s company as it filed past. Lynch recognized Wilhelm from numerous pictures, though usually he stood at the right hand of his more famous brother, in countless war propaganda posters depicting the enemy.
Lynch was overjoyed to see Eliza. Relief had swept him, and he had fallen in behind the company, following them down to the catacombs.
Now he followed them back up, breathless. Sweat soaked his hair. He clenched Eliza’s gun tightly. With bare feet, he made little sound as he rose through the Palace, but he kept his distance just the same. The cold marble floors shocked his flesh.
Why was the Palace so empty? Michael must have dismissed all non-essential personal, Lynch supposed, perhaps even essential personnel. The prince would want no one to recognize Lord Wilhelm or observe what strange business was being conducted in the heart of the nation. Lynch himself wasn’t sure what he had seen. Could that really be the Queen of Atlantis? Madness! He had thought the Society insane before, but for their madness to achieve such concrete results stunned him, and it raised even more questions. For example, just what had they awakened the Queen for?
Lord Wilhelm led his new acquaintance and their hangers-on up through Prince Michael’s tower and into his suite, bound for the dirigible. Lynch crept up the spiraling steps of the tower cautiously, careful to keep out of sight and helped by the spiral stairs themselves. Even as the troopers moved upward, they passed out of sight. He made sure he never saw more of them than their shadows.
A window showed him that power had been restored to the greater city. Pulling aside the blackout curtain, he saw the flashing lights of fire engines and police vehicles. He had been in opium dreams through most of the bombings over the last year, but he had been sober through a few, and he remembered the panic, the fear, the sense of hopelessness, of helplessness, and the numbness afterward. And the bombing tonight, worse even than usual, had been done solely to make it more palatable to the general population when Prince Michael -- King Michael -- surrendered Casveigh to Germany.
Lynch rounded the last bend just as the tail end of Lord Wilhelm’s procession passed through the doors of Michael’s suite. Lynch saw that the last two men in line, wearing the red of the Royal Guard, stopped and spun at the doorway, each moving to take up positions beside it. One closed it, while the other stomped his heel and shot his back straight.
Having spun about unexpectedly, he saw Lynch.
Lynch smashed him across the face with the pistol, delivering a heavy blow that toppled the man instantly.
The second guard had just closed the door, and the first one fell into him. The second stumbled, letting out an “oof” noise, which is all he had breath for, and raised his hands to shove the limp body off.
Lynch’s fist flashed. He felt the guard’s nose break under his fist, and struck again, and again, just to be sure. He felt no pity for these men. He knew Michael had dismissed everyone that had not signed on to the Society’s plans.
The thick wooden door had muffled any sounds. Lynch took several deep breaths, kicked the bodies down the stairs, hoping they broke their necks on the way, and pried the door open. A wide hallway, doors on either side. Couches and chairs, a decent chandelier. No one here. Lynch entered, realizing this must be where Prince Michael’s servants slept. Behind those doors must be their bedrooms. Were they present? Unlikely. Michael would not them peeking through a keyhole and seeing Lord Wilhelm.
A tall, grander door stood at the far end of the hall. Lynch snuck up to it, shoved it open, and, peeking, spied a posh foyer with gilded chandelier and silken divans. Paintings by famous artists -- lots of hunting scenes; Lynch had never seen so many desperate foxes -- and elaborate scrollwork crawled along the walls and doors. The air smelled of autumn -- some sort of potpourri.
No one here.
Lynch passed through the foyer, then through the Prince’s personal rooms, a drawing room, a dining room, a game room, complete with billiards table and the mounted head of a water buffalo -- and finally into a large living area that let out onto the broad terrace. Wind blew in through the open door, cool and refreshing. Lynch savored it as he approached. Prince Michael had transformed the terrace into his own private pleasure garden, and a tinkling fountain in the shape of a satyr -- the water came out of a very naughty place -- surrounded by nymphs stood amidst exquisite flowers and vegetation.
The dirigible had drawn abreast the terrace, and a gangplank led from it to the airship, a section of railing having been removed to accommodate this. Lynch pressed himself against the door and peered out.
Eliza boarded the dirigible first and took up position behind the wheel. The troopers followed, those wearing the black uniform of the Society’s henchmen, then -- Lynch’s eyes narrowed -- Lars Gunnerson and his goon Fieglund. The Queen had moved to a corner of the terrace and her eyes swept the panorama of Gaston. Lynch wondered what she must think of it. If she truly did hail from ancient Atlantis, she must have lived in an exotic and advanced society, but it surely could not compare to modern civilization. She stared at the city for some time, wind blowing against her, loosing a few of her hairs and making them dance behind her. Lynch wished he were in front of her so that he could see the way the wind plastered the gown to her front, but alas . . .
Lord Wilhelm moved to stand beside her, and together they shared a quiet moment as they beheld the world they were to conquer. The moon was setting behind skyscrapers to the north, and clouds drifted like dragons’ breath across the sky. Prince Michael and the Grand Vizier, backed up by four Royal Guards, waited patiently.
At last the Queen turned from the skyline, and Lynch was surprised that her face did not convey wonder or marvel. Was she not impressed? Perhaps she simply couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. After all, if she had lived during the time of Plato, she could not be expected to be familiar with electricity or diesel or iron. Nevertheless, Lynch felt slightly defensive, as if she had judged modern man and found him lacking.
Side by side with Wilhelm, she stepped before the Prince and the Grand Vizier. Lord Wilhelm spoke a few words, Michael nodded, the Grand Vizier laughed nervously, and then Lord Wilhelm -- and the Queen -- boarded the dirigible.
Not waiting to see their visitors off, Michael and the Grand Vizier made for the terrace door. Toward Lynch.
Lynch threw himself behind a divan.
Michael and the vizier swept by, troopers in their wake. The door banged shut, sealing the cold air outside.
“. . . you sure that was wise, my lord?” the Grand Vizier was saying.
“We must be strong,” Michael said. “I will not wave him off like a schoolgirl waving goodbye to Pappa. Besides, I must give a press release. The people need to know what happened tonight. Already Mother’s party guests will be spreading gossip, and we need to counter it. I do not want my coronation ceremony sullied.”
They left. On the terrace Lynch could see Lord Wilhelm pointing at something on the horizon, and the Queen looking, and Lynch wanted to stay for Eliza, but Michael and the others would only discover the bodies in the stairwell and come back for him.
He followed the Prince’s company, going soft and silent on bare feet. Thank heavens for the expensive rugs that covered most of the cold marble floors.
As the company reached the door that led into the servants’ hall, Lynch stuck the gun through his waistband. When the last soldier stepped through, Lynch grabbed him from behind, muffling his mouth with his right hand and slitting his throat with his hook. He made sure to angle the guard so that his blood sprayed the walls, not onto the back of the guard just in front. The guards’ many bootsteps drowned out any sound.
Each guard carried an automatic rifle and a saber. Lynch took the rifle.<
br />
He waited for Michael and the three remaining guards to reach the door at the end of the hall and file through. Just as the guard that had opened the door for them started to close it and follow, Lynch grabbed him and slit his throat.
The door had not closed, and some of the sounds may have reached the company, but he heard the vizier say, “. . . could not have gone far. Maybe an emergency . . .”
They were discussing the absence of the Royal Guards.
Lynch opened the door and raised his gun. They stood in the stairway, descending in line, two troopers, both half turned, as if eyeing the positions of their missing comrades, and next the Grand Vizier and Prince Michael, the prince half-turned to speak with the vizier, who was nodding and listening.
The Royal Guards saw Lynch first.
He shot them both in the faces, and they fell against the Grand Vizier, who lost his balance on the stairs and fell into the Prince. Lynch shot at the Grand Vizier’s head but missed as the big man fell. His bullets caromed off the walls.
Lynch descended a stair, then two, gun pointing, looking for a shot. The bodies of the two guards covered vizier and prince. The Prince cursed.
Lynch stepped onto the guards’ corpses and stared down at the Prince and the back of the Grand Vizier’s head.
The Prince met his eyes.
Lynch fired.
At the same time, the Prince hoisted the Grand Vizier up, using him as a shield, and the bullets drove into the back of the Grand Vizier’s head, shattering his skull and killing him instantly.
Moving the Grand Vizier had dislodged the bodies, and Lynch lost his balance, stumbling back.
When he looked up, the Prince had extricated himself from the pile and drawn the ornate sword at his hip. Lynch had thought before how the Prince carried himself like a fencer and, indeed, his stance was that of a perfect swordsman. Lithe and agile, he sprang like a tiger onto the bodies and vaulted himself at Lynch. His sword sang through the air and glittered as it thrust at Lynch’s throat. Lynch did not have time to aim his rifle. He used it to knock the blade aside, feeling the impact course up his elbows. Sweat flew from his brow.
