by Jack Conner
His belly rumbled at the smell of cook fires. In several of the intersections of dirt lanes through the encampment, groups had gathered and they roasted sausage and quail and bread over open flames. The Society ate better, even up here, than the Casveighan soldiers had on the way from Gaston. Dressed in shorts or loose pants and rough spun clothes, they chewed lustily as they conversed, and Lynch wondered if he could snag some breakfast . . .
He pushed on, his head lowered to conceal his empty eye socket. A radio crackled somewhere, and a German speaker announced the day’s propaganda.
The Society’s forest of tents was set in an area of the ruined city where there were fewer Atlantan buildings, or fewer remains of buildings, giving them more space. Nevertheless Lynch passed several ruins, and at first he thought the sight a morphine dream. Though clearly ancient and dilapidated, overgrown by earth, vines and other flora, the ruins stole his breath just the same.
Jade facades, ornately rendered, the proud remains of a red jade dome, a tower of orange jade . . .
Impossible. There wasn’t this much jade in the world! And certainly not jade in great sections like this, and in these fantastic colors. Yet the material did resemble jade greatly.
Not all was made of the material, though. He saw a wall -- all that was left of a much larger structure -- of what seemed to be smoky blue glass. A rearing statue of some god or demon, vaguely Oriental in nature and heavily ornate, seemed to be rendered of a single giant ruby, and it stood taller than Lynch, glinting in the early morning light. Several diggers posed before it while another snapped their picture.
Lynch had to get off the main avenues. The longer he stayed in the open, the more likely it would be that someone would recognize him. Or perhaps not recognizing him was the greater danger. This was a small community -- there couldn’t be more than two hundred people here, and half seemed to be soldiers -- so most of the diggers would likely know each other. And surely there were very few doctors. He did see a few other white coats, though, which consoled him a little. If they weren’t doctors, perhaps they were lab workers, scientists, like those beneath Brookshire.
A squad of troopers rounded a bend and thundered up the avenue toward him.
Lynch ducked down a side avenue.
Directly into Lars Gunnerson.
***
“Watch it, you idiot,” Gunnerson said, hitting Lynch with his shoulder and striding past. Dressed in a dark velvet suit with red spectacles, he stalked right on by, not even glancing at Lynch.
Lynch put his head down and shuffled forward. Gunnerson had come out of a tent whose opening was flanked by two troopers, and Lynch wondered what it was that Gunnerson had been doing in the tent that needed guarding. This was a secret society, after all. Were there secrets within the secrets of the society?
Perhaps Eliza had been found out. Perhaps Gunnerson had just come back from torturing her for information.
Lynch approached the entrance, head down. He attempted to power through the opening, but one of the troopers stiff-armed him away.
“Halt!” the soldier said.
“You cannot enter,” the other added.
“Herr Gunnerson sent me,” Lynch said. “I know he just left, but he -- ”
“What is the password?”
Lynch opened his mouth. Closed it.
“Well?” demanded the first guard.
“Lydia,” Lynch said, naming Gunnerson’s sister.
The second solder lifted the tent flap for him. “Good morning, sir.”
Lynch slipped inside. Four men in white lab coats shuffled around a small laboratory. Among the beakers and tubes and cooling units Lynch saw relics of Atlantan technology, a green obelisk, a humming pyramid of black glass, a waist-high purple object that resembled an onion opening.
The scientists looked up. The nearest one was red-faced, with a bald, sweaty head and sharp, intelligent eyes -- a distinctive face, if only for those eyes. Lynch thought he recognized it. This man had been in Gunnerson’s home laboratory the day Lynch had destroyed it and burned down the Gunnerson family home. These then were Lars Gunnerson’s people, about some project of his that the general population of the camp knew nothing. Lynch wondered if the Jade Queen knew.
“Who are you?” snapped the red-faced man. His shrewd eyes roved over Lynch’s face, settled on the empty eye socket -- he seemed to wince slightly -- and moved on. He did not betray any knowledge that he had been told to look for a one-eyed man. These were scientists, not soldiers. There was no sign of Eliza.
“Herr Gunnerson sent me,” Lynch.
“He just left!”
“What is it now?” groaned another of the scientists, as if Gunnerson had been making undue demands recently. He was a thin-faced man with a sallow complexion, and he wore a filter-mask around his neck.
“Ah,” said Lynch, mind spinning. “He sent me to fetch him something. What did he call it, the, ah -- I’m doing this as a favor, you see, I’m not in this department, I’m simply a close associate of his, we’re working on another project together -- with Herr von Ostholstein.”
“Lord Wilhelm!”
“Yes. I need to get back to it, you understand. Only, if it’s not too much trouble -- if it is, I can come back, it’s no big deal, really -- I need the, uh, ah, the . . . ” He snapped his fingers.
“The prototype?” said the thin-faced man. He snorted. “He changed his mind. It figures. He just finished complaining that it wasn’t ready!” He moved to a certain table, where a small green stone rested under glass. He removed the glass and, almost reverently, lifted the green stone. It only filled up half of his palm, and he did not have large hands.
The red-faced man placed himself between Lynch and the stone. “Herr Gunnerson can come and collect it himself,” he said. “I do not feel comfortable handing it out to a go-between, especially someone I don’t know. No disrespect intended. I see that you lost an eye for the Fatherland.”
Lynch touched the cheekbone under his left eye socket. “Yes. Well, it is a German’s duty to give his all for the Reich, is it not? This is nothing. I saw men give much more.”
“On the Front?”
“Oh yes. The Eastern Front, the very one. I was a doctor. You should have seen what those damned lackeys of the Communist Pig did to our boys. Did they not understand that we were only trying to raise them up? To make them part of the greatest empire the world has ever known?”
The red-faced man’s face grew redder. His shrewd eyes gleamed and became somewhat less shrewd. “That Stalin is the devil! When I think of good German boys being ground up like so much sausage beneath the Russians’ guns . . . ” He shook his head. “But how did you end up here?”
“Herr von Ostholstein’s brother discovered some of my experimental research in college, and he found me after my . . . wounding. I was sent back to Berlin to recover. It was there he recruited me for this glorious new Cause.”
“Yes. He was the one that found me, too.” The red-faced man obviously derived special pride in that, in being selected by the Count personally. He relaxed somewhat. “And now you’re a confederate of Herr Gunnerson?” This seemed to intrigue and surprise him.
Lynch took a guess. “Well, as much as any man can be considered a confederate of that one.”
The red-faced man nodded. “He is s cipher, is he not? Sometimes I despair of ever knowing what goes on in his head. Why, this project alone -- ! The risks!” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Ah, yes, the risks. I cannot believe he would take them. Who knows what could happen if this project was found out?”
The man wiped his nose and stuffed the handkerchief away. “I know. Death! Worse than death. If he wasn’t paying us what he is, and if I wasn’t sure that it was the right thing to do, that some safeguards must be taken against that . . . that . . . monster . . . ” He seemed to consider Lynch again. “And you say now he’s satisfied with the prototype?”
Lynch sensed a trap. “Oh, no. Satisfied? Is he
ever?” He chuckled, relieved by the hint of a smile on the other’s face. “He wants you to begin again and make it better. But he would rather have some safeguard than none at all in the interim.”
The man tilted his head, pursed his lips. “It would be easier . . . if we kept the prototype . . . to simply increase its levels . . .”
The thin-faced man behind him threw up his hands in exasperation. One still held the green stone. “That’s just like him -- to make us start from scratch! Son of a bitch!”
The red-faced man wheeled on him. “Don’t you dare take that tone against Herr Gunnerson. He has sacrificed as much as any of us. Why, his poor sister alone . . . dead by the hands of some filthy saboteur.” Awe filled his voice. “I was there that day. I remember . . . Oh, it was horrifying. And that man, that man, that awful man . . . ”
Lynch didn’t like the direction this was going. He cleared his throat, strode forwards. “Well, like I say, I need to get back, and Herr Gunnerson is expecting the prototype . . . .”
“Wait a minute,” the red-faced man said. “You do look familiar, now that I think about it. I wonder where -- ?”
“It’s a small camp. We’ve probably shared the latrine a dozen times. Didn’t I hand you toilet paper last night? Now, the prototype, thank you very much -- ”
He started to edge around the red-faced man.
The man started to reach a hand out, to gently restrain Lynch. Then suddenly his eyes widened. His red face paled.
“Mein Gott! Can it be! It’s you!”
Lynch punched him as hard as he could in the face. He was still a bit woozy from the morphine, but the punch landed solidly. The man had a large, square jaw, however, and he accepted the punch with admirable aplomb.
Half-howling, he lunched at Lynch. Lynch kicked a knee-cap. The man screamed and collapsed. Lynch grabbed a nearby beaker, hurled it at a scientist reaching for a sharp instrument. The beaker shattered against him as he threw up his hands.
The thin-faced man with the green stone leapt backward. Lynch charged him. Another scientist rushed him. Lynch struck him over the head with the end of his left arm -- hard dirt caked around a steel hook. The man soared backward, broke a table. The thin-faced man continued to scramble backward. His back pressed up against the canvas wall, denting it outward.
Lynch knew what to expect next, so he ducked backward, pushed himself to the side of the tent’s opening. The guards rushed in, rifles ready. Like those at Brookshire, these troopers carried MP 41s: German assault rifles. Lynch struck the nearest guard as hard as he could on the back of the neck. The man fell.
The other wheeled to face him. Brought up the gun. Lynch knocked the gun to the side with his hook. Aimed a kick at the trooper’s knee-cap. The trooper dodged, swung the stock of his gun into Lynch’s abdomen. Lynch wheezed, stumbled backward.
The trooper aimed. Lynch knocked the gun aside, rushed forward. Tackled the man to the floor. Lynch grabbed him about the throat with his hand and beat him about the face and skull with his hook, which had suddenly become a blunt weapon. He wished it weren’t caked in dirt. He could have really used its cutting edge.
The trooper slugged him on the side of the face. Again. And again. Lynch hung in, throttling and beating the trooper. The trooper kneed him in the groin. Hit him in the face. But the man’s strength was flagging. The trooper’s eyes bulged.
At last he went limp. Lynch decided he was faking and kicked him hard in the groin. The trooper arched his back and his eyes popped open. Lynch slugged him again, right in the nose, breaking it. The trooper passed out.
Panting, Lynch shrugged off his white coat and put on the trooper’s jacket. There were far more soldiers than scientists. Easier to blend in. Now for the rifle and side-arm.
A sound. The red-faced man, even with a broken knee-cap, had hauled himself to his feet and was casting about for a weapon. He was just reaching for a microscope to hurl at Lynch when Lynch raised the MP 41 and said, “Don’t.” The word came out in a wheeze. His vision blurred.
The door opened.
Fieglund entered, a sulky look on his face. Even as he passed through the door, he was saying something distractedly: “Master’s decided he wants the damned proto -- ”
He took in the scene.
The weapon Lynch had grabbed was strapped around the neck and shoulder of the trooper he’d wrestled. He fought to swing it about to face Fieglund in time, but the weight of the trooper resisted him.
Fieglund opened his mouth. Wretched coughing noises escaped him.
No, Lynch thought. No, please no. Why can’t anything --
Gas poured out between Fieglund’s lips, yellow and acrid, directly onto Lynch. Lynch surrendered the gun and rolled away, even as the cloud engulfed the room. The red-faced man howled and hopped through the tent flap, his lips tightly sealed. The thin-faced man screamed in horror and bolted, too, but Lynch intercepted him. Still holding his breath, Lynch ripped the mask off the man’s head, shoved it over his own face, and grabbed the prototype. The man, gasping in his fear, collapsed to the floor, jerking and twitching. Drool frothed on his lips. The yellow cloud consumed him.
Fieglund stalked forward, through the whirling vapors, like a ghoul passing through a graveyard, mists swirling, bodies heaped all around. His skin was sickly and gray, his eyes yellow, his teeth jagged, rat-like and covered in viscous saliva.
“I knew you’d be back,” he said. “I was hopin’.”
Lynch tried not to breathe, even through his mask. Nevertheless he felt a certain wavering of his consciousness, an inducement to sleep. The gas was seeping through his skin, it had to be.
Fieglund approached eagerly. Lynch swung at him, but the blow was clumsy. Fieglund laughed, stopped the fist with his hand and pried out the prototype from Lynch’s weakened fingers.
“Master’ll want this back.”
Lynch’s chest burned, the compulsion to take a breath overcoming him. He stumbled back, picked up a tray of beakers and hurled it at Fieglund. The monster staggered back under the shattering glass.
Lynch rolled under the rear wall of the tent and into open, clean air once more.
Picking himself up, he sucked in a deep breath, then another. The world steadied. He dusted himself off, ripped away the mask and rejoined the thinning traffic. People had begun finding their stations for the day.
Someone with a pale face and shaking fingers rounded the bend of the lab tent and rebounded off Lynch’s chest.
“Stop!” Lynch said. “Who are you? Where are you going?”
“The noise! Did you hear it?” The young man was frightened. “I think there might be trouble! The troopers rushed in -- !”
Lynch made an effort to look him up and down, as if deciding whether or not he were the culprit. Lynch sniffed disdainfully.
“Go! I am already on my way to see to it.”
The young man nodded, grateful to have been spared, and rushed away.
Lynch, clothed once more as a trooper, trying not to breathe too heavily or show the affects of either the gas or the rapid, almost dangerously-fast pounding of his heart, made his way again through the encampment. Sweat soaked into his uniform as he went.
Chapter 22
“There,” Eliza said. “Look!”
Several of her people rushed over to see what she indicated. She brushed off some of the dirt, held up her lantern, and something gleamed under its light.
She smiled brightly but inside felt something bitter. Something scared. They were deep in one of the tunnels beneath the city, in the winding labyrinth of the catacombs. The Prince’s sarcophagus had been hidden away and protected by several booby traps, their effectiveness evidenced by the skeletal remains of a dozen men -- doubtlessly the remains of the former slaves that had found the city and sacked it.
But that is not what scared Eliza.
“Is it the one?” a digger said.
They were sweaty and tired, as was she; they had been excavating this tunnel under the orders of the Que
en for three days, with Eliza overseeing. Lars Gunnerson had helped her the first day, as she was new to the work, but quick to understand she needed to keep herself useful. After that first day Lars had been involved in his own projects or working with the Queen directly, and Eliza had overseen the dig herself.
“It has to be,” Eliza said. “It’s right where she said it would be. But let’s be sure.”
Panting and sweating, they more fully unearthed the tomb, scooping out the dirt and hauling it away bucket by painful bucket, finally revealing the tomb’s jade façade. Of a deep green color, an astonishingly well-rendered bas-relief depicted a forest of giant crystalline spikes, a collection of humans skewered on each one. The spikes jutted out over a great chasm, and as the humans writhed on the spikes their blood fell into the chasm, where fabulous monsters with upturned faces waited for the feast. Eliza wondered if the scene was meant to scare off grave-robbers or was a depiction of the Atlantan hell or underworld. Either way, she felt a chill at the sight. She saw no sign of a seam or an opening, but there must be one.
“Clean it off,” she said. “I’ll bring word to . . . her.” It’s what they’d taken to calling the Queen among themselves. No one bothered to call her by her title; she was simply her or she, often preceded by a pause.
The others paled but went back to work, happy to leave communication with the Queen to Eliza. Eliza used a towel to clean off her dirty hands, finger-combed her hair, straightened her clothes, and departed the tunnels, edging carefully around the booby traps and taking the glass bridge over the bottomless pit with extreme care. She emerged on top of one of the pyramid structures, and steps led her up to an opening behind the black jade altar.
She stared out over the city and its surrounds. A wind stirred her hair pleasantly, and the new-risen sun crested the mountains in the east. The sunlight warmed her skin. From here she could see all the activity below. The Queen had awakened new life in the project and the Society was hard at work restoring and exploring the ancient metropolis.
