by Bob Mayer
The population of the Facility was designed to be 6,250.
1,250 were adults who lived in it full time; the Mentors. The remaining five thousand were to be children under the age of eight and after arrival had never been outside of the facility. Most had been brought here before the age of two. They didn’t quite number five thousand, but it was close.
They were the Chosen.
“Status?” Mrs. Parrish asked Asha.
The woman in charge of the Facility hesitated, and glanced nervously at Maria.
“Status?” Mrs. Parrish snapped.
“We have fourteen new Metabols.”
“Purge them,” Mrs. Parrish ordered.
“Some should recover,” Asha said.
“Some will recover,” Maria murmured.
Asha flinched, realizing her wrong word choice. “Mrs. Parrish, we’ve had a twenty-six percent recovery rate among Metabols. It’s just a phase. We’re in uncharted territory. But we’ve managed quite well.”
“Twenty-six percent?” Mrs. Parrish turned from the Trumanesque dome and glared at Asha and Maria. “Don’t tell me data I already know. I don’t care either way. Purge them. We have no time. The Strategy is accelerating. Everything must be perfect.”
Asha held out her flexpad. “Mrs. Parrish, perhaps if you reviewed—“
Mrs. Parrish slapped the flexpad away. “I will have you purged, Asha. Do your job.”
Asha nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Parrish.”
“See to it personally,” Mrs. Parrish added.
“Yes, Mrs. Parrish.”
“Go,” Mrs. Parrish said to Asha, gesturing to the door. Asha departed, the door closing on soft hydraulics behind her. George pressed his body tight against Maria’s leg. She was running the Braille note between her fingers so hard, she was shredding it.
“My babies,” Mrs. Parrish whispered, putting her hands on a railing and pressing up against the one-way glass. “Our future.”
THE OUTER PLANETS
Neptune is the only planet in the Solar System that humans discovered by mathematical calculation rather than direct observation. Abnormalities in Uranus’ orbit were noted, and it was postulated that only a nearby planet could have that effect. Thus there must be another planet further out in the Solar System. A Neptunian year is the equivalent of 164.8 Earth years. Since its first observation in 1846 (Galileo had recorded the small dot as a fixed star in 1612) only one Neptunian year had elapsed by 2011.
The Battle Core passed through Neptune’s orbital path at 30.2 AU, although the gas giant was at an oblique distance across the solar system. The planet had at least 14 moons that could be detected.
There was no indication of Scale so the planet didn’t rate a diversion in flight path, although, per SOP, a dozen scout ships were sent on a long journey to scour the planet and then drop into the atmosphere, relaying data back. The Swarm had come across different types of life forms, even a few that could exist on such a planet. There was the possibility of bases manned by non-native Scale on the planet or moons. In addition, the scouts were to examine the planet for resources to be mined. Initial analysis from the arrays indicated it had a hydrogen/helium atmosphere with traces of other elements such as nitrogen, water, methane and ammonia. The constitution of the planet itself appeared basic, with nothing surprising or unexpected in the mantle and core. Scouts were also sent to Uranus, which was oblique across the Solar System.
The Core could always touch by this planet to replenish those raw materials needed which weren’t farmed in the Kuiper Belt or further in.
More scout ships were launched. Twelve toward the third planet and twelve toward the fourth where the transmissions indicated another mothership had crashed.
These scout ships were small and extremely fast at STL, each crewed by four Swarm. They started with the inertial speed of the Core and accelerated ahead.
They would have to pass through an asteroid belt between the four gas giant planets and the four, smaller, inner planets. Twelve was sufficient for redundancy.
Accurate reconnaissance was always needed before the Metamorphosis in order for the Reaping could be finalized.
AVALON
MOTHERSHIP, EARTH ORBIT
“I’ve got one hell of a headache,” Kara said.
“You’re lucky you have that plate,” Julius said.
Kara considered that an ironic statement.
Julius continued. “Doc says your skull would have been crushed without it.”
“What happened to the talon?” Kara asked. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the cot, putting them down on the deck of the cargo hold. “We’ve got gravity?”
“First thing we powered up.” Julius let out a deep breath. “We escaped the talon. Barely. It headed toward us on a collision course. Trying to drop us down a gravity well to crash on Earth. Wardenclyffe took it out. We were lucky.”
Kara tried to process that. “It could maneuver?”
“It could and it fired on you,” Julius reminded her. “It had some thrust. Dreamland says it was being remotely controlled from Cydonia. Earth escaped disaster.” He frowned. “You didn’t get a chance to fire your nuke?”
Kara shook her head, immediately regretting it given the pain. “No. It all happened so fast.” She tried to remember if she and Marcus had been on internal coms when he’d ordered her to fire. Given Julius’ question, it appeared they had.
“What’s your status,” she asked Julius.
“We’re almost ready. We’ve got the bracing framework in place over the damaged section of hull. It’s all set for the plates once we land.” He indicated she should accompany him. “If you’re up to it, you can join us on the bridge.”
AREA 51
Colonel Rennie was on his belly, peering through binoculars at the activity.
“What are they doing, sir?” his driver asked him. Their humvee was parked behind and below them. The rest of his company was hiding, as best they could, in the low-lying ridges on the other side of the valley to their rear.
For the past hour, heavy equipment transporters had been unloading bulldozers, excavators and other construction vehicles nearly four miles south of Area 51, at the base of Groom Mountain.
“They’re going to dig out Hanger Two,” Rennie said. He’d checked the large hangar during his initial recon. The massive cavern, where the alien ship had lain hidden for thousands of years, was littered with rock and debris, although the large black landing cradle was intact.
There was a burst of static in Rennie’s left ear, the satcom link to UNAOC finally coming alive with a message.
“Colonel Rennie.” The voice was faint, having gone through a scrambler and decoder. It was also being forwarded via FM from the satellite dish and receiver on his humvee, further complicating the process.
“Colonel Rennie?” the man’s voice repeated.
Rennie hit transmit. “Rennie here.”
“Why have you missed your recall?”
“Who am I speaking with?” Rennie asked.
“I am Under-Secretary Kaong’s principal aide.”
“I need to speak to the Under-Secretary,” Rennie said.
“He’s tied up in meetings. He’s asked me to ascertain why you missed the recall transport that was arranged for you.”
The only ‘transports’ that had arrived were part of the force below him. Rennie transmitted: “Inform the Under-Secretary that a mercenary force in the employ of Mrs. Parrish has taken over Area 51. They are digging out Hangar Two.”
“Area 51 is no longer your concern,” the man replied. “What is your current location?”
He didn’t reply, instead turning his attention to Groom Lake. He looked past the activity at Hangar Two, further north toward the base. Small black figures were scurrying out of a building, heading toward the parked attack helicopters.
“Cut the satcom!” Rennie ordered, jumping up. “Come on!” He ran, almost falling on the steep slope, back to his humvee.
“Fast!�
�� Rennie ordered his driver.
There was no cover in the desert and concealment was worthless given the thermal sights on the Apaches. He knew it would take the choppers time to get airborne and then there was the flight time around or over the mountain, but he estimated they had less than fifteen minutes.
He keyed the FM to his troops. “Mount up. Stinger ready. Head for emergency rally point via Route Tango as fast as possible. Now!”
The humvee rumbled along the pitted rock and sand trail. He saw a dust plume ahead; his company on the march. “Faster,” he ordered.
His driver gave him a glance, but did as ordered. They came over a small rise and he could see the convoy heading southwest toward a ridgeline.
The humvee hit a jutting ridge of stone and Rennie was slammed forward, breaking his nose on the dash.
“Might want to buckle up, sir.”
Rennie did so, ignoring the pain and the blood streaming down his face. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing. Yet.
He keyed the radio. “First Sergeant, deploy the Stinger at the base of the ridge. I’ll take over when I reach it.”
“Roger.”
They only had one Stinger missile scavenged from the weapons depot at Area 51. He hadn’t had authorization to take it, but authorization seemed to be a non-factor.
The convoy began heading up, a half mile ahead of Rennie’s humvee. He looked back and saw the first gunships coming over the top of Groom Mountain. Several more joined it and they circled around the position he’d occupied.
It only took the mercenary pilots a few seconds to realize it was empty and to spot the dust plumes to the southwest.
The driver skidded them to a halt next to a pick up truck. Two soldiers were in the bed, one of them with the Stinger to his shoulder. Rennie jumped out.
The man with the Stinger looked at his commander. “Sir? Those are American.”
“They’re not US Army,” Rennie said. “Take out the lead. We need time. As soon as you fire, drop it and both of you get in my humvee and follow the rest. Are the keys in the ignition?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rennie turned and peered through his binoculars. Four Apache helicopters were coming in fast and low.
The Stinger had a range of five miles. The Hellfire missiles mounted on the wing stubs of the Apaches had a range of five miles. The laser range finder in his binoculars put the Apaches at eight miles.
There was one big difference between his situation and the chopper’s.
As the range finder clicked to six miles, he ordered: “Fire.”
“Out of range, sir.”
“Fire, damn it!”
The ejection motor launched the five-foot long, narrow missile out of the tube. A safe distance away, the launch motor fell away and the two-stage solid fuel rocket ignited. The missile accelerated to Mach 2.5 while the infrared camera in the nose searched for a target.
Given the Apaches were approaching at 100 miles an hour, the one mile difference in weapon ranges gave the early launch a slight advantage since the Stinger was en route before the Apache gunners considered their Hellfires in range.
The choppers picked up the launch and broke formation to evade. The Stinger locked on to the closest. Flares were fired by the targeted chopper to confuse the IR.
It didn’t work as the crew had been too slow to react.
The Stinger hit the left engine, the impact fuse went off, and the six-pound warhead detonated.
The Apache’s rotors were separated from the rest of the chopper. It dropped like a rock and exploded on the desert floor. The three remaining helicopters backed off to a safe distance.
The gunner dropped the launcher. The two men leapt out of the pickup and into Rennie’s humvee.
“Go!” Rennie ordered as he climbed into the bed of the pick up, blood dripping from his nose.
Rennie made a show of leaning over and picking up the launcher tube.
His theory was that the surviving crews didn’t know it was empty and had to assume it was a loaded weapon.
GLASTONBURY TOR, ENGLAND
The summit of the Tor floated above the low-lying English fog. The old tower on top appeared to be a forlorn finger of man’s aspirations pointing upward.
“It is always cold and wet in England,” Nekhbet complained.
“It is,” Nosferatu agreed.
“I will need blood to warm me up.”
“I need information more than you need blood.” Nosferatu drove down from the ridge onto the plain that surrounded the Tor, plunging them into the fog and reducing visibility to fifty feet. He was driving fast, trusting his instincts if someone came the other way on the narrow English road, hedges crowding both sides.
“At least the sun rarely appears,” Nosferatu said, trying to put a positive spin on the weather.
“We should kill all the Watchers,” Nekhbet said.
“There is a reason those two attacked us after all those years of just watching. We need to know what it is.”
Nekhbet’s tongue slithered over her lips. “Their boss didn’t seem to know much. Only another name.”
“Another cut out in their large pyramid,” Nosferatu said tapping the brakes lightly as they zoomed through an intersection. “By now the Myrddin know we’re not dead and that this branch of their pyramid has been compromised. They will kill their own to shut the cut outs.”
“Then why are we here?” Nekhbet asked as they zipped through a town, nearly running down an elderly man crossing the street, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He jumped back yelling something politely profane that was left behind in the fog.
“There are still real Watchers who hold to the old ways,” Nosferatu said.
“They’re out of a job now, aren’t they?”
“Perhaps,” Nosferatu said. “The land all around us was covered in water in the old days.”
“’Old days’?” Nekhbet mocked. “You mean the Dark Ages? Long after our glory in Egypt? The thousand years when humans scratched at the mud to survive?”
Nosferatu shot his partner a sharp glance. “We had no glory in Egypt. We were fatted calves, kept as prisoners to feed the Airlia.”
Nekhbet appeared puzzled for a moment. “I don’t remember much,” she finally said.
“It’s good you don’t remember that time,” Nosferatu said, putting a comforting hand on her thigh. “This was called Avalon in those days. And Yniswitrin before that by the ancient Welsh. They brought Arthur here after the great battle of Camlann. Artad’s Shadow. He died on the Tor, but his essence, his ka, was taken away to be passed on.” Nosferatu shook his head. “This place has history going back a long, long way. It is where Donnchadh and Gwalcmai, the humans who freed us from our bondage in Egypt, brought the former priests of Atlantis to form the Watchers over ten millennia ago.”
When Nekhbet didn’t say anything, he glanced over. Her head was resting back, her eyes closed. He squeezed her thigh. “Are you all right, my love?”
A trace of a smile, but her eyes remained closed. “I am listening to your dreary history lesson, my dear, as we drive through this dreary land. It is obvious why Britain tried to conquer and colonize the world. Who would want to live here?”
A sign appeared out of the fog, indicating the road ended in half a kilometer and that Glastonbury Tor and St. Michaels were ahead. Nosferatu slowed down.
“You wanted to know why we’re here,” he said. “Those two humans from another planet prepared this place before the fall of Atlantis. Part of their ages long plan to cause war among the Airlia. The war has finally concluded. If there is a true Watcher in Avalon, he might be able to tell us of the Myrddin.”
A parking area appeared and Nosferatu pulled into a slot. There were no other cars.
“Why don’t you wait here?” he suggested to Nekhbet.
“Afraid I might act precipitously?” She opened her eyes. “I am tired, my dear Nosferatu. So very tired. I fear I will never be able to drink enough to recover.”
“You remain here and rest,” Nosferatu said.
“Bring me blood,” Nekhbet said. “Please.”
“I will,” Nosferatu said. He ignored the signs directing people to follow the concrete path to preserve the ecology and heritage and set off on the most direct route up the steep slope. The Tor is terraced in a way that is not natural. There are many theories why that is, but no consensus.
Nosferatu reached the top. The ruins of St. Michaels are on top. All that remains is a three-story stone tower, the roof long gone. Nosferatu ignored the building. Among a scattering of stones from the demolished Parrish he found a six-foot long by three-foot wide flat grey stone. The surface was etched with various chips and scratches, but it had withstood the passage of time and resisted removal by humans for thousands of years.
Nosferatu pulled a Watcher medallion from his pocket and placed it on a spot near one end. The stone slid straight down for two feet and then sideways, revealing a set of stone steps.
When Nosferatu was ten feet down, he heard movement behind and looked back to see the stone sliding back and then up, leaving him in complete darkness. He turned on a small, single AAA flashlight with a red lens cover. Barely more light than the tip of a glowing cigarette, but it was sufficient for the human-Airlia hybrid to see.
The sides of the tunnel were smooth. Similar to the Roads of Rostau underneath the Giza Plateau where Nosferatu had been born, brought to adulthood, and then enslaved by the Airlia. The air was chilly and damp. A musty smell pervaded.
He stopped at a landing where the stairs made a ninety-degree turn to the right. He put the medallion on the wall directly ahead. A door appeared, sliding back and to the side. The red glow from his tiny flashlight was reflected hundreds of times by the crystals lining the walls, floor and ceiling of the cavern. Over two hundred meters long by one hundred wide, this was the space that had given birth to the legend of Merlin’s crystal cave.
Nosferatu followed a clear path among the crystals to the right side of the cavern. There was a door, flanked by two pillars of stone, the surfaces glittering with crystals. This door opened to his touch, revealing a long tunnel. He walked it for a thousand meters.
