by Bob Mayer
“’Fifteen’?” Arcturus repeated, more to himself. “Can experiments be intelligent? Can intelligent life create intelligent life? Does that make them gods?”
Bren had no answer.
Arcturus stood. “Time to go.”
“Wait. Who are you? How could you have been here before the Airlia? What are you dancing around with all your questioning?”
Arcturus’s reply was to begin running.
As the minutes passed, the hidden path diverted farther left, steadily climbing up the ridgeline on the western side of the valley until they were just below the crest in terrain that Bren, and all others, had considered impassable. The nature of the land changed as they rose above the tree-line. The path was narrow, one person wide, but ingeniously wound through the jumbled rocks and outcroppings, following a way hidden to observation from below. The stone beneath their feet was worn, as if many generations of people had trod this way. It was obvious in places that it had been cut through the rock.
“What is this?” Bren asked, indicating the path, as Arcturus called another break.
The old man didn’t lie on the hard rock, but sat underneath a slight outcropping, his back to the stone. “The ancient trails. You’ve been on this world for ten millennia, but there is much you have not learned. I will grant you some allowance for your ignorance given you spent most of that time in deep sleep.”
It was not phrased as a question and Bren remained quiet.
“This was one of the old ways,” Arcturus said. “Before the Airlia. Before even me. The path special messengers took north and south in a kingdom long ago turned to dust, leaving behind just what was wrought upon stone. The messengers were superb runners and made much better time than we are.”
“Who? Who are you talking about?”
“Those who came before,” Arcturus said. “The original inhabitants of this world.”
“They were human?”
“Yes.”
“But—” Bren lapsed into silence, trying to fathom the implications. “We were not made by the Airlia?”
“Not those humans.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That is the first step to true knowledge,” Arcturus said.
“You speak in riddles,” Bren said, irritation edging her voice.
“You owe me more story, do you not?” Arcturus asked. “What happened after your revolt was successful? How did you get here?”
“Our planet defeated the Airlia. We killed every one of them.”
“Did that make you superior to them?” Arcturus asked.
“What?” Bren was confused.
“War,” Arcturus said. “Is the winner superior? Or just lucky? Or simply more powerful and adapt at waging war. It does not decide who is right, does it?”
“You are a very odd man,” Bren said.
“Continue with your story,” Arcturus said.
“I will, if you stop interrupting,” Bren said. “In winning we lost everything else. Our planet was devastated, our population decimated to a few million.”
“Thus, your lack of concern about the humans here losing their lives in fruitless assaults against the Airlia.”
“Freedom is never fruitless. Freedom is everything.”
“I suppose you could consider death a sort of freedom,” Arcturus said.
“One is no longer a slave,” Bren said.
“Back to your planet, which was dying,” Arcturus prompted.
“We had the Airlia mothership and could activate it with the guardian. We had a ruby sphere. A decision was made.” Bren looked off. The first hint of dawn was showing in the west.
“Only so many can fit on a mothership,” Arcturus said.
She gave him a sharp look. “You’ve seen the Airlia’s mothership here? Markus and I have not been able to discover where they hid it.”
“It is not far from Atlantis,” Arcturus said.
“Where? The frozen ice in the north?”
“Continue your story.”
“We choose a hard, but hopeful course of action. To put the best of our people on board the mothership in hopes of colonizing another planet. But first to go to the other planets we knew were seeded and send two person teams in to help them overthrow the Airlia.”
“Just two? Seems a daunting task for so few. Overthrow an entire planet? You said you lost billions on your world doing so.”
“The spaceships we built could only contain that many.”
“This was one of those planets.”
“This was one,” Bren said. “Markus and I were the last team.”
Arcturus ran a hand along his clipped beard. “Intriguing. Perhaps I should have spoken to you earlier, but your efforts never seemed to have any chance of success. I was uncertain as to your motives and goals.”
“Why now? You believe we have a chance?”
“Do you know the planets where the other teams were dropped?”
“No. That would have been a breach of security.” Bren sighed. “It was a long, long time ago. We were on the mothership for quite a while, traveling. Most of that time in deep sleep. We were not awakened when the ship came out of FTLT and dropped off earlier teams. That’s faster-than-light—”
Arcturus cut her explanation off. “Yes. Faster-than-light-transit. The only way to conquer the vast distances between stars. What of the people on board the mothership? Were they still there when you left it?”
“Yes. Almost all were in deep sleep. We weren’t to know where they ended up. That, too, would have been a security violation.”
Arcturus abruptly stood. “We must go.” He smiled. “The path gets more interesting. And we must be on guard.”
“For what? Your beast that is following?”
“Isengrim is not a threat to us. We are not the only ones in this land.”
Arcturus ran, Bren close behind. They continued in silence for a half hour, then Arcturus slowed as the path narrowed further as they approached a high spur jutting out from the ridge. The path came to an abrupt end at the spur, smooth stone barring the way. The slope was too great to try to go around, either up or down. The wall in front of them was shear.
“So much for your ancients,” Bren said.
Arcturus ignored her and put his hands on the stone, sliding them, searching. He found what he was looking for and pulled a medallion out from under his robe and pressed it in that spot. The outline of a door appeared. The stone slid back, and to the side. A dark tunnel beckoned.
“How did you do that?” Bren asked.
“Magic?”
“Surely ancients who had to run to deliver messages didn’t make this door. This is Airlia technology.”
“Neither the ancients or the Airlia made the door,” Arcturus said, “but the ancients did cut this tunnel through the rock. With hand tools. Think how long that must have taken? Generations. A great patience.”
The sides of the tunnel were roughly hewn as far as could be seen. The top of the tunnel was six feet, the width three. Enough for a person to pass.
“Shall we?” Arcturus said. “Stay close to me.” The tip of his staff glowed and he led the way. As soon as they were inside, the door slid shut.
“What will your pet do now?” Bren asked.
“Isengrim is not my pet,” Arcturus said. “And she can go places humans would never attempt.”
Bren blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim glow from Arcturus’s staff. “Who made the door, then?” Her voice echoed in the narrow space.
“Those who came later,” Arcturus said in a harsh whisper. “And be quiet. The dark ways are not empty.” He walked confidently and Bren was grateful for the respite from the running.
After what seemed a long time, the glow from the staff indicated a split. The right-hand way was of the same constitution, walls rough and uneven and same dimensions. To the left, the tunnel was smooth and angled downward farther into the ridge. It was taller by a foot and three times as wide.
Bren bit back questions as
Arcturus continued on the old, narrow way. He didn’t stop for a break even though they’d been underground for more than hour. Finally, the tunnel came to an end, smooth stone blocking the way. Arcturus once more searched with his hand, then placed the medallion against the stone. A door rumbled inward and up.
Bren blinked in the sudden daylight.
“Come,” Arcturus urged.
She followed him out, one hand over her eyes. The stone shut behind them. The path continued as it had before, narrow and along the edge of the ridge.
“The ancients didn’t make that tunnel that went deeper into the ridge,” Bren said. “Power tools cut that.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Let us go a bit further and through a few more tunnels,” Arcturus said, “and then we will rest.”
Bren looked at the sealed door. “At least whoever was following will be stopped.”
LIONS HEAD, ATLANTIS, EARTH15
With dawn, the leather straps around the crucified man’s limbs finished drying. He’d begun screaming two hours earlier as the bands constricted, squeezing flesh and muscle. Bones in his arms and legs snapped.
The thousands watched in a wide range of emotions: most were secretly happy it wasn’t them. Some were enjoying the spectacle, believing the punishment justified. Some were disgusted. And there were those who empathized with the victim. The last were very careful not to let a hint of their feelings show.
Regardless of what they were feeling, no one was allowed to leave. When all the straps were dry and as tight as they would be, the man was still alive. His limbs were crushed, but he could breath and the constrictions closest to his torso acted like tourniquets, preventing the internal hemorrhaging in the limbs from allowing him to bleed out and the mercy of death.
His head hung while he drew ragged breaths. Most of those in the crowd had witnessed a crucifixion before and knew he could last many hours, even a few days if his desire to live was strong. They settled in for the wait as leaving before death was forbidden.
The man changed the script though. He lifted his head and looked at the crowd in the growing light of day. It seemed as if his gaze touched everyone. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong and reached the highest rows of the amphitheater.
“Behold the price of freedom. Behold the price of loyalty to humanity. Behold the price of obedience to a greater good. I once held the trust of the Airlia. What they call a sacred bond. I worshipped them. But that bond only went one way. They betrayed that trust. They lied to me. They lie to all of you. The more I learned as an acolyte, the more I saw their evil and their lies. No human has ever partaken of the Grail and no human ever will. The Grail is only for them. The Airlia are not gods. They are aliens who came to our world from another star.”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Sacrilege!” Someone screamed, but the voice was shrill.
The man drew a deep breath. “Think of the Tally! Where do our people go? We are told they are taken to a better life. Why should we believe that? What proof do the Airlia offer other than their lies? We are told that some get to partake of the Grail but has any ever seen this? Yet you are forced to watch this! Why have we never witnessed one of us being rewarded? Why only the punishments? They lie!”
Surrounding the base of the Sphinx, around the front paws, the warrior-guides cast confused glances among themselves and between the crucified and the crowd, uncertain what to do.
He went on. “It is not a criminal gang in Southren. King Cetic has raised a Great Alliance. Of good men and women. They are marching north to free you. You must help them.”
A wedjat hurried out of the narrow door between the paws. He whispered something to the commander of the guard while gesturing up.
The crucified acolyte continued. “I have been judged by the Airlia. This is my punishment. What will yours be? Will you be Tallied? Will you be corrupted and become a wedjat? A warg? Will you die like me, on the cross? What about your children? And your children’s children? Where is the better life we are always promised but never given?”
Two wargs appeared behind him, armed with spears.
The man raised his head toward the sky. “Resist!”
One of the wargs ran his spear through the man’s lower left side. The point came out his upper right chest, blood dripping.
The man wasn’t done. “Resist!” It wasn’t quite as loud, but the amphitheater was so silent, it carried to every man, woman and child.
The two wargs knelt as Horus strode onto the head, sword drawn.
The man was opening his mouth to call out once more when Horus swung the sword, neatly slicing through the neck. The severed head bounced on the top of the Sphinx, then rolled off. As it dropped, the mouth was still moving, trying to say words that had no breath. It struck the prayer plaza with a sickening thud just a few feet from the wedjat who had issued the execution order.
The wedjat was startled and looked up. He dropped to his knees when he saw Horus. Anubis joined her partner. In a rage, Horus swung the sword back and forth, cutting the crucified man to bits, blood and pieces of body flying about. When there was little left except that pinned to the wood by the leather straps, Horus faced the crowd. He raised the sword over his head, blood dripping from it. Anubis pointed her staff at the top of the Citadel-Tower. A flash of light shot out of the staff. Everyone’s eyes followed as the bolt arced up and into the top of the tower, three thousand feet overhead. The red pyramid on top began to pulse with an inner light.
The crowd jumped to its feet but paused in fleeing for the exits as Anubis raised both arms, scepter held level and ordered: “Remain.”
Horus returned into the Citadel-Tower.
The crowd froze, all eyes up.
The tableau remained like that as the seconds and minutes ticked by.
“A message must be sent,” Anubis finally announced. “Dissent and rebellion cannot be tolerated. It is for the greater good.”
*****
Horus rode a high-speed lift upward. A drip diverted his attention and he glanced down. A drop of blood. He shook his head with disgust as he lifted the sword to his mouth and licked off some blood. He spit it out.
Humans.
The lift came to a halt and he walked along a wide corridor. A large door irised open, revealing a sphere hanging in space and held in place by struts from the exterior of the chamber. A black, graceful metal path arced over an empty void that descended all the way to the Great Hall in the base of the tower. He walked across the path. Another door opened, allowing him entry to the interior of the sphere.
In the center was a tall, narrow red crystal, three feet high and six inches in diameter. The surface glinted, reflecting light in all direction. Horus tossed aside the sword he’d been carrying. Set in the top of the crystal was the hilt for another sword. Dimly visible through the crystal was the sword’s sheath, ornate and marked with the hieroglyphic high runes of the Airlia language.
Horus put his hand on the hilt of Excalibur and drew it out of the scabbard and crystal stone.
The door shut and the sphere was secure. A golden glow filled the chamber. The interior of the sphere flickered and then briefly displayed an array of images: a massive dish on the far side of the moon Isis, the FTL transmitter for this outpost, a blinking light indicating there were messages spooled up and waiting to be decrypted; a mothership hidden on this world; a ruby sphere glowing brightly, located deep beneath this tower. The critical pieces of the outpost were safe although it appeared Osiris, on the moon of his partner’s name, had not bothered to come out of deep sleep in a while to do his job.
The interior went black, then a view of the surrounding area from a perspective of the master guardian overlooking the amphitheater and the outer rings of Atlantis.
During the long war with the Swarm, the Airlia had lost ships and outposts and master guardians. Excalibur was a safeguard. It was a sophisticated micro transmitter that was always on. The crystal stone blo
cked the signal; thus drawing it activated the system. There was a destruct for the master guardian built into the pommel of the sword.
*****
Behind and above the amphitheater, a low hum was emitted as the talon powered up. A rustle of fear passed through the crowd. There had been stories of what was to come, although none living had experienced it.
From the tip of the talon, destructive bolts flashed in various directions outside First Wall into the surrounding rings and beyond. The sound of the explosions echoed. Inside the amphitheater, the humans cowered in their rows.
“This is the price of dissent,” Anubis said.
Twenty times the talon fired. Horus was indiscriminately targeting homes and buildings in the surrounding city. Several ships in the harbor were also blown apart.
“It is your duty to expose the criminals,” Anubis announced. “Turn them over to the wedjats and warriors. All are guilty even when only a few are. All are responsible. All will suffer unless all obey. Even a whisper of dissent must be reported.”
The talon powered down and silence reigned for several moments, then screams echoed distantly in the city from the wounded and the grieving.
Anubis tapped the base of her scepter on the head of the Red Sphinx. “The criminal band will be destroyed. Dissent will not be tolerated.” She gestured with the scepter at the wedjats, turned from the crowd and disappeared behind the head of the Sphinx.
The high wedjat regrouped and faced the crowd. “Behold the price of treason! Spread the word. Behold the price of betrayal.”
Released, the crowd exited the amphitheater in utter silence, but as they passed through First Wall into the surrounding city, voices murmured and the words being whispered were not of fealty and loyalty.
NORTH VALLEY, EARTH15
“How many revolts have you and Markus instigated?” Arcturus asked when they halted.
Bren took a drink from her bota. She shook it. “Is there water ahead?”
