He turned to Cede’s projection just as she solidified on a nearby wall. As she had for centuries, she wore the appearance of their mother. She appeared to be standing in a room on the opposite side of a framed window cut out of the dark rock wall. Her room a bright contrast to his own, reminiscent of Borealis Architecture, an empty space enclosed by seamless milky white surfaces. Warm light with no obvious source emanated from inside.
“Show me,” he said.
With a nod, a projection began to manifest inside Malkier’s side of the chamber. Footage of a sort, Cede’s record of his brother’s escape from this very room manifested as though it were happening now. Heyer’s back was propped against the wall. He seemed fragile and vulnerable, too weak to stand under the effects of the dampener—just as he’d been when Malkier had left him.
He watched his brother draw in a long breath and open his eyes. Then he spoke, “Cede, if you ever see my brother again, I want you to tell him something. He was never going to keep me out of this. War with Earth—it always meant war with me . . . so I want you to let him know that I intend to give mankind every advantage in my power. And I will be waiting for him.”
Malkier’s trembling stilled for a moment, his eyes narrowing on this memory of his brother. There was no vagueness in this threat—to Malkier the words ‘I intend to give mankind every advantage in my power’ were quite specific.
He kept watching until the moment Heyer disappeared, then closed his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice had a numbness to it. “I cannot find the words to express what a disappointment you are.”
Cede said nothing to this—no order had been given or specific question asked. But the AI also found itself uncertain who her master was addressing.
Regardless, she waited an amount of time her programming estimated appropriate before speaking again. “If you are willing, there have been additional equally pressing developments in your absence that I believe warrant your immediate attention.”
Malkier opened his eyes, took a long breath, and turned to her with disbelief. “Equally pressing?”
He had to let his anger decline, reach a numbness that would allow him to be in the presence of his people. He would hide behind the mask of the prophet, though he feared that it might take precious little to break that performance once he exited the tunnels. There was nothing to be done about it—his people had already been waiting too long.
Yet, regardless of how well he may have walled off his emotions, nothing could have prepared him for the sight outside the tunnels. For a short moment, he forgot everything else as his eyes widened upon the masses gathered beneath the black-red sky.
The Pilgrimage. His people had gathered on the tribal lands of the prophet. They had come to be delivered to the Promised Land.
The most ambitious of the males had begun the journey before the call. Drawn by hopes of glory—that they would enter the Arena to face the abomination Brings the Rain—said to be the legendary Echoes the Borealis reborn. Malkier saw no reason to tell them that the man was no more.
Regardless, those who came seeking to be the slayer of Brings the Rain had soon found themselves traveling with those who were answering the prophet’s call. Though it seemed like weeks, less than seventy-two hours had passed since he’d stepped into The Never to kill the bonded pair. As such, his memory of the moments before, when he’d contacted the Alphas of each tribe had not been at the forefront of his mind for some time. By decree of the prophet, the war for the Promised Land was upon them. The Ferox warriors of every tribe had been called, and they now poured into the lands of his tribe.
They already numbered in the thousands—and brought a hopeful smile to Malkier’s face. His brother would not stop him—his people would be delivered. He would see their faces when they knew for certain that the gods would never abandon them again.
A short time later, he arrived outside the ravine where his tribe’s gateway stood. The masses from the Pilgrimage were not a part of those gathered here. Each tribe held the grounds of their gateway as sacred—those of a visiting tribe would seek the permission of the local Alpha before wandering too close. Still, the entrance to the ravine was thronged by the adults of his tribe alone. He could not see past them as he approached.
Their eyes wore the same uncertainty he had seen in Buries the Grave. Malkier found even he was not immune to such a reaction from his people. One seldom saw a lone Ferox warrior display fear. As such, seeing a Ferox mob—secure in the strength of their numbers—in such distress left Malkier wondering if something approaching an actual act of the gods was waiting inside that ravine.
As he was spotted, the word of his arrival spread. The crowd parted to allow him passage. His presence seeming to ease the anxiety for a moment.
Yet, soon he noticed that they seemed afraid to look at him, glancing away not in respect or submission, but as though something on his face caught them unprepared. The behavior was strange to him until he caught a faint whisper from within the crowd.
“The prophet bleeds . . .”
So much had happened, he’d forgotten the open wound on his face. Most of his people did not believe the prophet could be harmed. Those who knew better had only seen such a thing once before—when he returned from slaying Echoes the Borealis.
The last of those standing between him and what they had gathered to witness parted, and Malkier finally saw what had shaken the tribe so profoundly.
He had to hide his own shock behind a placid mask as he came to stand at the edge.
As Malkier stood at the perimeter he realized he had smelled death in the air for quite some time—perhaps since the moment he had stepped outside the tunnels. Though there had been a great deal to distract his thoughts, as he gazed on the ravine’s contents, he failed to comprehend how the sheer strength of that scent had not screamed a warning.
It was as though he’d come upon an altar where some barbaric sacrifice had taken place. His first instinct, a primitive sort of knowing, told him he was witnessing the act of an enemy who wanted to send a clear message. Ferox corpses were piled upon the stone. Torn apart and sent back through the gateway in such a way that they were now one mass grave. The blood of his people had flowed, poured out on the ravine’s sands until it seemed the platform was at the center of a swamp.
To say that his tribe’s sacred site had been desecrated was a failure of words. The sight so similar to the pile of dead trophies the Ferox made to draw out combatants in The Never. There was no way to know from a glance how many lay among the dead. The remains were unrecognizable, in too many pieces to ever be reassembled. Yet, a number quickly emerged in Malkier’s thoughts—a detail in Cede’s report of ‘equally pressing’ concerns.
“Twenty-eight,” the prophet whispered.
If a man was responsible for this, winning fights in The Never had not been enough. No, this spoke of a thirst for vengeance no number of Ferox lives would quench. Yet, the only man who might possess the rage and strength to do this was dead.
Buries the Grave came to his side and knelt, and the rest of his people seemed to realize they should do the same. All around him the tribe planted a fist in the sand. Malkier’s gaze remained on the dead, but he nodded for Buries the Grave to speak.
“The carriers of the dead were not sure what to do,” Buries the Grave said. “Bodies kept returning, one after the other. So many so quickly—it had never happened before, it was as though they . . . they . . .”
“Rained,” the prophet whispered.
“Yes, prophet,” Buries the Grave said with a nod. “But we touched nothing, in case this was the gods—a sign meant for the prophet.”
Malkier did not respond.
He stared at the horror a moment longer with eyes unreadable as his people watched on and waited for him to give the massacre meaning. As he stepped forward, his feet sunk into the bloody mud and found it still warm. As he drew closer to the dead—he noticed what his people would. That parts of these bodies looked as though they had been
taken apart with great care. Skeleton and bones removed, armored exterior plates peeled off, organs possessing the incisions of fine instruments.
Finally, he caught sight of what he’d stepped into the carnage to find. Human flesh—a hand barely visible beneath a mound of Feroxian limbs. By the time he was close enough to reach the corpse his feet were ankle deep in the mud. Carefully, he moved away the remains of his people—giving the dead as much dignity possible. Finally, he pushed away a Ferox torso and exposed a man’s body beneath.
He was relatively sure from its placement in the pile that this body had been the first through the gate.
He lifted the human corpse out by one arm. The act brought a sickening wet sound as the body pulled free of the sludge of Feroxian remains. As the body dangled out in front of him, he studied what was left of the face.
The Never’s degradation had taken its toll, the process accelerated now that the body was deceased—but Malkier still recognized what was left of Grant Morgan’s shadow. The man had died in battle, the large wound through the heart that finished him plain to see.
One of the bonded pair had survived—used the shadow’s stone to escape The Never. So, whose body lay in the breeding pit?
The answer was impossible and yet seemed a certainty. But there was something far more at play here. All these bodies couldn’t be explained by his brother’s escape nor Brings the Rain’s survival. There was something insidiously wrong about this. Almost as though he were meant to take it as a threat.
With his people watching, the prophet restrained himself, simply opened his hand and let the body drop abruptly back into the mud.
CHAPTER TWO
OCT 14, 2005 | 10 AM | WASHINGTON STATE
FORTY MILES SOUTH of Seattle was Joint Base Lewis-McChord. The joint in JBLM referred to the installation being home to both the US Army and the Air Force. The base possessed several aircraft hangars and, for the most part, they were all fairly similar.
There was one exception. Unknown, even to those who operated out of the building, this hangar possessed an elevator.
The staff never became aware of the elevator for two reasons. The first was that the doors were hidden by a façade that matched the wall at the end of a small hallway. The second, was that the elevator led to an underground facility that seldom saw use. Early that morning, anyone scheduled to work at this hangar had been temporarily reassigned.
Today, the facility was occupied.
So it was that deep beneath the surface, Olivia stood behind a thick transparent divider within a massive black shell. She watched as a smaller black box made of the same material, brought their guest of honor to his final destination.
“Strange that this reminds me of the night we met,” Rivers said.
He’d been quiet since they entered the observatory. Olivia didn’t follow his meaning at first, then remembered they had first met in a graveyard. The Cell had been in the middle of exhuming the coffin of Douglas Tibbs. Though, genetic testing later confirmed the body inside was a decoy. The identity of that John Doe was one of an ever growing list of questions that Olivia looked forward to making The Mark answer now that he was at her mercy. Since Rivers had pointed it out, she couldn’t stop seeing just how much The Mark’s transport shell resembled a coffin. The six soldiers currently carrying the box suddenly looked an awful lot like pallbearers.
“A bit macabre, Agent Rivers.”
He nodded.
Patiently, they waited while the soldiers transferred the box to the research team inside the larger containment shell. Once the soldiers were dismissed, Rivers became the only male inside this entire wing of the facility. This was by design. All the alien’s known contacts had been male. The only exception had been the recently discovered Rylee Silva, and the nature of that relationship remained largely mysterious. As such, Olivia implemented a cautionary security protocol. No men were allowed in this wing. The one exception she made was Agent Rivers. Without his contributions to the investigation, The Mark’s capture would not have been possible. Had he wanted to sabotage that capture, he’d already had plenty of opportunities.
That, and she was grooming him for larger things—a promotion of sorts.
With her approval, the transport coffin was opened. There had been limited materials, but of all the containment shells housed beneath this facility, The Mark’s prison was by far the largest. This was out of necessity. The shell had to be equipped to function as a lab, operating theater, and holding facility. Olivia had handpicked the team that would be conducting the physical study of the alien’s biology. All the women were experts in their fields and vetted by The Cell’s rigorous background checks.
The team worked quickly to move The Mark’s body to a cold metal examination table.
As soon as the alien was in position, his arms and legs were locked down with thick steel bonds. Secondary metal restraints were then placed across his chest, waist, and thighs. No earthly creature could have broken free. For the moment, The Mark’s comatose state made these precautions seem comically excessive, but the alien’s physical limits remained unknown. Olivia had made this danger clear to every woman currently locked inside. When their subject awoke to find himself restrained on a surgical table, he may very well tear through those steel bonds like they were made of newspaper.
While it may have been convenient for his capture, The Mark’s condition was troubling. In appearance the alien made Rivers’ initial remarks all the more apt. His body currently had more in common with a corpse than a powerful being from another world.
Despite appearances, a palpable relief went through the team when the final restraint was locked in place without incident.
“Transfer completed, subject restrained, permission to proceed?” Dr. Watts, the lead researcher asked.
From behind a thick layer of ballistic glass, Olivia gave a nod and the team became a flurry of activity. Some cutting away The Mark’s clothing while others attached all manner of monitoring sensors to his skin. The second round of relief touched the room when the first beep of the electrocardiograph confirmed that a heart was still beating inside the alien’s chest.
Her team would need time to gather any preliminary data. Olivia didn’t expect that they would have any insights about the three lines of light that oscillated between pale blue and nonexistent across the alien’s chest anytime within those first few hours. Still, she had concerns she expected to be addressed quickly. She gave them a few minutes before pressing the intercom button. “Dr. Watts, I’d like your initial observations?”
In the middle of holding open The Mark’s eyelids to flash a small light over his pupils, Dr. Watts stepped away, signaling a subordinate to take over. She looked up at Olivia behind the observation window. “We’ll need to delay our projected study schedule, perform an exhaustive health assessment.”
Olivia didn’t require a PhD to see that The Mark’s condition was less than ideal, but she’d hoped for better news. “How long until he can be resuscitated?”
“Ma’am, he isn’t responding to stimulus. His heart rate is weak,” Dr. Watts said. “He appears to be in a coma of sorts, the degree of which we’ll need time to assess. If he is in a vegetative state—”
“Doctor,” Olivia interjected. “At the moment, I’m only interested in when questioning can get underway.”
Dr. Watts paused, the duration of which was considerably longer than Olivia would have liked.
“Ma’am, with the exceptions of the lines on his chest and the metallic brace on his arm, his anatomy presents as entirely human. He’s clearly survived a severe physical trauma within the last few hours. In an ER, our immediate focus would be addressing the swelling to his brain and confirming that he has no internal hemorrhaging. If you want him to live long enough to ask him anything, I cannot recommend any invasive procedures. We need to treat him.”
Olivia was still for a moment, a palpable tension gathering around her and punctuated by a long breath that seeped out slowly. “Very w
ell. Stabilize him, but proceed with any testing that will not . . . exacerbate . . . his condition.”
With a nod, Dr. Watts thought she had been dismissed.
“Doctor, I’m expecting you to know a great deal more by tomorrow morning,” Olivia added.
CHAPTER THREE
COLLIN AND HAYDEN felt like the yolks in a giant Easter egg.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
“Any chance you’ve been watching Prison Break?” Collin asked as they stared up at the curved black walls of the containment shell.
“That would be a negative,” Hayden replied.
“Same.”
Their cell block, if one could call it that, was a rectangular enclosure suspended inside the larger ovoid shell. There were five individual chambers inside, all connected by one hallway and entirely composed of thick clear plastic. Collin could look through his door and see Hayden lying in a cube identical to his own across the hall.
The hallway began at the shell’s entrance and ended at the door to Jonathan’s cell.
Apparently, he was the guest of honor, as Jonathan had been given the presidential suite—his chamber being three times the size of theirs. Still, while Collin and Hayden’s cells might have been smaller, at least they had remained transparent. Though they knew Tibbs must still be in there, the entire backside of the cell block looked like a white wall. Their captors had done something to turn the shell opaque shortly after they locked Jonathan inside.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
“What do you think the exchange rate is for a roll of toilet paper in here?” Hayden asked.
“Pack of smokes?” Collin asked.
“Neither of us smoke.”
“The market is what it is.”
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
Having been held prisoner for a day and a half, their panic grew less visceral with each passing hour.
The Never Army Page 5
