by Zachary Adam
A moment’s concentration and the server rack righted itself. He scooted well away from it before standing up, and, with a gesture, freeing Niles.
Prince got up and dusted himself off – he was covered in crumbled drop-ceiling and what had probably been fireproof insulation. “... You ever going to tell me how you keep doing that?”
“I thought you were the detective,” countered Scion, scratching at his neck again. “Come on. We should get out of here before the aftershocks hit.”
--Kline particularly enjoyed this time of year. While he took great pains to avoid any form of contamination of his personal library – the one at the country house, mind you, not the Grand Librarian’s Collection at the National Archives – it was both therapeutic and practical to periodically dismantle it for a good cleaning. He was aided in this effort by two of his closest associates – the Tindalos Brothers – who were presently studiously packing away the books out of their barrister’s shelves and into temporary cases, which they would later use to move them en mass to his binding room for inspection while he set about sanitizing and drying the cases themselves. Kline had quite the collection – some 2,000 volumes of various ages, including numerous
manuscripts that he’d bound for his own convenience, plus two cases of scrolls not unlike wine-racks, and a full case of material waiting to be evaluated and catalogued.
In spite of his prodigious ability to squeeze the most out of every tick of the great universal clock, he’d scarcely had the time for much anything apart from the Great Work lately, which was why, even now, he took the time to participate in it, sharing a glass of wine with Professor Coultier, from the Regional History Museum. As yet, Coultier had yet to discover either the great import of what was buried beneath his facility, nor the fact that Kline’s Brotherhood had penetrated that particular sanctum, and now had the effective upper hand.
“Have you ever wondered, Malvolio, what became of the Cult of the Sleeping Eye after Gloria Creena was detained?”
If the sudden shift in the conversation – which had previously been on the importance of separating food and beverages from written materials – had bothered Coultier, he tried not to show it. Like many members of his family, he had certain wisdom beyond his years, a premature full-grownness of awareness, though he was far more mature than either of his siblings in Kline’s estimation. “No,” he said cautiously, as if concerned about the nature of the question. “Not beyond a certain minimal curiosity. I’m old enough to remember just how bad the nineties were. When you’re reading the news, it’s hard not to look for connections to the past.”
“I felt much the same way,” countered Kline, pouring just enough more of the red wine to reach the broadest hip of his glass, before taking the glass to the window. “Far from a professional interest, but I did spend some of my time learning what I could about the surviving cultists. There weren’t many – not in the upper echelon anyway. It proved to be a short study.”
The younger man moved with Kline, taking in the view. This home was in the heart of the Terrwald, off logging roads he somewhat doubted were properly mapped. It had a pretty good view of the river valley below it, and you could see the various volcanic mountains (some dormant, and some merely biding their time) in the north. A good view, in Malvolio’s estimation, if not a somewhat limited one. “Short studies can be just as valuable as longer ones, assuming we learn something from them.”
Kline smirked. He rather agreed. “Quite so. What I did learn was that there is one relatively high-ranking man in the organization who remained unscathed. Legally, he had committed no crimes, and he was connected well enough that he mostly just faded into the background, becoming something of a living curio.”
Malvolio sipped his wine. “You sound like you might have kept an eye on his movements yourself.”
“Merely as a security concern. As you understand, he was a high-ranking member of the cult. I had my concerns he might try to repeat their past performances.” Kline gestured vaguely with his wineglass. “As it happens, however, I learned more than I bid on. It seems there are a series of locations the cult considers important enough to keep an eye on – or I should say, the fraternal order this man had established consider important enough to watch over.”
Another sip for the curator. “And this was important enough to keep your busy attention occupied.” “If only because the process of their own searching never really stopped, so it remained at least a somewhat interesting use of-“
Kline found himself reflexively reaching out behind himself, stabilizing his rather aged sense of equilibrium as the floor shook beneath his feet. For a moment, he feared an eruption, as the side of one of the more distant mountains had belched out fire and dust, until he got his bearings and realized that particular mount had no business being the least bit volcanically active.
Immediately, the older of the Tindalos brothers, Socrates, rushed into the room, his exaggeratedly gaunt expression furrowed deeply with a mixture of concern and distantlyfocused anger. “Did you feel that, Professor?”
“Of course I felt it,” Kline snapped, no doubt concerned for the continued welfare of his books. “That earthquake might have damaged the foundation.”
As if on cue, Plato came through. He was the younger Tindalos brother, apparently by quite a margin, though he was every bit as gaunt and wiry as his elder. He made his way through the kitchen and into the stairwell leading to the “basement”, much of which was actually aboveground structure, with the house built into the side of a hill, as it was. Socrates took no notice of this, narrowing his eyes toward the mountain.
“That,” Malvolio said evenly, taking the rest of his glass in one mouthful, “was no mere earthquake. I should know, I’ve experienced a few.”
“I agree,” Socrates looked to his master. “Excuse me, Professor. I wish to look into the matter.”
Kline waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Go. Do let me know if it really is unusual.”
Malvolio’s mouth drew out into a fine line. If this was an artificial incident, he could think of only a few ways to produce such a shock.
--Slipher Tower stood out to Vidcund among the locations in Anfangsburg, though he could not quite put a finger on why, which wound up bothering him more than any one other factor about the day. His intuition was good, and he was inclined to trust it, but normally he could at least put half an ounce of reasoning into the equation to explain the impulse.
Standing in the shadow of the remains of the building, however, inspired such a powerful sense of déjà vu that Vidcund could not help but take a peek inside. Finding the door locked was no impediment – not with fresh foot-prints inside to tell him there was more to this story than what met the eye. He forced the lock quickly and moved inside. Automatically, the augmented-reality interface of his glasses subtly amplified the lighting.
Must have been an update since last time... Carefully, quietly, he picked his way among the broken glass and papers, following the path of the building’s previous visitors.
--Subject 13 (MOSES I) reported an incident on [DATE REDACTED] wherein they approached an individual without conscious awareness or distinct personality, in the course of the original project. This individual, Subject 131, was a lobotomized human of otherwise premium physical health who had had nearcomplete removal of the prefrontal cortex of the brain. Subject 13 reported significant curiosity about this individual shortly before attempting to establish telepathic communication.
The resulted contact was observed, and
immediately upon the establishment of a
teleneural link, Subject 13’s EEG readings showed a significant increase in activity related to perception and fear – this was confirmed with polygraph readings indicating stress response. Subject 13 was quoted as saying “again?” before entering a fugue state. For the remainder of the test, Subject 13 increasingly insisted upon being watched and repeated frequently that they were “not alone” in the test chamber – obvious since 131 was also p
resent.
Ten minutes into the test, Subject 13 declared that they were unable to break the teleneural link, and 131 was terminated by lethal
injection. Subject 13 would experience a lapse in consciousness for 10 hours. After waking, Subject 13 was thoroughly noncooperative in debriefings about the experience.
A transcript of a successful debriefing, produced under the influence of sodium thiopental, exists, but is classified above your level.
--“So, you’re saying you’re psychic.”
Scion had to chuckle at that. “When you put it that way, it certainly does sound rather ridiculous, doesn’t it? Not to mention the obvious fact that I am, to the full extent of my knowledge, the only living one. Granted, I certainly haven’t met all seven-and-some billion people on this big ol’ mudball.”
Niles sighed. Psychic wasn’t really all that much of a stretch, really, granting that necromancy seemed to be very evidentially real as well. He felt somewhat as though he had fallen through some crack in reality into an alternate dimension filled with strangeness, but this was hardly an accurate perception. After all, what was strange, other than something being counter-intuitive – by that definition, anyway, the strange happened more often than not. “Well, shit. You been reading my mind this whole time, then?”
“As a general rule, I try not to read minds at all when I can help it. It’s not exactly polite.”
It wouldn’t be, which had been what Niles was trying to imply anyway. By now, however, a whole array of varying clues was beginning to come together in his head. “The collar you’re wearing under your jacket helps with that, then?”
“Observant. Yes, it does. It’s an application of AEGIS technology.”
A frown behind Prince’s mask, as the pair finally entered a stairwell, which, as in most buildings, seemed so much more sturdily built than the surround. “AEGIS is a military technology, isn’t it? Something to do with missile defence for warships?”
“Maybe. I’m referring to something else. Aetheric Generalized Influence System. It’s Agency tech, developed to basically block and/or channel various energy signatures – the sort of thing you’d generally call magic.”
Niles, here, stopped dead, and Scion had made it to the next landing before pausing to look up at him. “... Relax, Prince, I’m not an agency spy. Archangel would have killed me by now if I was. Suffice it to say that there’s no security system that can’t be broken, and no such thing as a secret technology that gets field deployed. Now’s not the time for a history lesson, and even then, I’m the wrong person to give it. I didn’t design the damn thing.”
Prince considered that for a while before reluctantly following. The building had gone from silence to noise, groaning in protest at what was no doubt a slightly different position than it had had before the quake. “Who did, then?”
“Faceless. You haven’t met him yet. He’s pretty much our go-to-guy for all things tech. Someone found some olderstyle AEGIS hardware and Faceless made his
improvements, then figured out how to make it useful for me. Honestly, I mostly use it to tune everyone out.” Scion looked to Prince. “Get a few dozen people in a room all talking at the same time, and you’ll have some idea of how loud it can be for me, even when nobody’s speaking.”
Niles’ head was buzzing. The building was groaning, and swaying, and he couldn’t be sure if it was his senses playing tricks on him or the building itself, given how utterly unconcerned James seemed to be by the development. All it really did was make him nervous, fill him with that tight-chested feeling of confinement, and harden his resolve to exit the building as expediently as possible.
A door slammed closed in the depths, and James put out his hand to arrest the junior Angel’s movement. They listened in silence for a moment for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and then looked to one another.
As he had before, with the trunk of the car, Niles suddenly had the idea that it was better to find another stairwell, and silently followed Scion out, careful to close the door behind them.
--Sailing on the Lake of Clouds was no more difficult than doing so on any body of water, provided you had a suitable craft and a comprehensive knowledge of the associated piloting techniques. For her part, Maria considerably lacked the latter, but what she lacked in expertise, Maria-as-Cassilda could command of others.
And it was only here, alone with the mindless, fleshy sailors that piloted her craft, that she could look back upon earth as one might look upon a stage from a high balcony, commanding at a gesture of her gloved hands for the clouds to part, and reveal to her a shimmering, wavering image of the Monument at Anfagnsburg, and the battle that had recently transpired.
The boat tipped slightly, and she did not have to look behind her to know that the Phantom, her servantambassador, had joined her aboard the boat. “Now, then... he does look familiar, doesn’t he?”
“I believe that may be one of the men we chased through the city.” The Phantom’s voice carried a measure of intrigue – Maria suspected he might actually have been impressed. “I wonder how he managed to cross the starry void and dodge death in a single gesture.”
“A mystery to solve in due course,” Cassilda countered. Maria disliked the line – she felt the grammar was forced, theatrical. Carcosa was increasing its hold. “... I am more concerned with the state of the monument.”
“Your vision is a few hours behind the mark, my lady. The monument was unharmed.” The Phantom extended a scroll toward her. “His Majesty the King.”
Without truly thinking about it, she turned to take the scroll, with its yellow ribbon and unmistakable seal. It was a dreadful fate indeed, to fall into the hands of the King in Yellow.
--The sense of Deja Vu in the tower only increased as Vidcund adventured deeper into it. It had gone from that sense of having seen the lobby before to an increasing awareness that he knew the building and its layout. He found himself anticipating cameras and detectors where they had used to be – most looted or wasted by time. Quite a few showed signs of having been fired upon, as part of whatever gunbattle had erupted in the building however many years previously it had been.
He found himself in a reverie, and fancied he knew some of the men and women who had sat at these desks, that he could have called them out by name, if they were present.
His ears rang, for a moment, and then, as he stepped back into the stairwell, he became aware of silent shuffling, of a door being gently closed. He was not alone, and that knowledge filled him with curiosity. The two Grey Angels from the conflict he’d broken up at the monument were still at large, and hunches being what they were, he’d have been willing to bet he knew where they were, now.
He hustled up the stairs at a run, trusting his Agency conditioning to carry him up the stairs against the protest of aerobic muscle and cardiovascular systems. He hit the door that had been freshly closed – he could see it by the disturbed layer of dust on the ground, and yanked it open, barging through as he slowed to a walk to get his bearings.
The building groaned. There was a great amount of scraping of metal. For a moment, Vidcund feared imminent collapse, but then, as his feet remained stable, he realized something else had happened.
--One observer from MOSES II (as carried out by Slipher Corporation) reported that all subjects from the same clonal batch as Subject 001 were possessed of a keen sense of intuition. During combat suitability testing, Sub 001 and his ‘siblings’ were said to have a remarkably keen sense of tactical calculation, reaching beyond standard intelligence analysis techniques. Such hunches were believed to be a manifestation of lingering teleneural ability, as they seemed to focus chiefly on estimations of the number and disposition of enemy forces, and prediction of their behaviour.
The accuracy of this report is questionable. Agency currently believes it to be a skill rather than a manifestation of abnormal brain activity, due to much of the accuracy being lost after Subject 001 was inducted into the Agency version of the program.
--The great rending of metal didn’t help Niles’ nerves, as he immediately planted his feet and reached out with his free left hand to brace against the wall, in spite of the fact that nothing had moved. Scion might have chuckled at this, had he not begun to be particularly quiet, and gestured for Niles to do the same.
The two shared what might have been a significant glance, were they not masked, and listened carefully to the continued sounds of rumbling and clanging. They were standing adjacent to the central column of the tower, through which the bank of elevator shafts ran, and as they listened, they became increasingly aware that the sounds were localized in that column.
Quietly, and leaving Niles with the distinct impression he
should do the same, Scion reached under his jacket for a concealed weapon – a rather nicely-maintained and not the least bit customized FN Five-seveN. Niles was impressed. That was a practical weapon, not a hand cannon or a phallic augmentation device.
Carefully, they picked their way around the corner to the elevator doors, which were already being wrenched open. Niles found his vision swimming, and the throbbing in his head increased to a fever pitch. His heart was pounding in his throat, and sweat slicked the inside of his gloves, which were coming together in front of him to put a proper grip on his little snubnose revolver.
He had never seen anything like this monstrosity before. The bone-tipped hands that had pryed open the elevator doors had certainly a striking resemblance to human, and the central mass to which they were connected certainly bore some resemblance to a human torso, but human chests and faces were usually not stretched across the nucleus of a mass of throbbing, writhing, groping tentacles.
The monstrosity slithered into full view, and that face turned toward Niles, and as fear wormed around inside his mind and his heart threatened to explode from overuse, singularity of purpose welled up to overtake it all. The human body was one of reflex and habit, in spite of the arrogant claims of the mind’s dominion. He didn’t need his brain to tell him to line up the iron sights and fire.
