The dry chaparral burst into flames, setting the uppermost sections of the hillside ablaze. Every tree within a hundred foot radius ignited as superheated wreckage landed in their branches.
Realizing that French and Bellini had to get out of there, Mariah psychically forced them up and out of their protective hole, satisfied when both half ran, half slid down the hill.
She calmed down instantly. Jamming her hands in her pockets, she said innocently, “Hmm ... bad short.”
Gabriel stared at her, trying to think coherently. Damned if she wasn’t back to her old self: eating M&M’s she found in her pockets, giving him a cocky grin and heading toward the house—whistling! The whole episode had taken less than six minutes.
When the explosions began, all the agents in the house came running, weapons drawn. Seeing that Mariah and Winters were safe, they stood off to the side and watched the devastation, as stupefied as their leader. Now Winters rounded on them. “Call the fire department and help those two guys coming down the hill. Get the water hoses and douse the house and the yard before the fire gets here.”
#
Ignoring the flurry of activity, Mariah headed for the back door. So far, so good. As she walked into the kitchen, something unanticipated happened that nearly caused the plan to unravel.
She expected all the agents to be out of the house and was astonished when she almost collided with Rueben Creel. Her surprise at seeing him was nothing compared to Rueben’s confusion—and fright—when he saw her.
Actually, what he saw was Mariah morphing into David Paradise.
He and Paradise were out the previous night eating a bushel of barbecued ribs. Unaware the meat was slightly tainted, both of them picked up a mild case of food poisoning and called in sick. Feeling better (as opposed to Paradise who was still pretty punk), Rueben decided to come in. But the effect of the food poisoning wasn’t completely out of his system and he’d been in the bathroom off the kitchen when the RV exploded. Just about to fly out of the house, he practically ran Mariah down as she headed up the hallway toward the front door.
Or almost ran down Paradise.
Who should not have been there.
Who had not been there a second ago.
Creel’s brain cramped as he stared at Paradise but it couldn’t be David he was sick but it was him...
“Rueben,” Mariah said in a soft but commanding voice as she locked eyes with him, “I know this is really confusing, but you’ll remember only this: David Paradise got better just like you did and came to work with you. You and he came back into the house after the van blew. And Mariah rushed by the two of you, heading for the stairs.”
At that moment Winters burst into the kitchen, nearly stumbling over the two who stood in conversation.
“Where the hell did she go, Paradise?” he shouted.
Mariah replied in David’s voice, “I was just coming out of the bathroom and almost bumped into her. She headed in the direction of the living room. Then I heard her on the staircase, so she probably went up to her bedroom.”
Taking a deep breath, Creel agreed. “That’s right, Agent Winters. I was out front when I heard the explosion, so I decided to come through the house rather than take the longer way around the outside. She brushed by me in the living room, heading for the stairs. She looked frightened.”
#
Mariah felt like she betrayed Reuben. Even so, she would not take the chance on him telling Winters the truth as his training dictated. She hated having to plant the scenario in his head, but it was mandatory for her plan to work. She’d come this far: she would not allow anything to stand in her way.
She/Paradise turned to face Winters and said, “Do you want me to get her?”
Creel was confused. Something just happened that stunned him, but his brain felt fuzzy, and he couldn’t remember what it was. He felt strangely good about something he’d done, but also a bit embarrassed.
The fire engines were close, evidenced by the wailing sirens. He shook his head, realizing he’d get a headache if he tried to figure it out.
#
As the fire trucks barreled up Mastenhege, Winters yelled to the person he thought was David Paradise. “Go upstairs and drag her ass down here if that’s what it takes. And don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
That damned bitch, Winters fumed to himself as he headed out the back door, she’s finally gone too far. She and I are going to have a little heart-to-heart over this one.
The firemen were just hooking into the city’s water supply when two more sirens announced the arrival of the ambulances coming for French and Bellini.
Several minutes later, as the excitement began to die down, Winters frowned. Where the hell were Paradise and that woman? Suddenly, his eyes widened in remembrance.
Paradise called in sick this morning.
So had Creel, but he had been the one to deliver Mariah’s invitation to join her in the back yard. Winters dashed back into the house and ran into the living room shouting hers and Paradise’s name.
No response.
Deep down in his gut, he knew she was gone. And he knew what she’d done. Adrenaline threw him into high gear as he bounded up the stairs. Anxiety made him feel slightly nauseous while he frantically searched each room. His cursing got louder with each empty room he found.
Back downstairs a few minutes later, he found everyone in the living room staring at him as if he’d gone berserk. They heard him bellow as he moved from room to room but were not able to make out the words. However, they had no trouble understanding when he roared, “She’s gone. Gone! I want this entire city sealed off, including every means of public and private transportation and every road out.”
In a voice filled with anxiety, Creel said, “Do you think she’s been kidnapped? I mean, the explosion of the empty van was probably a decoy, right Agent Winters?”
Winters silently blessed the rookie for giving him an out. “My sentiments exactly, Creel. We’ve got to find her before whoever took her turns her into the most dangerous weapon this world has ever seen.”
Chapter 38
The Shadow stood before the vid-screen in the Mobile Exploratory Research Station, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Was it joy? Was it fear? Should this new reading on the vid-screen make him ecstatic or horrified?
The green fluorescent numbers hung in the motionless black screen which so resembled the dark sky, as if the very ether blasted this reading from its depths:
4.9
If the Shadow had reservations when the female registered at 3.9, he was now nearly neurotic. What was unfolding before the eyes of both him and the geneticists was a definite evolutionary happening.
There was no doubt now: the Anorasian race would be transformed forevermore. Their path of development was now based upon this female’s shanaria, her destiny, be it either in their favor or not.
The issue before him was becoming almost paralytically complicated. Did he intercede and bring this female to Hakilam to be studied minutely in the hopes of discovering the meaning of her existence? Could they deduce from their findings if she was the Man’asorai or the Sov’dovaris? Did he allow her power to ascend unchecked, in the hope she was the Man’asorai, the Chosen?
How much longer could he allow her psychic strength to remain unrestrained? Until she enslaved the entire Anorasians population who could no longer defend itself against her might? Until she did great harm to herself, mayhap taking an entire planet with her as she went supernova?
With a tremulous sigh, he reined in his histrionics and made a decision: for now, since he was many times more powerful than she, he would leave her to evolve at her own pace.
The Shadow folded himself in his cloak and stepped into his hyperspatial transport. His last thought, before he was conveyed back to his base, was still one of tempered elation. Mariah Adele Carpenter had, heretofore, used her power for the greater good. He had
no reason to mistrust her motives at this point. He would, however, step up his vigilance on this human in the hopes that he would be able to intercede at the precise moment necessary.
#
The sound of his nails clicking on the smooth metallic surface made him wince as it echoed loudly off the polished surface. His heart rate accelerated, beating loud enough to be heard in the stillness of the corridor.
Furtively, Dir So’Grak cast a glance at the Minister of Finance who kept pace beside him, his steps so fluid he appeared to glide rather than walk. The Osratas’ nose twitched in agitation, but the Minister’s face remained expressionless.
This, a grievous error, yes, Grak thought to himself for the tenth time. Tend me to my own business, yes. Keep to myself this, yes. Wrong They find me? To me They will do what? What to happen to mine family on Osratas?
But he was not wrong. The Osratasian (of the Finance category Dir, sub-classification So assigned to members of the accounting class) had spent five years in the compilation of this data. Painstakingly he had checked his figures time and again, always cautious not to arouse suspicion by the questions he asked of those who might fill in the gaps. On my own time, yes, he reminded himself. During assigned hours never, yes. Now as a loyal subject of the Domain, he was prepared to defend his allegations.
Grak had assumed he need go no further than some minor official in the Synadracus, the governing body of the Domain. He imagined his meticulous records would be reviewed, maybe congratulations extended, mayhap some small reward proffered. And then They would do whatever They deemed necessary to punish the offenders.
However, several weeks after submitting the information, he was called to appear before the head of the Synadracus, the Minister of Finance. For what seemed like an eternity, the frighteningly dispassionate Minister grilled the trembling Osratas until his little voice became a mere squeak. Grak was unsure why he was asked to repeat, again and again, what was in the file. When finally dismissed, he returned to his quarters, shaken.
And then, the summons. He, Dir So’Grak, bred and reared on the planet Osratas in the eighth sector of the Domain, now a citizen of the Cheloran Star System and resident of planet Elisium, was to present himself six days hence to the Sho’revra, there to have a private audience with the Min’yel’os.
Today was the day: Dir So’Grak, the Osratasian accountant, and Ton So’Galaxaril, the Minister of Finance, walked down this narrow corridor of the Sho’revra, their footfalls ringing hollow with every step. No windows graced this passageway, just seamless silver metal walls of the same material as the floor, so highly polished he could see himself as clearly were he to stand before a mirror.
His sharp nails clicked against the impervious surface of the data orb, clutched in both paws, as tremors shook his round little body. Though he knew his research was thorough and precise (after all, he was Osratasian, a species noted for its predisposition toward infallible accuracy), he was terrified lest the mental acuity of the Min’yel’os uncover a minute error and his corporeal essence be transformed into atoms to become one with the cosmos.
Finally, they reached their destination—a blank wall at the end of the corridor. The composed Anorasian and the quaking Osratasian stood for many long seconds ... and then ten feet of the wall disappeared.
Prodded forward, Grak entered a frigid chamber bathed in a light of cobalt blue, unfathomable as a starless sky and just as unrelenting. No more than ten feet inside, Galaxaril’s touch on his shoulder brought him to a halt. There were rumors about the chamber that housed the Min’yel’os; however, none prepared him for this.
Ten black obelisks, separated from each other by no more than two inches, stood in a row, towering at a height of nine feet. Forward several feet and centered precisely between the fifth and sixth towers was a crimson pedestal, two feet wide at the base, flowing up three feet to a pinpoint top. A white sphere balanced impossibly on its pinnacle, opaque and in stark contrast to everything in the room—but just as cold and enigmatic.
Grak remained where he stood. Galaxaril moved (drifted) forward, coming to within six inches of the pedestal. Slowly, a pink glow lit the core of the sphere, causing it to become transparent. Seconds later, the light extinguished and the sphere resumed its opacity. The Minister turned and walked (floated) back to the Osratasian.
In a voice as wintry and lifeless as the chamber, Ton So’Galaxaril said, “I will leave now. You will step forward as you observed of me. I will return when your time is through.”
With that, the Minister of Finance glided around Grak and headed back toward the entrance. The Osratasian turned his head to watch as the Minister stepped into the corridor … and the wall became a reality once again.
Abysmal fear coursed through him. He felt as though he were sealed in a tomb. And what was meant by “...when your time is through”? Would the Minister come for his remains once he had been exterminated?
Breathing shallowly, Grak edged forward, more convinced than ever of his folly. His whiskers jerked spasmodically, his nose twitched rapidly. And now he heard the hissssss of his tail dragging on the floor. Why, he was a regular Osratasian musical ensemble, what with the clicking of his nails, the hissing of his hairless tail on the floor, and the tappity-tap of his claws as they beat a shaky staccato on the data orb!
Mortified, Grak halted before the spheroid as had the Minister, waiting for what he did not know. Mayhap he could apologize for his arrogance and, as quickly as possible, be allowed to scurry out, back to the safety of obscurity.
Dir So’Grak squeaked in alarm when the sphere suddenly glowed with the pink light. Almost immediately, the silent chamber filled with a hollow sound.
“Welcome to Our presence, citizen of Osratas. Hold forth that which you have brought before Us.”
For just a second, Grak was stunned into immobility. What he heard was the hollow, reverberating monotone of voices in unison, speaking the same words at precisely the same time. He was more terrified at the lack of inflection than if one voice had shouted at him.
Abruptly, he realized he had been given an order. Thrusting the data orb forward, Grak began to chitter in a high-pitched whine, his words running together at top speed without making any sense even to his own ears. He wondered if he sounded as unbalanced as he felt.
Finally spent, he stood with his head bowed, trying to keep from weeping and making him appear more foolish ... if that were possible.
The silence was ominous, loud with implication. Grak wondered if They assumed him to be harebrained, finding him so preposterous that They were no longer interested in what he brought.
A shaft of white light erupted from the center of each obelisk, trained on the sphere. The pink glow deepened. A supercharged finger of blinding red brilliance shot from the center and engulfed the data orb.
It was over in an instant. The sphere returned to its opacity, the Min’yel’os withdrew their probes ... and Dir So’Grak held a blackened lump in his hand, obviously destroyed by the fluorescence that emanated from the sphere.
And then: “Our thanks for your loyalty to the Domain.”
The sphere lit with a soft blue light. The little Osratasian stood rooted to the spot as a shaft briefly touched the center of his forehead before it extinguished. Unbeknownst to him, the wall disintegrated once again and Dir So’Galaxaril entered, stopping when he stood beside the stilled form of the accountant.
We have assimilated all the information from the orb. From the synapses of this one, We have eliminated total remembrance of this encounter plus all of its research. Remove it from Our presence. You are dismissed.
Chapter 39
The Minister received the message telepathically, the only method of communication between him and Them. He acknowledged then touched Grak’s shoulder with one finger. It was enough to turn the Osratasian around, propel him forward out of the Chamber, down the corridor and out the door to the waiting transport vehicle
that would take him to his residence.
What happened inside the Sho’revra after the exit of the two had never been witnessed by any living being.
The crowning tops of each obelisk began to pulse with violet light. As they throbbed, shafts of dazzling saffron light streamed from the crowns to bombard the opaque sphere. Its central core pulsed: the Min’yel’os assimilated then dissected the information They had sucked from the orb.
... geneticists ... loyal ... exploration ... colonization ... discovery ... Sol ... laboratory ... experimentation ... Touranim ... destroyed ... not? ... Izorach ... dicit ... annihilation ... necessity ... treachery ... dicit ... evidence ... associates ... conspiracy ... dicit ... caution ... Prophecy ... overthrow ... dicit ... betrayal ... dicit ... dicit ...
With the information provided by the Osratasian, the Min’yel’os were able to piece together a plausible scenario using their exceptional analytical powers.
The two geneticists responsible for the evolution and sustained research of the bio-engineered Eocene dicit’ledoni on Hakilam had stumbled upon something of such monumental importance that they risked condemnation—and, more importantly, excruciating death—by constructing an unauthorized laboratory for the purpose of illegal experimentation. The Min’yel’os scanned data records but found nothing extraordinary about the geneticists’ many colonization explorations.
According to the requisitions in the orb, these two began purchasing construction material three thousand years ago. The mystery deepened: it confirmed the timeframe coincidental with the geneticists’ discovery of a remote star system named Sol. Since standard records revealed no data on this star system and the name held no importance to Their consciousness, They accessed ancient archives, scanning all the way back in time to the beginning of their own existence.
Prophecy Page 17
