by Jon S. Lewis
“Where’s my breakfast?” he asked.
“There’s the fridge, help yourself,” Grandpa said as Danielle stifled a laugh.
“I knew he liked you better than me,” Colt said as he stole a strip of bacon.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Grandpa was approaching his eighty-sixth birthday, but if it weren’t for the gray hair he wouldn’t look a day over fifty. He was tall and thin with perfect posture, wide shoulders, and a narrow waist that made him look every bit the superhero he truly was.
The doorbell rang.
“I bet that’s Jonas,” Danielle said, wiping her mouth with a napkin as she got up and followed Grandpa to the door.
Jonas looked nervous. He kept looking over his shoulder, and the moment Grandpa invited him inside he slammed the door shut and locked the dead bolt. Next he closed all the blinds and poked his head into the pantry, checking behind the door before he sat down at the table and chugged down the rest of Danielle’s orange juice.
“Is someone following you?” Grandpa asked.
“To tell you the truth, Colonel McAlister, I’m not sure,” Jonas said.
“Call me Murdoch,” Grandpa said.
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
Grandpa poured him another glass of orange juice. “So is someone going to tell me what kind of trouble the three of you have gotten yourselves into, or is this simply a social call?”
“We discovered something important about the Thule,” Danielle said. “I mean, right now it’s just a theory—but it’s a sound theory. And if we’re right, it could change everything!”
“Slow down,” Grandpa said.
Danielle took a deep breath and explained how she and Jonas were convinced that there was a direct correlation between portals and what they were calling “randoms,” and how those randoms might lead to the Thule gateway.
“Randoms, is it? How do they work?” Grandpa asked.
“We’re not exactly sure,” Danielle said. “I mean, they’re not portals or even tears in the space-time fabric. They aren’t soft spots either.”
“In truth, they don’t even qualify as precursors,” Jonas added. “They’re like tiny pinholes that come and go, but more are showing up every day.”
“And you think there’s a pattern?” Grandpa said. “Some kind of hidden message?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grandpa took a sip of coffee, but his eyes never left Jonas. “I think there may be more to the story.”
“Like what?” Danielle asked.
“That data had to come from somewhere, and I’m guessing you either stole it or you have an inside source. Either way, it explains why Cadet Hickman is so fidgety.”
“We didn’t steal it—at least not directly,” Jonas said. “But the thing is . . . well . . . we can’t tell you where it came from.”
Grandpa took another sip of his coffee. “How long before you find the gateway?”
“That’s the problem,” Jonas said. “It could be this afternoon or a year from now. We just don’t know.”
“One week,” Grandpa said.
“For what?” Danielle asked.
“That’s when you present your findings.”
“But—”
Grandpa held up his hand to cut Jonas off. “You’re not getting a second more, so I suggest you get up from that chair, walk out the door, and get to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As for you,” Grandpa said to Colt. “You have somewhere else you have to be.”
: :
CHAPTER 18 : :
Koenig wants to see me?” Colt asked as he and his grandfather followed a pair of DAA agents down a path that led to a bank of trees lining the Potomac River. Aldrich Koenig was the former president of Trident Biotech. He was not only responsible for the murder of Colt’s parents but was also supposed to be the leader of the largest Thule army on Gathmara.
“He said that he’ll provide certain information if you’ll talk to him, but he won’t say what it’s about.”
“Where is he?”
“In a prison beneath the tunnels.”
“Here? On campus?” Colt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re telling me the mastermind behind this entire invasion has been locked up here since he was arrested back in October?”
“That about sums it up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked.”
“Is it about what happened with the Black Sun Militia?”
“Hard to say,” Grandpa replied. “But we’ll know soon enough.”
The academy grounds used to belong to a private university founded by Thomas Jefferson. The president of the university was an abolitionist who constructed a series of tunnels to help fugitive slaves escape to the North. Colt found the tunnels when he accidentally fell through a shaft. Since then he had been down in the tunnels on more than one occasion—including the night that Heinrich Krone, the Thule assassin Oz’s dad had hired, was killed. And Colt didn’t remember seeing a prison anywhere down there.
“Is that why they attacked?” Colt asked. “Were they looking for Koenig?”
“It’s hard to tell, but if they were, they didn’t find him.”
They followed the DAA agents down a trail that led to a small cabin that had a sagging roof and broken windows. One of the agents reached for a rusted mailbox that hid a biometric scanner. He placed his hand against the glass; green circles flashed around his fingers and thumb, and the door opened.
“In you go,” Grandpa said.
Colt stepped into an elevator car without buttons, and a moment later they started their descent. “How far down are we going?” he asked.
“Far enough,” Grandpa said.
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened to a long corridor where the walls were metal instead of dirt. Grandpa stepped out and Colt followed, but the DAA agents didn’t move.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Grandpa said.
As the doors to the elevator closed, Colt couldn’t help but feel trapped. Sure, there were agents from Whitlock Armor Systems stationed every ten feet, but for all Colt knew they were Thule in disguise. For that matter, Grandpa could have been a Thule too. It smelled like a trap.
“You’re a bit jittery,” Grandpa said as he led Colt through a series of checkpoints where the DAA agents simply saluted and let them pass.
“I’m fine,” Colt said, even though the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. But if he admitted his suspicion, and it really was Grandpa, he was going to look like he was losing his mind. And if the man with him was one of the Thule, then Colt would lose the element of surprise. Either way, he figured it was best to keep quiet.
There were no pictures on the walls, the doors were evenly spaced, and thanks to their armor and helmets, all the agents looked exactly alike, give or take a few inches, all of which meant that it was easy to get turned around.
“This place is a maze,” Colt said. “How do you know where you’re going?”
“I’ve been down here a time or two over the last few weeks,” Grandpa said as he took long strides. “You start to pick up on the patterns, but it’s confusing on purpose. Makes an escape—or a rescue, for that matter—that much harder.”
“No kidding.”
They turned down what looked to be a dead end, where two guards stood on either side of an average door.
“What’s his mood like today?” Grandpa asked.
The nearest guard shrugged. “Same as always, I guess,” he said as a panel in the wall opened up. A metal sphere flew out and hovered next to Grandpa, who didn’t seem to notice. “Sorry, sir,” the guard said. “You know the routine.”
“No need to apologize, you’re just doing your job.” Grandpa watched as an arm with a needle on the end extended from the sphere. He held out his hand, and it slammed into his index finger like a woodpecker taking to its favorite tree. A red dot of blood formed on Grandpa’s fingertip as a second arm unfurled, this one hold
ing some kind of swab. It dabbed at the blood and held the swab under its belly where a door opened up, revealing a green light.
“What’s it doing?” Colt asked, backing up until he hit the wall.
“It’s just a blood test,” Grandpa said as the orb extended a third arm.
“Would you care for a bandage?” it asked with a polite, if synthesized, voice.
“That won’t be necessary,” Grandpa said.
“Very well,” the orb said. “One moment, please, while I complete the analysis.”
“Take your time.”
Colt started to calculate what he would do if Grandpa weren’t actually Grandpa. He figured that he could get one good shot—probably to the throat—before he took off down the hall, but the only way it was going to work was if the DAA agents weren’t part of the ruse. He’d need them to tie fake-Grandpa up, or there was no way he was going to make it back to the elevators without a fight. But if the agents were Thule too . . .
“Thank you, Colonel. You are free to visit the prisoner,” the orb said, interrupting Colt’s thoughts.
“Your turn,” Grandpa said. “Go ahead; it doesn’t hurt any more than a bee sting.”
“Yeah, all right,” Colt said, wondering if the needle was strong enough to pierce his skin. He swallowed hard as he raised a nervous hand. As the orb scuttled over and raised its arm to strike, Colt closed his eyes.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Colt hadn’t felt a thing, and as he opened his eyes he saw Grandpa standing there with his arms folded across his chest.
“How . . . ?” he asked.
“The needle?” Grandpa said. “Thule tech from Trident Biotech.”
“Interesting,” the orb said, as though a machine could be surprised by the results. “I’m detecting an alien contaminate.”
: :
CHAPTER 19 : :
Colt watched from the corner of his eye as one of the guards slid his finger over the trigger of an assault rifle. His chest constricted, his mouth was dry, and swallowing suddenly became difficult. Relax, he thought as he tried to control his breathing. Everything is going to be fine.
“Check the numbers against your database,” Grandpa said, his voice steady. “Or if you need to, put a call in to Doc Roth and he’ll set you straight.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the orb said. “The alien contaminates are spawning at an increased rate but are still within an acceptable range. Verification is positive. Thank you for your patience, Cadet McAlister.” Without another word, the orb’s arms contracted and it flew back into the compartment, where the panel slid shut.
“Breathe,” Grandpa said with a wink.
Colt exhaled as the DAA agent took his finger off the trigger and opened the door. The room looked like a giant pit where a glass cage stood on a pillar that was at least twenty feet around and forty feet tall. The only way across the chasm that separated them from the cage was a narrow bridge without any rails.
“You have visitors,” one of the guards announced through a sound system.
Aldrich Koenig looked up and smiled as he removed his reading glasses. His teeth were perfect, and so were his blond hair, square jaw, broad shoulders, and narrow waist. The blue of his eyes matched the color of his tie, and his shoes were polished to the point that they could have been used as a mirror.
“Wonderful,” Koenig said, his voice echoing through the cavernous chamber as he stood up. “I’m so glad you were able to accept my invitation.”
Colt was struck by his confidence. The man was being held in a secret underground facility with no way of escape, and yet somehow he was still acting like he owned the place.
“Go on,” Grandpa said, pointing for Colt to cross the bridge. “He can’t get at you.”
“Too true, I’m afraid,” Koenig said.
“You’ve got exactly five minutes,” the guard said.
“Thank you,” Koenig said. “That should be more than enough time.”
Colt felt a sensation like tiny fingers prodding at his thoughts, and he winced.
I can sense the monster raging inside of you, and yet you resist. Why? The voice belonged to Koenig, even though his lips hadn’t moved.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Colt said, trying not to show that he was shaken.
“Let’s not play games,” Koenig said, this time aloud. “Thule blood courses through your veins, offering you unheard-of strength. Why not embrace it?”
Without realizing what he was doing, Colt reached for the medallion that hung around his neck. It was the same medallion Grandpa had worn during the Second World War, and it was inscribed with Psalm 46:1. God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Koenig laughed. “Yes, cry out to your God. But I wonder, where was he when the skies opened up and my brothers spilled the blood of thousands?”
“Let’s go,” Grandpa said, placing a strong but tender hand on Colt’s shoulder.
“You won’t win,” Colt said, trying to sound confident. “By the time you figure out how to keep a gateway open long enough to let your armies through, we’ll be ready.”
“Pitiable,” Koenig said. “Particularly since we both know that isn’t true.”
“Yes, it is,” Colt said. “We found the schematics for the weapons you were developing at Trident Defense—including the particle destabilizer.”
Koenig shook his head. “Those are merely experiments. Besides, even if by some miracle you were able to perfect them, you don’t have time to put them into mass production—particularly since your mission launches on January 15.”
Colt frowned.
“Why so surprised?” Koenig said. “Haven’t you discovered by now that you can read the thoughts of others? All Thule can. It’s one of the many reasons we’re superior to humans.”
“Says the alien stuck in a cage.”
“I didn’t ask you here to match wits,” Koenig said. “I simply want to make you an offer.” He paused, his eyes locked on Colt’s. “Join us and live.”
“That’s not much of an offer,” Colt said. “Besides, Togarr—that’s his name, right? You know, the warlord of the Black Sun Militia. He’s making a play for supreme commander, which means your little treaty was broken.”
“Togarr will be dealt with,” Koenig said. “And our people will be united.”
“If you say so.”
“I’ve offered you an opportunity to live, and instead you mock me,” Koenig said. “Know that it won’t be long before this world will burn, and so will everyone in it.”
“I won’t let it happen.”
