Callsign: Rook - Book 1 (A Stan Tremblay - Chess Team Novella)

by Robinson, Jeremy

  I can’t die like this.

  “Get off of me!” I scream. My voice distracts the creature. Its jaws close slightly, revealing a pair of perfectly black eyes, like two eight balls jammed into the top of a killer Humpty Dumpty. Tufts of thick brown hair cover its milky skin.

  I’ve seen this before. The remains of these creatures litter the cave floor. These things aren’t killing people here, they’re being killed. It wasn’t put here to kill me, I was put here to kill it.

  “Get off me, I said!” I shout, further confusing the beast. I dive to the side, but it clamps down on my shirt—a red, white and blue flannel that looks much more patriotic than any piece of clothing should. I spin around and lose my balance. The shirt rips as I fall away. My hands stretch out to brace my fall and I plunge into a litter of bones—the bones of this thing’s kin. But my right hand catches on something sharp. A hot burn strikes my palm, followed by a warm gush of liquid over my wrist.

  I’m bleeding.

  And the thing can smell it. I hear its quick breaths, sniffing as a dog does. Then I hear the smacking of lips and then it moves again, closing in on me.

  Ignoring the pain in my hand, I dig into bones and find the sharp object. Playing my fingers over it gently, I feel a large triangular tooth. Then another. And another. In my mind’s eye I can see its shape: a broken jawbone from one of these creatures. I find an end that has no teeth and grip it.

  I’m back on my feet for only a moment before the creature charges again. But I’m ready for it. Whatever this thing is, it’s deadly, but it’s not smart enough to realize I would anticipate the same attack.

  I step to the side and swing down. I feel an impact, and then a tug on my weapon as the teeth catch flesh. A sound like tearing paper fills the air and makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t see it, but I know I have just sliced open the creature’s back.

  It whimpers and stops.

  I step closer.

  It steps away.

  Some instinct I never knew I had tells me I’ve inflicted a mortal wound. The thing is dying. I see its form again as it nears the far wall—egg shaped body, tiny arms, squat legs, large eyes. And I recognize it for what it is. Not the species, the age.

  It’s a baby.

  I’ve just killed a baby.

  As it mewls against the wall, each call weaker then the last, the jaw-weapon falls from my hand.

  “No,” I whisper, falling to my knees. What kind of a sick world have I been brought to?

  I want my mother.

  I scream for her. “Mom!” I scream again and again, my voice growing hoarse. My face is wet with tears and snot. My body is wracked by sobs between each shout for my mother. My thoughts turn to my father. How awful he must feel now that I’m gone, knowing I disappeared while angry with him. Not only had he lied to me for thirteen years, but he also believed I was capable of hurting Aimee. He didn’t trust me. Never had. But I trusted him now. Was this what he was protecting me from? This thought strikes me like a fist and I long for my father’s presence. He could protect me. I yell for him next.

  But he doesn’t come. He can’t hear me. He’ll never hear me again. How could he?

  My voice fades to a whisper. Pain stabs my head with every beat of my heart. The pinpricks of light surrounding me are now blurry halos. In the quiet, I can no longer hear the ragged breathing of the young creature. Certain it’s dead, I weep again, mourning not just the death of this deformed thing that tried to eat me, but the death of something much more precious to me: my soul. As my body gives way to exhaustion, I slide down onto the stone floor, surrounded by bones and wonder, maybe that’s the point.

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  —SAMPLE—

  2012: THE FIFTH WORLD by Edward G. Talbot

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  DESCRIPTION:

  Sometimes, the end of the world needs a little help.

  Simon Gray stopped fighting years ago when he left the Army, but the CIA has made him an offer he can't refuse: the opportunity to take down Guatemalan arms dealer Yum Cimil. Cimil considers himself Maya royalty, and is planning worldwide destruction to usher in the Maya Fifth World on December 21, 2012.

  Simon knows all too well the damage Cimil is capable of. This time, it's stolen nukes and a presidential kidnapping. Decades earlier, it was more . . .personal. Now he'll get his chance for revenge, but stopping Cimil won't be enough. Homo sapiens isn't the only hominid with skin in this game, and Simon must prevent an attack that threatens the very existence of the human race.

  EXCERPT:

  PROLOGUE

  The Yucatan Peninsula

  Mayan Long Count: 10.10.10.10.10, Tzolkin 1 Oc, Haab 13 Pax

  (September, 1037 A.D.)

  Balaam wasn't expecting his world to fall apart that day. However, an apocalypse can put a dent in the best of plans.

  As he passed under the sacred arch leading to the temple, the smell of carrion reached his nostrils. He wiped his face, as if to dispel the odor, and his hands came away covered with grime and sweat. His legs felt heavy moving up the weathered stone steps, and he knew it wasn't all due to fatigue from his twelve hour journey. The stench increased, his heart started beating faster, and he wondered if they were dead already. As he gazed into the central courtyard from the top step, he stopped wondering.

  The bodies adorned the grassy space as if arranged with a purpose. Some were seated, some lay on their backs in a pose resembling sleep. But this was no siesta. Even from where he stood, he could tell they were dead. The signs of the great sickness were on them, the dried skin and shriveled flesh.

  Balaam dropped to his knees, and his moan shattered the humid silence. The birds on the arch took to the sky. His head sank to the cold stone, arms outstretched in supplication. As an assistant to the priests, he had seen his share of sacrifice, and even offered his own blood as part of the ceremony. He'd never understood how jamming thorns in his flesh pleased the gods, but he wasn't foolish enough to question it aloud. Questioners found themselves at the top of the pyramid with their hearts ripped out.

  Even though he'd known the end could be coming, he couldn't accept that they were all gone. After a long minute, he dared to breathe again and rose to his feet. Balaam did not consider himself brave, but the news he carried was even more terrible than the carnage that lay before him. He had to see if anyone was left alive.

  He examined the first body he came to, seated in a high-backed reed chair. He could barely recognize the man. The mysterious disease that had ravaged the land in recent years struck down mostly priests, hideously disfiguring its victims in the process. It took their hair first. Then it consumed them from within, the flesh just disappearing from their bodies over time. No one knew what caused it, but clearly the gods were angry.

  Before he had left to consult the seers at the retreat near Tulum, the priests here had found an herb that appeared to alleviate the symptoms. By drinking the herb in a strong tea, they lived many moons longer. Obviously it had stopped working. Still struggling to control his grief and fear, Balaam muttered a single word. "Itzamna."

  Only Itzamna, creator of all things, could be responsible. In an odd way, this gave him comfort, as if confirming the omnipresent role of the divine. Avoiding the lifeless bodies as much as possible, he crossed the courtyard, focusing on his feet as they compressed the wet ground. He passed under a rounded doorway into the darkness of the main temple.

  As always, he felt in the blackness of the hallway something akin to the security of a swaddled baby. His hands moved to trail along the walls with familiarity born of countless repetition. Despite the familiar space, his mind struggled to explain what he had discovered in the courtyard. All at once he felt oppressed by the cave-like building; he began to run. He burst out of the hall to face the altar, no longer able to hold his tongue.

  "In the name of Itzamna, is anyone alive? Chelte, are you here?"

  He received no reply. Throwing his frail body
to the ground, he knelt in front of the altar with a moan. It seemed only the pale light of the torches bore witness to his grief. For long minutes, all he heard were the ragged gasps of his own breathing.

  "Balaam, is that you?" A weak and raspy voice pierced the stillness. Balaam raised his head and looked left, eyes wide with surprise. He could just make out a figure slumped against the wall, and he jumped to his feet. He found Chelte, the oldest of the priests, sitting in a pool of blood.

  No one knew Chelte's age. He was the Ah Kin Mai, translated as the "Highest One of the Sun." The leading priest. None of the dozens who called the jungle retreat their home could remember a time when he wasn't ancient, wasn't the living heart of their small community. When he coughed now, a clear fluid dripped from the side of his mouth. His hands reached for Balaam's tunic. He pulled the younger man close, their faces inches apart.

  "We are lost, my son. I know not what great displeasure we must have given, but it scarcely matters. I have seen the great Hurakan smite them all, wise men and fools alike. In truth, the wise men seem the greater fools."

  The effort of speaking forced the older man's eyes to close. Balaam's heart filled with terror at the apparent loss of faith by this, the most devout of men. He had rarely heard Chelte mention Hurakan, the ancient God of Fire who caused the Great Flood that wiped out the second divine attempt to create humankind.

  Balaam steeled himself against the fear and opened his mouth. He had to deliver his news.

  "Chelte, you have been the water of life for all of us. I beg you, do not abandon mighty Itzamna in the moment when you need him most. I bring news, both terrifying and wonderful. I need your guidance."

  For several seconds, he heard no reply. Had the old man died? The answer came as a gnarled fist wrapped around his upper arm. The voice was gentle now.

  "Balaam, Balaam, you always were a good boy." The voice fell silent again.

  Balaam said, "What happened to the others? And how did you escape?"

  A harsh laugh reached his ears. "Escape? Is that what you call this?" Chelte gestured to his frail body, a shadow of his former self.

  "The herb disappeared. The two harvesting spots were destroyed in mud-slides shortly after you left. And then, we started dying. Most went into the courtyard to die, to leave a warning to anyone who might come. I have been here, asking Itzamna for guidance. He does not answer.

  "I am glad you returned. I know not what has happened to the priests in the other temples, but I fear that we may be the last."

  Balaam's eyes filled with tears, and he nodded. "That is so. Only two priests were left at Tulum. I told them about the herb, but it was too late for them. Everywhere I went, the priests were already gone."

  Chelte said, "You asked how I escaped. I need to tell you the secret of the priests. Something we are sworn to share with none outside ourselves. You see, we know why this has happened to us."

  The old man shifted his body, and winced at the effort. "A long time ago, the Ancient Ones came. They were human and yet, not human. They brought tales of a great wave overtaking their home and forcing them out to sea. They came here, and soon they were worshiped almost as gods. It was as if they had the ability to see into our minds.

  "For a long time, the Ancient Ones kept themselves separate. Generations were born and died. I don't know how it started, but at some point, they mixed their bloodlines with the priests. Eventually, being of mixed blood became a requirement for a priest, a secret requirement passed on but never written down.

  "This was two centuries ago, and everything was fine until I was a young man. Then the first signs of the sickness arrived. For too long, we ignored what is obvious now, that almost all of the dead and dying were priests. The mixed blood killed us.

  "The reason I am the last is yet another secret, one my mother told me before the illness took her. My father was not her iicham, he was one of the nobles in Sayil. She never told anyone else. My blood has less of the sickness in it. But sickness it has nonetheless."

  Balaam stared at Chelte, trying to understand what he'd heard. "Who were these Ancient Ones?"

  Chelte shook his head. "I don't know. I know only what my father told me and what his father told him. Perhaps the Ancient Ones came from the gods, but if they did then so did the sickness.

  "There's one more thing you must do. You must get away from the cities. You know that the sickness exists there as well. In the cities, there are some of the mixed blood who did not become priests. Go back to the villages and keep away from anyone with the sickness. With the disappearance of the priests, the nobles will tear apart the cities. It is the way of nature and men. Retreat, and your distant children will inherit the Fifth World."

  Balaam's voice became emotional. "The Fifth World! Yes, that is what I must tell you about."

  Chelte coughed again. "My body is filled with pain. Give me your news quickly. I will be seeing Itzamna before I ever see the sun rise again."

  Balaam began. "We were all wrong. Before they died, the priests near Tulum said the heavens have been tricking us. The fourth world will not disappear at the end of the Long Count. The stars are telling us that nothing is foretold such that the proper actions of men cannot change it. But we must change our ways."

  The significance of this hit Balaam like a blow to the stomach. Of course, the sickness must be part of it! Before he could say anything, Chelte spoke with something resembling a low chuckle.

  "Improper action. Mixed blood. Oh, we are lost." He coughed again, and the dripping fluid was tainted with blood. "Did the wise ones at Tulum have any idea what the proper action would be?"

  Balaam nodded, and his breathing increased with the anticipation of the telling. Without warning, Chelte's head fell to the side. The momentum pulled his entire body onto the floor. Balaam leaned over and put his head on the old man's chest, his tears stinging his eyes. He heard no heartbeat.

  He could no longer hold the pain and fatigue at bay, and his body sagged on top of Chelte. He might have stayed there for a long time, might even have been content to give up and die as the scavengers feasted outside. But he could not forget Chelte's command to return to the villages.

  He lifted his head and stared at the shadows cast by the dim light of the torches. He rushed towards the hallway, banging his head on the cobbled stone wall. He could now see the outside light, but instead of calming him, it felt harsh and alien. He burst into the courtyard, his retinas burning from the shock. He knew he needed to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to take another step. He sagged to his knees. Before he slipped into unconsciousness, he had one final thought. Illumination was far more terrifying than darkness ever had been.

  * * * * *

  December 12, 2012: Washington D.C.

  "OK, Madame President, I have hidden nuclear devices in several U.S. cities. Now we're going to play a little guessing game. You pick a city. If it doesn't have a nuke, you lose a city that does. For each minute you delay, you lose a member of Congress."

  President Susan Richards, the first woman to hold that most distinguished office, stared into the cold brown eyes of her captor. She responded with the combination of directness and humor that had helped propel her to a role as Speaker of the House and then the Presidency.

  "Do I get to choose which member?"

  The words were barely out of her mouth when the blow landed, blood rushing to her left cheek and ear. She shook her head in pain, but kept her expression neutral. "You'd do well to consider the ramifications of beating the leader of the free world."

  At this, his brown eyes sparkled with amusement. His laugh was the low growl of a predator, throaty and sustained. "My dear lady. I have kidnapped you from the protection of the tightest security on the planet. As we speak, the legislative branch of the American government is watching, powerless to stop me. Can you possibly imagine that I'm concerned by a bruise or two on that lovely face? By the way, my compliments to your plastic surgeon."

  The video images, which news organization
s around the world had now picked up, switched to a room that most Americans would have recognized: senators and representatives in the House Chamber, awaiting the arrival of the President of the United States to address a joint session of Congress. This spectacle, however, was unlike any the building had seen in the two centuries since the British had abandoned their last attempt at wresting back control of the colonies.

  The gathered notables had just witnessed a captured president slapped in the face. The huge monitors spread throughout the room were a recent addition, and despite some grumbling about tradition at the time of their installation, all the Members now focused on them. House Speaker Reynolds Winthrop IV banged the gavel as if it was an extension of his arm, but nothing could subdue the outrage and panic at seeing this attack on the very bedrock of the Republic.

  The video switched back to the man standing next to the President. He grinned and faced the camera that had carried the improbable scene to the horrified legislators, long dark locks flowing behind him. "Ladies and Gentleman, please settle down."

  The mayhem in the Capitol building continued unabated, his words having little effect. Panic and anger had taken center stage. Then the huge speakers under the screen registered the sound of a firing gun, and all eyes turned to it.

  "I trust I have your attention." The man now held a gun pointed at the President's head. "As it happens, I'm using blanks. But rest assured, what I'm about to unleash on your nation will be real. For those of you who favor smaller government, you're in luck. Very soon, there will be one fewer federal employee. And please, no one try to leave the building. You don't want to miss what comes next."