by Mark Kraver
“Good question,” Goodheart said, looking over his dark sunglasses at the backhoe’s young operator and then shifting a suspicious gaze to Sullivan.
“Hey, I’ve gotta take the guys to lunch,” said Wilson, staring into the growing hole. “Then we’re outta here. We’ve already got another priority assignment. My colonel wants us back ASAP. I argued, but orders are orders. I wish I could stay and help. I’d like to know what the hell this thing is too, but—” He handed Goodheart the small box.
“Use this meter to figure out what’s creating that interference. It’s already on. Must be a forgotten buried cable or something like that down there. Never had RFI buried before. I don’t know.” He looked down and shook his head, confused. “Anyway,” he put a hand on Goodheart’s shoulder. “I hope to hear what happens. See ya.”
Wilson left Goodheart holding the frequency locator in his massive hands. Watching the van drive away, Goodheart fiddled with the meter by turning it on and off, then rotating all the dials. The needle looked dead, then its needle registered on full blast.
“I don’t know if this stupid thing is even working. Looks like a loose wire to me,” he said, shaking the meter and smacking it with his hand before handing it to Sullivan.
“Any deeper, and I think we’ll hit water,” the backhoe operator shouted. “This is Florida, you know.”
“Keep digging until you do,” Goodheart answered, with a wink and a smile, hoping he wasn’t on a hidden camera somewhere.
“You could always pump the water out if it gets in the way,” Sullivan suggested, leaning closer to investigate the hole. “What did those guys say we were looking for? A buried dump truck?”
Goodheart stared into the growing man-made crater for the first sign of something different and prayed for those miserable souls who were perpetrating this joke.
Chapter 15
The backbone of surprise is fusing speed with secrecy.
Carl von Clausewitz, 1780-1831, Earth
Library of Souls
Queen Maud Mountains
Atlantis, Antarctica
Numen drifted across the ceiling of the immense subterranean ice dome. Since arriving in Atlantis, he had taken on the visual projection of his favorite graviton image, an angel. His sapient minions were working and supplying the industrial complex below with raw and manufactured products.
“What I wouldn’t give for a few Homo superior,” he flashed through his programming. The millennia he had just spent manipulating the brightest Homo sapiens genome had yielded satisfactory results, but humans would not be capable of leading this planet to Heaven. Only a generation of superior hominin could do that.
But for now, the Atlantean would do. They were skilled and hardworking, and they were expert miners. The exquisitely remote Antarctica had turned out to be a treasure trove of precious metals and gems, and they had accumulated an enormous stockpile since Numen first initiated development of the icy continent. Gold, silver, platinum, palladium, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, zirconium were all collected and stored in large ice caves to be traded on the open market—all of which were proving to be vital parts of Numen’s broader plans.
Iridium, the foundation of Elohim technology and the rarest metal found in the planet’s crust, was not quite so plentiful. Luckily, though, it could be found on the surface of Antarctica’s hard ice sheets where fallen meteorites—the only reliable source of iridium in the universe—had struck. Numen was grateful for this, as iridium was a prime component of his most important tools: the massive quantum computers used to coordinate the genesis across the planet and the anti-gravitational capabilities of their main product, cherubim.
The cherubim—the very cornerstone of Numen’s plan—were being manufactured deep under the floor of the ice dome complex in the labyrinth of Elohim technological supremacy. The cherubim of Atlantis were of the simplest design specification, similar in concept to those that could be printed from Yahweh’s ship, but with a more basic, focused purpose: They were programmed for account surveying of the world’s natural resources and shepherding—that is, the counting, repairing and controlling—of humans.
As the name suggested, these sophisticated anti-gravity drones took the appearance of flying naked babies. Numen watched a steady stream of them flying out of a circular golden opening in the floor, up and out of the domed ceiling, like swirls of smoke from a well-stoked fire. The people of Atlantis called them the Anti-Babel Cherubim as a reference to the Tower of Babel. Their work was already underway, and soon the whole world would know what this tiny army was capable of.
In the distance, Rogue, Ra’s infamous seraph, ducked around a corner, trying to stay out of sight, out of mind.
Numen was now in the mid-phase of his long-term plans to save the planet from the red giant. He drifted onto the command platform where he met his number one human, Dimitris.
“You should have let one of us dig our Lord up and reveal him to the world by now,” Dimitris complained. “What if the world cannot accept him? The red giant will not wait, and Heaven will be lost to us forever.”
“Patience. We are with him. We have always been with him. Your people are all in place. I think it is better this way. The natives need to own their accomplishments, as you own yours. For antons, I have gathered under this dome of solitude the most brilliant minds of this world. I’ve given you the knowledge that Eos has revealed to the Elohim since the beginning of time,” Numen said, placing his golden hand on Dimitris’ shoulder. “I have given you and your people good health and an optimal lifespan. You have given back this industrial complex, capable of producing the greatest technology this world has ever known, yet it is not enough to deliver this world to Heaven.”
“Yes, but we have already begun launching the Anti-Babel. Cherubim are sweeping through South America as we speak. South Africa and Australia are not far behind. They must find our Lord soon.”
“All will be revealed, accordingly. The natives are not very advanced, but their time has arrived, and will have to accept their destiny. They will find him soon, very soon,” Numen said.
He spoke with confidence, though he recognized he was just ‘winging it.’ Numen wasn’t sure he wanted to face his master after all this time. Would Yahweh be disappointed with what he had done to evolve the people of this planet? Would he be angry with him for disobeying his prime directive: To protect and defend Yahweh, citizen of the Elohim, at all times and all costs? Would his master try to redirect his plans? Would he be displeased and remove him from the plans altogether? Was that why he was not with his master now? Avoidance? Numen calculated a near infinite number of answers with a surge in memory devoted to the current set of questions, but came up with the output, ‘unknown.’
Numen was uneasy with the prospect of not being in charge. He’d spent an enormous amount of time and energy preparing for this moment. It could be worse, he thought. He could have sat in the ship with his master until help arrived or until the nearby star swallowed them up when it became a red giant. The fact that he had chosen to do something to save this world flowed well through his circuitry. How could his master argue with that?
“How are the acquisitions progressing?” Numen asked Dimitris, who was scanning the ice wall computer displays.
Dimitris spoke without taking his eyes from the constant flow of numbers and reports streaming live through each ice crystal. “Our holding company RealmCo Galactica already has a sizable number of farming conglomerates, industrial complexes, and large banking interests in its portfolio, not to mention transportation, shipping, and grocery-food chains worldwide. Non-Atlantean controlled governments have become suspicious of our holdings and are charging monopoly allegations by filing antitrust cases against us for dominating their entire marketplace.”
He looked at Numen. “I give Matthias DiRoma and his clan credit for running up the cost of commodities,” Dimitris added. “It has amplified our position in the market. After all, who questions payments if they are in precio
us metals and gems?”
Numen pondered the data from the world’s stock market exchanges. “Mathias’ daughter, Fors Fortuna, has positioned the markets to crash,” he surmised. “She should purchase as much as she can for as much as they demand. Humans are greedy, but they always have a price.”
Dimitris nodded solemnly. “Once we have secured genesis of the Elohim on this planet, then the world will unite around our exodus?” Dimitris asked.
“Soon,” Numen confirmed.
Chapter 16
The process of scientific discovery is, in effect, a continual flight from wonder.
Albert Einstein 1879-1955, Earth
Library of Souls
Potentially Secret
Pillows of black diesel smoke shot high into the sky as the backhoe treads reversed to get a better bite on the growing crater, crushing the ‘For Sale’ sign alongside the road of the lot they were excavating. This set off a firestorm of commotion amongst the observers.
“Que esta pasando? ¿Que es this, this digging?” a woman shouted in Spanglish from the crowd. Goodheart walked closer to investigate the ruckus. The woman looked old—early seventies he estimated—and had the look of a perpetually cranky neighbor. She pointed an aggressive finger at Goodheart. “Voy a llamar a la policía. This property privada.”
Goodheart held up his hands and looked over at Sullivan. “What the hell is she saying?”
“I’m astonished that a man who can read both Russian and Mandarin Chinese can’t figure out a lick of Spanish,” Sullivan said. When Goodheart stared at him, he sighed, “She wants to know why you are digging this hole. I’m wondering the same thing.”
“Ask her who she is, and why it matters to her,” Goodheart asked, rolling his eyes.
“My name is Mrs. Bernie Benson. That was my sign you plowed under. That cost me good money. I have a cell phone you know. I’m gonna call the police,” she said, this time in English.
“So, you do speak English. Just jerking my chain,” Goodheart mumbled, shaking his head.
Agent Goodheart was tired. He’d lost quality sleep last night over this wild goose chase, and the last thing he wanted was deal with angry locals. He’d done business in the Cape and had dealt with Cape poops before. Something about this area seemed to attract the kind of people who called the police because someone’s sprinkler ran a few minutes over the allotted time, or someone parked a business truck in their driveway overnight after a hard day’s work, or who trimmed their neighbors’ lush tropical trees and bushes, so they wouldn’t touch their own under landscaped, water hungry yards. So, there was no telling what kind of reaction to expect from tearing up somebody’s yard.
But years with the Bureau had taught him not to show weakness, so he took a deep breath and doubled down. “Why don’t you call the police for us, ma’am,” he said, smiling, “so we can have them remove you from this site?”
“Well, I never—” the old woman protested.
“No, ma’am, and I don’t think you ever will.” He turned to look at the growing hole, and as he did, he heard something different. The backhoe bucket raked across something making a harsh grating noise, followed by a subtle echo.
“We’ve hit something,” the operator shouted. He stood up and leaned over the edge of his tractor cabin to investigate the hole.
“Everyone back,” yelled Goodheart. “Dig a path so I can get down there, will ya?”
The backhoe operator dug more dirt from around the lip of the enormous crater that was now infringing on the root system of a magnificent hot pink frangipani tree in the neighbor’s side yard.
“That’s good. Hold it right there.” Goodheart stood on the side of the crater looking down. He couldn’t believe he was thinking about sliding into that hole to get a better look, but it seemed like the only option. His wife’s face flashed through his mind; he imagined what she would say when he got home with dirt on his rump. She’s gonna think I tackled someone in a fight, he thought.
He decided to go for it. His slick patent leather shoes didn't give much traction and found himself slip-sliding, but still upright, most of the way down to the bottom of the wet hole; but just a foot from the bottom, he fell forward onto his hands and planted his face in shell-filled sand. He could hear the children and Mrs. Benson howling with laughter as he pulled his face out and left his sunglasses smashed in the ground.
“See anything?” Sullivan called down, laughing at his boss’s gracefulness. The children climbed over the mounds of dirt and sat around the crater’s edge, peering down at the entertainment.
Goodheart shook off his abrupt landing, wiped the sand off his forehead, and disregarded his broken shades. Digging like a dog after an old forgotten bone, he began moving the wet, oolitic limestone sand with his hands. He felt a little foolish until his finger found a smooth surface. He moved more dirt out of the way, and the object kept growing like the tip of an iceberg. Whatever it was, it was big, really big. Maybe someone had buried a whole train caboose here? It looked unlike any metal he had ever seen. Brushing away the chalky soil, he could make out the telltale signs of irregular pitting in the object’s otherwise glassy surface.
It’s not a truck, he thought. It’s not buried junk from dredging up the Cape’s canal system. What could it be? He brushed away more dirt and saw symbols?
He had spent time at the Bureau in cryptology, looking at all kinds of foreign languages, symbols, and code, and he couldn’t remember anything looking like this. He couldn’t tell if it was numbers or letters.
Brushing more of the tenacious dirt away revealed a small projection with a textured metal collar that began to glow green. Goodheart froze. Then it began to vibrate the dirt off its surface.
“Shit,” Goodheart exclaimed, falling backward in the seeping mud.
He heard strange, almost synthesized words, “Be careful.”
“What?” Goodheart spit out. He looked around for who had said it.
“What?” Sullivan yelled down, squinting to see.
“Looks like my ray gun,” one of the kids shouted, pointing to the green glow.
Then the thought hit Goodheart. His gut tightened up in his groin and his stomach muscles became hard. Potentially secret at your discretion. SETI satellite. Space Command. Strange underground signals. Voices.
“Oh, shit.”
“What is it?” Sullivan asked, again.
“I don’t know.” He stood, looking at the glowing object.
“This thing’s huge,” the backhoe operator said.
Goodheart, scrambled out of the hole on his hands and knees, quick as a mountain goat.
“I bet it goes under that house next door,” the operator shouted, turning off his rig and jumping off the backhoe to investigate the artifact.
Once out of the hole, Goodheart stood, glaring with a stupefied look on his cold sweaty face, first at the backhoe operator, then at Sullivan, and then at Mrs. Benson.
He pulled out his cell phone, and punched numbers as fast as his massive finger could punch the little buttons. Then, as if in his own private fog, he walked away from everyone and cupped his hand over the phone. “Come on, come on, answer the— Hello? Who’s this?”
“Agent Goodheart?” the voice on the line asked.
“Yes, this is Goodheart,” he answered, confused. How did the person on the other end know who he was?
“Agent Goodheart, you have new orders from the Bureau Chief: Dig up the artifact.”
“Wait a minute. How did you know it's a...?”
“Dig it up.” The voice was curt and unwavering. “Or would you like to be reassigned a desk job in another area of the country?” The line went silent for a moment, then a beep indicated some sort of line change.
“Hello, this is the operator, how may I direct your call?”
Goodheart cleared his throat. “What? Who was I just talking with?”
“I only receive calls. Whom do you wish to speak with?”
“This is Special Agent Garth Goodh
eart in Florida. I need to speak with the Bureau Chief.”
“Sorry, he’s in a meeting.”
Goodheart wiped the dry pasty saliva off his lips and looked back at everyone staring at him.
“Fine,” he said. “Then get me the biggest crane you can—” Goodheart stopped at the sight of a giant crane rolling up in front of the house. He took a deep breath. Focus, he told himself. “And a big flatbed to haul this thing— What the hell?” He lowered the phone from his ear as he watched an enormous flatbed trailer come around the corner. “Never mind,” he said hanging up.
“Yes, sir,” the backhoe operator said, “pretty sure this thing’s under that house.”
“Then we gotta get that house outta of the way,” Goodheart said. He stepped closer to Sullivan and whispered the orders he had just received over the phone. Sullivan looked warily at Goodheart, as if waiting to hear this was a practical joke, but his partner’s unsmiling face made it clear nobody was messing around.
Goodheart heard the murmuring crowd and remembered he had an audience. He looked up and said loudly. “Or at least tunnel under it to get this thing outta here. If something gets broken, I’m sure it can be put back better than before, don’t you think?”
He turned to face Sullivan in a way that put his back to the onlookers. “I do think we need something in writing. We need to cover our asses.”
Sullivan was about to say something when his expression changed; somebody behind Goodheart had caught his eye. Goodheart turned to see a young boy—maybe seven or eight—approaching him.
“That’s my house,” said the boy. “I live there.”
“Is it? I, uh—” Goodheart exhaled. He didn’t know what to say.
“Are you going to take my house?” the boy said timidly.
Goodheart just looked at him.
The boy’s face crumpled. “I’m gonna tell my dad,” he cried out. He turned and began running back toward the crowd still gathered around the crater.
