by Bob Mayer
So many years have passed since then. I have been so alone.
I needed someone on the inside of Area 51. It couldn’t have just been any one. When I saw your file, I felt an immediate connection.
As great as our battles here have been, there is something much, much larger we are involved in. There are gaps in my memory. Significant ones. There are gaps in yours.
I should not tell you this, but my impending death compels me to give you as much as I can, even if it is conjecture.
I had blocked myself from any memory of emplacing the implant. This troubles me, because I don’t know what the implant is. I don’t know where I got it. I don’t know how I did it. But there is the faintest trace of memories, echoes that accuse me. I suspect it came from Gwalcmai. I did not know he had it. Or who put it in him. Or how I got it from him, but it must have been when I buried him so many years ago after Camlann.
When you told me of it, those flashes came to me. Like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, where you remember pieces and parts and know it developed out of some bit of reality but you don’t know what bits.
There is information at my place. A ka with data. What happened to my planet and my people. Our revolt against the Airlia and the final victory, which also sowed the seeds of our planet’s inevitable doom. They will also tell you what Gwalcmai and I did after coming to your planet so many years ago. From the time of Atlantis, through Area 51. It has the records of the Watchers whom we founded at Avalon after the destruction of Atlantis. Also, beware the Wyrddin, the Watchers who split off and followed Merlin. He atoned, but his followers are still out there.
I have tried to leave for you all my people learned when we finally defeated the Airlia and accessed their master guardian. But even then, who knows the deep truth? As I lied to myself, I believe the Airlia lie to themselves. Lies pile on top of lies until I wonder if there is any truth in the universe?
Sacred texts always begin by saying ‘in the beginning there was nothing’ and then there was something. But the nothing had to be something. There is always a start point. Sometimes, I think more about the fact that in the end there will be nothing. It is what lies between that is all.
You are very much like Gwalcmai. If I had been different, if time had been different, so many if’s---
My list of apologies is long. As my time on Earth has been. All the lives I’ve lived via regeneration. But let me tell you. Warn you against it. You lose something each time. Some part of your humanness. It is not a way to live. I do not recommend it. Neither is the way of the Grail. It does not make you immortal, but rather gives one the nanotechnology the Airlia have to repair and maintain their bodies as they live; to adapt their telomerase. I don’t know their lifespans, but it is in the thousands of years. However they do eventually die. I think Death is the one thing that gives Life meaning. I believe with their long lives, the Airlia lost track of that over time.
As I finish, I have to be completely honest; as much as I can be. Which is the problem. Even as I face death, I am not sure who I am.
Trust no one.
Not me.
Not even yourself.
I wish we’d had more time.
Finish the mission.
Lisa-- Donnchadh
The last part, her true name, was written in hieroglyphics.
Turcotte pretended to keep reading to give himself a few moments to absorb the contents. Finally he looked up. “Here,” he said to Yakov.
The Russian took the note.
When Yakov was done, Turcotte said: “She didn’t know we would access the master guardian and find out the truth about our origins.”
“So many stories,” Yakov said. “What I believed when I first began work in the KGB under the Soviet Union had to change when it fell apart. What I believed when I worked for Section IV is not what I believe now. What I believe now might not be what I believe next week. It is very difficult.” He nodded at the note. “She sounds very much like a paranoid Russian. Trust no one. Believe no one. I agree, but we need help.”
“There are some things we know for certain,” Turcotte said. “We’re human. The Airlia are not. They are our enemy.”
Yakov shrugged. “Given what is going on now, it seems humans are doing a very good job being our own enemy. I do not think the Airlia are a problem any more. It is other humans. It was humans who killed Quinn, Leahy and Kincaid.” He handed the letter back.
Turcotte folded the note and slid it in his pocket. “Then who do we fight?”
“I’m tired of fighting,” Yakov said. “I thought on the flight back from Mars that I would be able to move on. Get some vodka. Do nothing for a while. But it is not to be.
“Leahy was right,” Yakov continued. “We need an ally. This Mrs. Parrish is obviously more powerful than UNAOC. If she could make you the richest man in the world, that means she’s the richest person in the world.” Yakov indicated the tube. “We have something she wants, which means we have leverage. I say we get her on our side. At the least, find out what she knows. While we might know the great truth about the Airlia and humans, we are behind on understanding what is happening here and now on Earth, my friend.”
“Her on our side or we on her side?” Turcotte asked.
“It is just a suggestion.” He indicated the tube with the body. “We will not be using it. And we would still have the other tube.”
Turcotte tapped the pocket holding the letter. “We need time. And more information. I know a place we can go.”
“And that is?”
“Duncan’s place in Colorado. We need the ka she stored there. And I’m pretty sure she has some vodka and beer in the fridge.”
Turcotte took a step toward the pilot’s depression but a low, buzzing noise from the briefcase distracted him. He opened it. Found the source and slid out a flexpad. Two large buttons, one green, one red, flashed on the screen. Turcotte tapped the green one.
The screen glowed with an image.
“Mrs. Parrish,” Turcotte said.
“Now that you’ve had some time to decompress after the tumultuous events of the past few days,” Mrs. Parrish said, “have you reconsidered my offer?”
Turcotte didn’t look at Yakov. “No.”
He heard Yakov’s grunt of disapproval.
“Rather abrupt,” Mrs. Parrish said. “Be that as it may. Let us stay in touch. My ships are closing on the mothership and talon. I’m sure you would like to keep up to date on what unfolds.”
“I could care less,” Turcotte said.
“Doubtful,” Mrs. Parrish said. “I’ll be back in touch shortly.”
The screen went blank.
Turcotte put the flexpad into the briefcase, then slid into the pilot’s depression. He accelerated the Fynbar west.
CYDONIA, MARS
Passing from regress to reality is brutal.
Pain from muscles locked in position began to cascade into Nyx’s consciousness. The grimness of her situation on Mars was worse than the pain. She reluctantly opened her eyes. Her face was wet and she ran a hand across it, realized they were tears.
Why that memory? Why was that one sitting on top of her subconscious?
Yerz always asking why. Always wanting to know more.
Labby was barking at one of the control panels, where a light was flashing.
“’What fresh hell is this’?” That automatic quote from one of the more interesting artists she’d studied gave her pause.
The alert was coming from the talon. Which was to be expected given the launches the msats had picked up. Nyx turned toward the locker, considering another regress.
Humans. Doing something that might be significant.
Did it matter?
She took the seat at the console. Accessed the link to the talon. Its system was tracking the approaching human spacecraft and the one on course for the mothership. The latter was just minutes out from intercept. The one heading to the talon would rendezvous about 30 minutes later.
Relative
to each other, the talon and mothership were five hundred miles apart. They were in stable orbits, 175 miles above the Earth, slightly closer to the planet than the remains of the International Space Station.
Nyx ran diagnostics. Same as it had been: the talon had minimal power; its drive was functional, although several subsystems, including life support were severely damaged. The automated defense system, slaved to the master guardian, was off line.
Could the humans repair the talon? She knew the answer from her research: they wouldn’t repair it the way an Airlia would to the original specifications. They didn’t have the knowledge or the capabilities to do that. They’d improvise. Install or ‘jerry-rigg’ the life support system; the latter verb one Nyx had never understood since it technically applied to sailing. They would do the same with guidance. As far as weapons, they could bring their own, such as the Tesla cannon they’d had on board the mothership. They’d figure out a way to increase power, especially to the engines. Whatever they needed, they would do it. Then they would eventually come here.
She looked at the regress locker once more. There was enough in there for months, if not years.
If the humans came here she would not have months, never mind years. Given the speed of the Fynbar, if Turcotte decided to return, she’d have a day.
She turned to the control panel. Brought up the specifications for the talon and rapidly scrolled through them. Without the master guardian there was no way to turn the automated system back on. The entire guardian system had relied on the master; a defense against the Swarm, but also a liability if that one machine were destroyed.
But that didn’t mean the talon was defenseless. It was weak but it still had some bite and she could push a message to it.
Labby had stopped barking. Nyx had programmed the slight distinctions between the breeds. She was sitting, watching, not doing anything different than the others.
Did friendliness matter? Was that what she was looking for?
She doubted it, but nothing else was working. She tossed a ball and the dog obediently fetched it. Nyx ran her hand through the dog’s hair. “Good girl.”
Shifting her attention back to the talon, Nyx rested her hands on the control panel and began to type commands.
PRIVATE ISLAND, PUGET SOUND
As far as the world knows, the two richest men in the world, Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos, live in Seattle. No one knows how much Vladimir Putin has although classified reports indicate he is worth more than both those men combined. Officially, he claims he only makes the equivalent of $140,000 USD a year in salary.
Mr. and Mrs. Parrish were only whispered of among the very rich.
While Gates and Bezos live on the same street in Medina, just across Lake Washington from downtown Seattle, some people wonder who owned a small private island along the edge of Puget Sound. Even stranger, when they look on Google Maps, the island isn’t there. An oversight? A few intrepid souls who tried to research further learned only that it was owned by the government and toxic waste had been dumped there for many years. The shoreline was marked with dire warning signs indicating it was off limits and dangerous.
The lack on maps was not an oversight. It had cost a considerable amount to achieve, but money could solve any problem. There is no toxic waste.
Only one person had dwelled there, arriving and claiming the island not long after Seattle was founded in the mid 19th century. He’d lived a long time but was no longer in that company. Of course, many who’d met him while he prowled the planet would not have considered him living. In fact, his very essence had been the birth of the legend of the Undead.
It was the lair of Vampyr, the bastard spawn of an Airlia and a female human consort in the ancient days of Egypt, during the first reign, when the Airlia, such as Horus and Isis, ruled.
Because he’d not spent one hundred percent of his time on the island, nor had he trusted others to provide security, his large, mostly buried, mansion was shielded by trees and was equipped with the most advanced security systems in the world. The walls were blast-proof, as were the steel shutters that rolled down when the owner wasn’t home. And during daylight when he was.
It was empty because Vampyr had met his end at the hands of one of his ancient brethren in the detonation of a nuclear weapon along the Skeleton Coast of Africa. Among the nukes going off around the world, that blast had elicited some curiosity, but little action, given that coastline was uninhabited. Or so the world had thought.
Mrs. Parrish had noted. Because she’d known that along that coast was the lair of an ancient creature like Vampyr, half-human, half-Airlia: Nosferatu.
Her people had arrived on the island near Seattle less than three hours after the explosion. Since then, they’d been working their way through the mansion’s defenses.
Sixteen had died so far.
And they were being careful. As careful as they could be, balanced against the time incentives of obscenely rich bonuses promised in the contract.
They’d found many things of interest and there was still another layer to break through. Classic pieces of art—painting, sculptures—long thought lost to history. Hundreds of millions of dollars in cash in numerous currencies; some currencies that were no longer in circulation and were only worth something as collector’s items. There were also gems, jewels, gold bullion and other precious items.
There had been discoveries of a grim nature: an old mine shaft full of bones. Human bones. Some relatively recent. There was a room filled with implements of torture from throughout the ages, the most gruesome devices mankind could invent. From the rust colored stains on the floors around them some had been used in their current location.
But now the crew faced a stainless steel door at the end of a tunnel in the very bottom of the mansion. Given the riches, and horrors, they’d found, one had to wonder what lay beyond that was more valuable; or worse?
To properly enter one first needed to pass a retina scan. The necessary retinas had been incinerated in the nuclear blast on Africa’s southwest coast. A successful retina scan would unlock the numeric keypad. The world’s foremost expert on such keypads, after probing with various sensors and futile attempts to hack it, had determined it required 27 numbers to be entered in quick sequence. At a speed no human could possibly mimic. He believed he could rig a mechanical device to hit the keypads that fast, but the numbers had gone the way of the retinas. He estimated it would take over six hundred years to try the combinations that 27 integers could possibly make using a machine entering each possibility every three seconds, the fastest he could program it to do. And even if those two impossible hurdles were crossed, there was a keyhole.
They’d checked under the mat at the front door of the mansion and the key hadn’t been there. They actually had checked. Because one never knew. Stranger things had occurred.
Mrs. Parrish’s incentive of doubled bonuses had been received. As if that could defeat concrete and steel? Nevertheless, the team kicked their efforts up the slight notch that was possible.
Imaging of the vault door indicated it had fourteen two-inch-thick steel bolts. The walls were twelve feet of reinforced concrete, with intermittent steel plates. The floor and ceiling were constructed the same.
There were three wall teams working around the clock. One from the level of the door working the wall, and one above, and one below, working on the ceiling and floor. They had a competition going, but the leader, the above team, was only sixteen inches in. There was also a fourth team drilling into the steel door.
And the winning team lost as they drilled through a steel plate and hit a shaped charge hidden from imaging by the steel and from sight until it was too late. The blast killed all six.
After the dust settled, the body parts were carried out, the blood and guts hosed off, and another team continued the effort with a combination of dread and greed.
The Engineer in charge stared at the steel door. He knew from experience that it was the weakest part of the protection. Do
ors always were. And it would be foolish for whoever had designed this to put charges in the door; for if they went off, they would take a toll on anyone drilling, but they’d also weaken it.
Physics, blunt force, wasn’t working. When in doubt, switch one field of science for another.
Chemistry.
He pulled out his flexpad and searched the database to find an appropriate Chemist.
“And we’re going to need more men,” he added, before the officer scurried away. “They don’t have to be skilled labor. They need to be disposable.”
EARTH ORBIT
The Niviane approached the derelict Airlia mothership. Over a mile long and a quarter mile in width at its beam, the alien ship was slowly rotating, empty and powerless. There was a long gash, six hundred meters long, marring the smooth black metal of the spaceship’s surface. The result of the alien ruby sphere Turcotte had detonated in the main cargo hold along with tactical nuclear weapons to wipe out Artad and the Airlia with him when they tried to reclaim the ship.
The gash was fifty meters at its widest point. However, the hope was that the load and stress bearing interior construction was structurally intact and that the external damage could be repaired.
The crew of the Niviane matched the rotation of the mothership and headed for the cargo bay through the ripped open hull. The Niviane was built by the Parrish’s subsidiary, Perdix, in relative secrecy. Not beholding to public shareholders, financed entirely by the Parrish’s massive fortune, Perdix had spared no expense in building the craft. Bucking the trend for reusable platforms, such as the Space Shuttle, the Niviane class was a SHLLV—super-heavy-lift-launch-vehicle-- designed for one-way delivery missions into orbit with disposable boosters. The Parrish’s initial, long-term plan had been for a fleet of these craft to help build a private, commercial space station.
On launch, the entire system had been over 120 meters tall, slightly taller than the famous Saturn V, with a main rocket of two stages and two booster rockets. As it approached the mothership, just the upper stage remained, with numerous maneuvering rockets. The payload was a large cylindrical cone with a habitable crew compartment in the nose and the rest of the space containing cargo.
