The Arkhe Principle (Book Book 1)

by Maxwell Rudolf

  "If you die today, your life will be remembered forever by your descendants and by our Regiment. All of you are heroes this day."

  His KBDU fought the cold as he made his way to the war room, a dedicated building receiving real-time reports and displaying both enemy and friendly forces in a holographic format. The room was crowded with officers taking notes on E-Readers and relaying combat information back down to their subordinates. The display showed RJ-16 grav-tanks in a pitched battle with dozens of Saxon commandos supported by Thors and two MECHA-3's.

  The Saxons, sensing the RJ-16 grav tanks being rescued, charged, firing their fusion guns into the St. George lines. Small blips on the monitor showed hundreds of men charging from their foxholes and launching self-propelled mag grenades at the grav tanks. Bodies flopped down in the freeze, many limbless or unrecognizable. The Mark-10's hadn't arrived yet, and by the time they got there, there might not be anything left to rescue.

  The room burst with war cacophony. People shouted out coordinates, numbers, status reports, and the roar split John's head. Across from him, Duke Sternwood barked orders, shaking several lower ranked officers who were green as a summer leaf. He walked around the side of the holographic display.

  "Captain Rex. Come here." The Duke pulled John away from the map and into a private corner of the room. He lowered his voice so low, John had a difficult time understanding him. "Did you call in air support without my authority?"

  "Yes, sir. If you want to win this battle, your grace, this was the only option."

  "Keep this between you and me. If you ever do anything like this again, whether we win or lose, I will flog you to death myself in front of your officer cadre. Do I make myself clear, Captain?"

  "Aye, your grace."

  People turned, gawking at the digi-display of the battlefield, and began celebrating their early victory. A lieutenant yelled out, "Duke Sternwood! Our airstrikes are underway!"

  34 Mountains Don't Change

  D.K.E.

  Year 325

  Day 96

  Over the past two years, Rosie and Reginald had become like magnets, teasing and making the other laugh. Rosie didn't know the exact date she had fallen for Reg, but telling him made her anxious. No, it just wouldn't do to ruin a perfectly good relationship that might blossom at some point in the future. Some nights, she would think about his body and do her thing before going to sleep. But she always felt guilty and confessed on St. George Day every week. Most nights they stayed up late on the telecaster talking about vids, work, their favorite whiskeys, their dreams. Once or twice a month they would drive over to her place and drink. Those nights Rosie took a Calmer and tried to suffer through the night without acting foolish and gushing about how much she liked him...as a person.

  They walked down the Thames watching black mist glide down the ice. Men and women skated across the frozen water, dancing to a hidden DJ in one of the nearby lofts. Strobe lights and pole-mounted LED projections lit the ice and prismatic projections accompanied the music. Space heaters warmed the walkways causing the snow and ice to melt into the gutter, and glued up vid posters marked upcoming releases. Rosie stopped and tugged Reg's gray bow tie, patted his hat, and whispered in his ear about how cold she was.

  The sun had set a few hours ago, but it was Victory Day and the shops remained open. They ducked inside a sandwich shop where she ordered her favorite pastrami on rye and himself a neo-chicken breast with a side of vinegar spinach.

  "There is a bookstore not too far from here that might still be open. Mind if we pop our heads in and take a look around? When I grew up, my father would always bring me around to this part of the city." Wiping the mustard from her lip, she smiled discretely and placed the napkin on her plate.

  "Sure. Did you want to order something to go?"

  "No, thanks. I would rather shoot to the bookstore and spend our time there while they are still open."

  It started to hail and they ran hand in hand down the slippery streets to "Ye Olde Times." When they entered, the door chimed, and an old woman nodded at them from behind a Plasticine pipe. Rosie took a few steps inside and eyed the store. Stacks of books and magazines made the only pathways in what would otherwise be called a giant neo pigsty. Nothing was organized inside. Books on horticulture were interspersed with children magazines. Reams of loose leaf paper were holding up rickety yellowed-out Plasstien furniture. Entire catalogs of hard-to-find, out-of-print material was buried beneath gay Roman porno mags.

  She blew a smoke ring behind the counter and lowered her eyes beneath her glasses. "We're closed," she croaked. Both of them turned to each other.

  "Do not use that kind of language..." Rosie started.

  "The door was open, and it is not closing time," Reginald interjected.

  The lady was annoying already, and if she didn't want her money, there were other places to go.

  "Suit ya self." She gummed. The woman blew another ring. "Don't mind me cat. Try to pet her though and she'll likely give you a scratch to remember her by. She don't like to be touched. If you make a mess or break something, you bought it. Consider yourself warned."

  Rosie and Reginald gave each other a look and proceeded to browse, each finding their own niche, and soon, Rosie had discovered her own private section. Entire stacks of magazines hid nooks of profound tech manuals and philosophy texts. Below those were books on style and fashion, some of them dating back decades. There wasn't a reason to any of this, but she couldn't stop digging.

  "I found the cat," a disgruntled and annoyed Reginald said.

  "I told you she don't like to be touched!"

  Reginald rubbed the gash and chewed on his lip. "I did not touch it. It just decided to scratch me!"

  "That all you want?"

  He tried to hide the book he was buying, but the woman was waving it around so Rosie could see the title. She looked away. When she went to the counter to pay for what she found, the woman blew a cloud of jaga smoke in the air that stank up the room.

  "These two what you want?"

  "Yes. And under Penal Code 10.42a, you are not permitted to smoke jaga before the hour of 21, and it is only 20.54." She pulled out her badge and wrote her a citation. They both walked out.

  "You did not have to write her a ticket."

  "Yes, I did. So now you are going to read your book and entertain me with its contents."

  He chuckled. "I will try. I was thinking we could go get some drinks now."

  "Excellent plan! Lead on, good sir."

  * * *

  Rosie was watering her bernut plant when the telecaster chimed. "Source?" A digi-image of Reginald formed. In the hologram, he was smiling and drinking a brandy. "I will take the call.

  "How are you? You know, I was just thinking about you."

  "Hey, I was hoping we might meet tonight. I finished the book."

  "That was fast. To be honest, I haven't started on mine. Been trying to clean this place up. Made some progress on the toilet, and I fixed two of the leaking faucets." She went to the cupboard and pulled out some insta-oats for dinner.

  "I told you I would pay to get those fixed."

  "I like to do things myself. Why pay someone when you can learn and do it yourself? You know me. I don't like to rely on people unless I'm forced to." She was letting the contractions fly more out of friskiness than to sound degenerate. But something in his voice seemed serious.

  "I do not normally read, save for the sports section. Anyway, may I stop by?"

  "You are allowed to come by whenever you want. Do not be ridiculous! My house is your house. Pick up some wine on your way here. Oh, and if you wanted something besides insta-oats, stop by the store and buy something. My pantry is empty."

  "Send me your list and I will pick them up. You cook all the time, and I always feel so guilty, but I have to admit, your cooking is quite amazing."

  "We will split the cost from now on. I will send you my list. But one thing. Before you show up, please try to lighten up a little. I sen
se something is wrong. It can't be so bad as to ruin your good humor."

  She made small talk while frying up neo-pork chops and potato cakes. Their first bottle of wine didn't last them long and neither did the second. Once they finished eating, they relocated to her living room where many of John's awards hung from the wall. She loved looking at him in his uniform. Such splendor and magnificence. She curled her toes, walked to the fireplace, and adjusted the air throughput.

  "Okay, so about the book..." he started.

  "What is the title and who wrote it?" The flames rose in the fireplace and a huge gust of hot air vented into the room. The warm air relaxed her, and she rolled her head, looking into his eyes.

  "As far as I can tell, there is not one. Take a look." He handed her the brown, thick tome. No part of the book was Plasticine. She rubbed her hands over the neo-leather. It felt strange like holding something that shouldn't exist.

  She opened it and squinted at the strange serif font. She jogged her memory trying to remember where she'd observed the same style, but the harder she tried, the more frustrated she got. There were over a thousand pages, many of which were full-color prints of animals and plants she hadn't seen before. But she did recognize the language: Beta St. George. A dead language, but one she learned in school when she took her Inspector classes at Londun City University. But none of the words related to anything she had learned. Only the characters were the same.

  She checked the spine, the inside cover, the back cover, looking for a title or an author. "So what do you think this is?"

  "I was hoping you might have come across something like this before, perhaps in the Underworld." His bewildered stare annoyed her.

  "Well, yes, books like this are sold at various Underworld markets, but they go for thousands usually, and this one looks much older than those. I can tell why you have that look on your face."

  "I do not have any look on my face, and I am not concerned at all with how much it is worth. Open it."

  Rosie fanned the pages and stopped on one. "Hey, look at this. It looks like a bernut plant, but this one is blue."

  He took the book from her. "There are a lot of things in the book like that."

  "Like what else?" She went to grab it, but he pulled it back slightly out of her range.

  "Like in Chapter Twelve. You see this mountain range?" He pointed to the digi-print. "This is on the Appalachian Trail." He didn't say anything but his nodding head wasn't telling her anything. "During my mandatory military service, I was hiking through this particular area pursuing some Southern American bandits. They had raided one of our military depots and made off with some prime tech. We caught them before they were able to turn the tech over to their tribe, but I will never forget the mountains there."

  "So are you telling me this picture is somehow different from what you saw in person?"

  "I know what it sounds like, but that is what I am saying."

  "Mountains do not go about changing themselves. You do not just change a mountain. You have your data mixed up."

  He stood abruptly. "You tell me then." He went over to the sink, poured out his wine and made himself a whiskey. "You want one?"

  "Does a fish swim?"

  He made them both drinks and brought them over.

  She took her glass and sipped some, grabbing a chunk of ice cube with her teeth and placing it inside her mouth. "So what is your opinion then? How accurate are the pictures? Do you think this is a hoax or something?"

  "I called in some favors and had some scans done. Came back flat. No, these prints rare accurate. The book is old. At least 400 years."

  He turned to the front and handed it back. "Here, take a look at this. This is crazy."

  She started reading.

  A world of verdant forests, temperate climates, and beautiful oceans covered over 70% of the surface of "[$@~~**^+=." Whatever place that was didn't exist, and rumors of Utopian Gardens of St. George only made people more miserable.

  "This book has to come from the Underworld." Reg went back to the kitchen to make himself another drink. "We should get rid of it while we can."

  "Hey, make me another too." He did and brought them back into the living room. For now, the discussion of the book would have to wait.

  "You worry too much. I bet her shop has connections. No one can tell me her bookstore is a legitimate business."

  Rosie went back into her bedroom and pulled out her gifts from the bookstore. "Here, I got this one for you." She handed him a thick Plasstien book with old low-res digi-prints. "This is going to be made into a vid next year, I think. And if they cast Lace Epcot as the lead, it will be the best vid ever. So here is that." She handed over Pause Break by Noel Rake. "And this other one is called Pickers, and it explains how some people in the Kingdom have been able to go tech diving into some dangerous places. This one was written," she flipped open the cover, "five years ago, but I figure once we retire, we could have our own little side business thing going."

  "You assume I come over here for something other than the free cooking and your gorgeous body."

  "Funny. We could make a lot of Edwards."

  "Let me think about it. Do you think you can shut your mouth for a second without saying something smart?"

  "No." She laughed in his face and pointed at him. "I will never do that."

  "From the day I met you, I have seen something inside of you that I feel so drawn to, I cannot help myself but think of you day and night."

  "Reg, don't."

  Her hands became clammy, and she slammed her whiskey hoping he'd stop. But he didn't.

  "And you are right. We both live alone, and we would both be better off if we both thought about perhaps getting married..."

  "Stop."

  "I love you, Rosie."

  "Damn it! Why did you say it?"

  35 The Wotan Temple

  American Appalachian Mountains

  Year 325

  Day 254

  Gungnir's scratched his beard and gave it a twist, breaking the ice and snow that had accumulated during his hike. It was late-year, and the weather was brutal. The hike along the Appalachian Trail was grueling enough. The great, dense American forests never ended through the hills and mountains. Great neo-animals, some six times as large as a man, hunted during the night, and that's when he preferred to move. Nothing stood in his way.

  Before setting out in search of Site 13, he had driven to the Wotan temple in Berlin.

  "I am here to speak to gothi Steinbauer. Tell him it's important," Gungnir said. The desk clerk picked up her emergency telecaster and spoke softly into the device. She nodded and opened the protective shield in the corner of the room with a button on her console. He strode over the black marble floor, forever admiring the Plank valknot embedded in it. His tattoo was in the same style and took up his entire chest. If anyone stripped him of his shirt, they would know he was a devotee of Wotan.

  The priest greeted him down the hall and brought him into a small meditation room. The walls and ceiling were the color of the night sky but a thick, Oracle White Plasstien carpet took up the floor. It squished under his boots, and they both sat down on ergo-pillows.

  "Would you like something to drink, Gungnir. By the looks of you, you seem to be headed out again somewhere dangerous. I see Asger is looking good."

  "Yes, thank you. Spiced tea would be fine."

  "Sure." The gothi reached into the carpet, grabbed it like a snake, and stretched it out, forming a table. "I'll be right back." The wall slid to the side, and he walked through a dark hallway and disappeared. After a few moments, a slave brought in the tea and vanished through the hall again. The priest came back and the wall closed.

  "The reason I've come is that I've had a few strange experiences involving something that I can't really talk about in specifics. If I try, it's almost as if something is stopping me." Gungnir poured some tea for the both of them. "I have a book, well-hidden, that has my name inside. It's old. You told me prophesies, our Wyrds, o
ur fates, are not written as they are described in other religions. So why is my name in the book, and why do I freeze when someone looks inside? And don't give me your idiot look. You and I both know you know more than you want to tell me. But I would advise you, as the months have worn on, and I have done things that are fairly barbaric, even by our standards, I have come to enjoy them more and more. Sometimes, I crave the slaughter in the same way a starving man craves food."

  The gothi took his tea, drank some, and added a milk cube. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and breathed out a spell. His eyes opened, his iris' glowing Oracle White, a star within his eye. He folded his fingers together and brought them high above his head but still bending his elbows.

  "Gungnir Odinson. Master of Asger. Warlord of the Wasteland. Ruthless conqueror. Murderer of the weak. Rapist. 12th Úlfheðnar of The Wotan Project. We received word from Ratatoskr of your situation and awaited your arrival. All of Midgard quakes, and the World Tree, Yggdrasil is loosening at its foundation. The cause is unknown to us, yet we persist in investigating the matter."

  "Then tell me your data. I have things to do."

  "Yes. Now clarity has come to the vision. You are in route to St. George." His eyes flared like novas, and almost invisible, he could see a number one inside the priest's pupil.