The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  Shaila whipped around to look at Yuna and saw that she had Diaz’ zapper pointed at the rest of the group. Any other reaction was cut off as every cell in Shaila’s body erupted in pain, with only the blackness of unconsciousness giving her any reprieve.

  Waking up from a microwave-emitter shot was something akin to a horrible hangover after a night of epic binge drinking. The first thing Shaila felt was her head, which ached and pounded ferociously. The nausea came next, and it was all she could do not to cough up breakfast on the ground next to her.

  Then she realized she was indeed lying on the ground. A stone floor, to be exact. That brought her mind back to the present and, along with it, a furious urge to punch Yuna Hiyashi in the face.

  “Eleven minutes,” she heard a voice say. “That’s impressive, Shaila. I’m so sorry I had to do that.”

  Shaila opened her eyes to see Yuna crouched over her. The older woman’s face remained kindly, but there was something else to it as well. It held contained excitement and muted rapture, the zeal of a true believer kept in check by a lifetime of self-discipline.

  “Not as sorry as you will be,” Shaila muttered. She tried to move her hands, but found they were tied behind her back. Same with her feet. “So what’s going on, Yuna?” she asked crossly.

  “The preparations are complete. Althotas will be here soon. And we’re going to welcome the first alien life form mankind has ever encountered. First contact, Shaila! It’s a historic moment,” Yuna said, eyes shining.

  Shaila’s mind cleared a bit more. Looking around, she saw a few more pirate goons with muskets standing around, their weapons casually pointed down at her and . . . the others. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Weatherby, Greene and St. Germain lying next to her, still out cold. They were, by all appearances, beyond the doors and inside the pyramid’s central chamber, but Shaila could see little of it behind Yuna.

  “Right,” Shaila said, turning back to Yuna. “So if this is all so lovely, why turn on us?”

  “Because these primitives,” Yuna said, nodding at Weatherby and St. Germain, “were completely misinformed about Althotas’ intentions.”

  “And you weren’t?”

  Yuna smiled again, which only pissed off Shaila more. “It started as these recurring dreams, about fifteen years ago, right after the Europa landing. They seemed silly, really. But I remembered enough of the symbolism within them that I started to do some research. That led me to the pieces of evidence I found, scattered throughout the scientific data, the history, archeology. Thousands of years of it. I tracked down the clues, broke the codes, and understood how to create the gateway necessary to bring him here. So I transferred to Mars, even though I knew it meant never returning to Earth again.”

  “And you planted your little EM boxes and got ’em up and running,” Shaila said, her voice rising. “Screwed around with the suit beacons to cover your tracks. You tried to hide the Cherenkov radiation signature in the database. You put me in medical and you killed that miner!”

  Yuna looked down, seeming chastened. “This was not how I wanted it to go. I never expected Billiton would survey that lava tube. I had filed reports years ago saying it wouldn’t be a good site. But Kaczynski had to go out there, and you followed him. I knew the time was getting short. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

  “Doesn’t bring Jack Heath back,” Shaila spat.

  “You don’t understand, Shaila. Althotas will be the first alien humans will ever encounter,” Yuna said. “I know that he comes in peace. He will help us. The knowledge he possesses will put us light-years ahead of where we are today in terms of technology, exploration . . . .”

  “Dr. Hiyashi?” a deep voice boomed from the heart of the room.

  Yuna turned and rose. Behind her, Shaila saw a man approaching. He was short, somewhat rotund, with graying hair pulled back into a Beethoven-style ponytail. His face was round, and his eyes bulged out from his face slightly, making him look as though he were always slightly alarmed. He was wearing a long white robe, adorned with sigils and pictures similar to the ones in the pathway and hallway walls. Shaila could see his buckled shoes and stockings peeking out from under it.

  “Yes, Count Cagliostro?” Yuna said.

  “We are about to begin,” he replied in a slight Italian accent, before looking down at Shaila. “Ah, awake already? I do hope you aren’t entirely uncomfortable, milady. This is an unfortunate but necessary measure. I assure you, you will be freed when our great working is complete.” He fixed Shaila with a gentle smile.

  He doesn’t look like a murderer or a nutcase, Shaila thought. I suppose they never do, do they? She wracked her brain for anything she might say that could try to disrupt things, but came up with next to nothing. “You look ridiculous, you know that?” she told the alchemist.

  Cagliostro frowned a moment, then allowed a smirk to play across his face. “Those who do not understand have always mocked those who do,” he said, as though to an errant child.

  “I should think a good mocking would do you some good, Alessandro,” said a voice next to Shaila. It appeared St. Germain was awake as well. “You are naught but a fool. The Xan imprisoned Althotas for a reason. Freeing him is madness.”

  Cagliostro turned to his old mentor with a wicked grin. “My dear Francis, I am glad you are awake. We can, of course, debate the matter later, if you like, but for the moment, I shall only ask you a question. Did Althotas’ forces destroy Phaeton, turning it into that which is called the Rocky Main? Did Althotas raze Mars and reduce it to a waste? No, of course not. It was the Xan. The same race which has written the history of Althotas for your unquestioning consumption.”

  “And I suppose Althotas himself has told you something quite different?” St. Germain said.

  “Do not be jealous, Francis. It is woefully unbecoming of such a great mind as yours. Wait but a while, and soon you may debate me freely in the presence of the Ascended Master himself.”

  Cagliostro turned to go back into the center of the chamber, with Yuna following, but Shaila shouted after them. “If this Althotas is such a nice guy, why are you running around killing people? You think he’d like that?”

  Yuna hesitated, but kept walking, while Cagliostro turned, a sad look on his face, to address Shaila. “Milady, rest assured, I regret the harm I have inflicted. My instruments in this quest have been too blunt, I agree,” he said, nodding toward the surly-looking pirates nearby. “Time was of the essence, and a handful of lives cannot be justly weighed against the paradise this working will usher in upon both our universes.” With that, he walked off.

  “Idiocy!” St. Germain grumbled.

  “Men often do the worst evil whilst believing in their own righteousness,” Weatherby said quietly, shaking his head to fight off the after-effects of the zapper.

  Shaila looked around. Weatherby and St. Germain were both fully awake, glaring after Cagliostro. Greene was just coming to, his head lolling on the ground. “I’ve never been hit with one of those before,” Greene said. “That was awful.”

  “All right, everyone,” Shaila said quietly. “First rule, assess the situation. Take a hard look around for a minute. Think strategically.”

  All four captives began looking around as best they could, though they were all lying on their sides, wrists and ankles bound tightly. They were in a large square room, perhaps twenty meters per side, with walls made from massive redstone blocks, rough-hewn and aged. There were carvings here, too—four figures, some thirty meters high, adorned each wall. Each figure was vaguely humanoid, with elongated bodies and massive eyes taking up the upper half of their heads. One held a bowl, a second held a sword, while a third held a long staff in its hand. The fourth, opposite the door, seemed to be cupping a planet, perhaps even Mars, in its hands. Each figure was framed by a series of Martian sigils. The whole place was lit by torches, though the ceiling, some forty meters above, remained shrouded in shadow. There was red dust everywhere.

  The center of th
e room held a raised platform, about a meter and a half above the floor and about four square meters wide, with steps leading up to it so that someone could enter the double doors and walk right up. Upon the platform stood an altar of red stone with white veins throughout, polished to absolute smoothness. There seemed to be a number of items on the altar, but Shaila couldn’t see what they were. Yuna stood to one side, using Greene’s holocam to record the proceedings.

  Cagliostro was climbing the stairs to the altar, which faced away from the entry doors and toward the figure carrying the planet. He stopped briefly to converse in French with one of the guards—most likely the one who just inherited command from whoever was in charge in the hallway.

  Whispering amongst themselves, the captives quickly took stock of their situation. There were still half a dozen armed guards—two at the door and four standing over them, but they were paying more attention to the altar than the prisoners. There was only one door, but a lever near the altar seemed to pull on a rope that led off to one of the walls, and from there up toward the ceiling—a trap door, perhaps.

  “Cagliostro seems to have completed his preliminaries,” St. Germain said, peering at his one-time student. “This is a highly occult ritual. It stretches the very bounds between alchemy and the darker sciences of sorcery.”

  “You guys have sorcery?” Shaila asked.

  St. Germain blinked. “Alchemy is a refinement of ancient occult practices and primitive science and medicine, milady,” he explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Du calme!” one of the guards growled, motioning with his bayonet-tipped musket. Shaila didn’t speak French, but a translation was utterly unnecessary. The guards quickly descended upon the captives, grabbing them by their shirts or suits and shoving them up to a seated position against the wall, just out of reach of one another. The one who moved Shaila caressed her face with a filthy, calloused hand. She thought about biting him, but decided to choose her battles. So she simply glared. He laughed before turning to watch the altar once more.

  Their new seated positions allowed them to look around a bit better. Shaila spotted their weapons—pistols, swords and her zapper—in a pile next to the raised platform. Thankfully, she didn’t see any more guards.

  “Let us begin this Great Work,” Cagliostro intoned from atop the dais. He spread his arms wide. “Mighty Althotas! Ascended Master! You who have been unjustly imprisoned for defending your people! Your humble student has gathered the keys to your release!”

  Shaila shook her head in disbelief. “He can’t be serious,” she said quietly.

  To her left, St. Germain chuckled ruefully. “My student was always a bit grandiose,” he whispered.

  Cagliostro continued: “I call upon the great Ascended Masters of the past to aid in this working. To the east, I call upon the keeper of air, she who is called Nut, Enlil, Hou Tu.” Cagliostro bowed toward the carved figure on the wall carrying a staff before continuing. “To the south, I call on the bringer of fire, he who is called Utu, Ra, Zhu Rong.” That was followed by a bow to the figure with the sword.

  “To the west, I call on the master of the waters, she who is called Naunet, Ki, Mazu.” Another bow, this one toward the figure with the cup. “And finally, to the north, I call upon the protector of the lands, he who is called Geb, Nunurta, Tu Di Going.” Cagliostro bowed lastly to the figure holding a planet in his hands.

  “Those names sound familiar,” Greene whispered. “Ancient gods?”

  St. Germain nodded. “From what we learned from the Xan on Callisto, it’s quite possible the Martians appeared to early humans as such. I imagine the names are but symbols for the figures you see upon the walls. All that should be needed for this particular ritual is the acknowledgement, not their actual Martian names, which are likely lost to history.”

  Cagliostro was walking around the altar, sprinkling a powder on the floor and then flinging the rest toward the wall opposite the doors before taking his place at the altar once more. “This circle is cast. Althotas! The time of your freedom is nigh! Come forth to the bars of your prison, so that you may be released! I call upon thee to take your place in the tree, in the sphere of Malkuth!”

  The floor of the place rumbled for several seconds, sending fine red dust floating down from the walls. Yuna looked around excitedly, panning across the room with the holocam before refocusing it on Cagliostro, who stood quietly, head bowed.

  “I guess he’s here,” Shaila said, turning to St. Germain. “How long do you think we have?”

  “Cagliostro likely distilled the essences he needed whilst en route from Jupiter,” St. Germain responded. “With the pyramid in such pristine condition, I would venture to suggest he may only need but a few minutes to complete the working now.”

  “That’s it?” Shaila asked, incredulous.

  “It would be less but for his penchant for theatrics,” St. Germain grumbled. “The difficulty is not in enacting the ritual, but in finding and distilling the appropriate elements.”

  Shaila strained against the bindings on her hands. They were hempen rope, about a half-inch thick and tied tightly. She started rubbing her wrists up against the wall behind her in hopes of loosening the rope, and saw that Weatherby was doing the same. Already she could tell the knots were expertly tied; it would take several minutes before her hands were free. Of course, after that, there was the little matter of the guards.

  Cagliostro spread his arms wide again and continued his intonations. “The tree progresses. We come to great Xanath, your oppressors of old, mighty Althotas. Here, in the sphere of Yesop lies the foundation of your woes, the root of your imprisonment. I cast the mighty Sword of Xanthir to the stone, breaking it in twain, ruining the foundations of tyranny!” With that, the alchemist raised the Xan blade over his head and swung it down upon the altar. The ancient, diamond blade shattered on the stone, producing a crack that resounded through the chamber. The larger pieces slowly rose above the altar, coming together to form a rough-hewn sphere, the smaller pieces forming minute rings.

  All four captives began struggling against their bindings as unobtrusively as they could. Thankfully, Cagliostro’s guards were too busy looking at the ritual than their charges. “How many of these spheres are there?” Greene whispered.

  “Ten,” the count responded. “Yet each step is a working in and of itself. There may come a point in his ritual where the harm he has inflicted on the space between spaces becomes irreparable.”

  Cagliostro placed the broken sword upon the altar carefully; Shaila assumed that the placement would mirror the drawing of the Tree of Life Weatherby had scribed in his journal. The alchemist bowed again, and the floor rumbled a second time.

  “Come forth, Althotas, to the sphere of Nod! Splendorous Jupiter awaits!” Cagliostro shouted. “The grand sphere of the star-to-be brings forth her children. Fire, air, earth and water combine to bring forth life once more. Bask in the glory of this simple grandeur, and see the patterns of the elements in which you may take form!”

  Cagliostro took a bowl from the side of the altar and poured a vial of water in it. “Europa! Cradle of life,” he cried. Next came a small vial of glittering dust, also poured into the bowl. “Ganymede! Bounty of the earth,” he said. A light mist began rising from the bowl as Cagliostro took a small bellows and, placing the tip into the bowl, squeezed it. “Callisto! The air of freedom.” Finally, he took a small block of charred rock and dropped it into the bowl, quickly standing back as it burst into flame. “Io! Fires of heaven!” he said.

  Shaila could see the bowl erupt into flames. Seconds later, a salmon-colored sphere rose out of the bowl, hovering a few inches above it. “The essence of Jupiter awaits, Althotas!” Cagliostro shouted. “The building blocks of form and matter! See how they are made! Take their form as you prepare to rejoin us!”

  The room rumbled once more, this time louder and more violently than before, sending a fresh rain of red dust down from the ceiling. Cagliostro bowed h
is head; Shaila could see the ghost of a smile on the man’s face. Yuna continued to record the ritual, scanning around the room now and again with a euphoric look on her face.

  The alchemist raised his hands once more. “Mighty Althotas! Your time of victory is nigh! Come to the sphere of Netzach, where your greatest defeat will become your finest hour! Mourn the loss of your sister world, Phaeton, but use the power that destroyed her to break the walls of your prison now!”

  Cagliostro placed four rocks in another bowl. “Pallas. Ceres. Juno. Vesta. Come together once more and let your power break through to our Ascended Master!” The rocks suddenly jumped up out the bowl, swirled around each other and collided with a loud crunch and a flash of light. Shaila saw another sphere rise out of the bowl, this one a smooth, perfectly round rock.

  As Cagliostro bowed his head, an ear-splitting crack reverberated through the chamber. On the wall facing the altar, the planet in the hands of the Martian god cracked— and a white light seeped through behind it, casting a thin beam down onto the altar.

  “That can’t be good,” Shaila muttered. Her shoulders were starting to ache from the effort against her ropes.

  “He has created a breach!” St. Germain said as the floor rumbled once more.

  Shaila suddenly felt a pair of hands on her ropes behind her, and felt breath in her ear.

  “Sorry I am late,” Stephane whispered as he began untying her.

  Weatherby glanced over and smiled. “I should never have thought I’d be happy to see a Frenchman.”

  CHAPTER 27

  June 19, 1779

  July 28, 2132

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Shaila whispered as Stephane struggled against the knots of her bindings.

  “We heard the noises from outside,” he replied softly. “The colonel ordered us to check on you.”

  “Us?” Weatherby asked.

  “Yes. Finch is preparing some sort of distraction. He says it is something he does best. And we have reinforcements.”