The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  Shaila shushed Stephane as she felt the ropes against her hands loosen and slip. She looked toward the guards, but they were all focused squarely on Cagliostro and the ritual, and most had taken several steps forward toward the altar; Stephane must have been able to sneak right in behind them. She quickly moved to untie her legs while Stephane went to work on Weatherby’s ropes.

  “Keep still,” she hissed. “Wait until we’re all untied before we make a move.”

  “If we have time,” St. Germain muttered, looking toward Cagliostro, who was on his way to the next sphere on the Tree.

  “The beauty that was once Mars shall be again,” Cagliostro shouted, once again raising his arms. “In the sphere of Tiphereth lies your home world, mighty Althotas, where your servant awaits you. It has been laid waste to by the cowardly Xan, but hew to the memories of old and see the glories that you may yet again achieve!” Cagliostro took a small metal globe from one side of the altar, holding it within the beam of light. The globe was that of an Earthlike world, with oceans and continents upon it. Shaila could see vestiges of the Martian geography she knew well.

  Cagliostro let go of the globe, which hung suspended in mid-air. The floor rumbled once more as he bowed his head.

  “That’s everyone,” Stephane whispered. He looked over toward the door, where Shaila could see Finch peeking around the corner.

  “What’s your plan?” she whispered.

  Stephane turned to her and smiled wanly. “You think there is a plan?”

  Suddenly, Finch stepped out into the middle of the entryway, a pistol in one hand and something else in the other that Shaila couldn’t see. His arm sported a bloody bandage from his pistol wound, and he looked pale. Nonetheless, he stood tall—and right out in the open. “Cagliostro!” he shouted.

  The guards all spun around toward the door, while Cagliostro whipped around, surprised.

  And in that moment, Finch fired the pistol.

  Cagliostro jumped, then looked down at his robes . . . and smiled. The shot plowed into the stone behind and to the left of the villain.

  “Damn his aim,” Weatherby muttered.

  Finch was prepared, however. The young alchemist held up the other object—a brass wand about a meter long, attached by various lines and tubes to a small box on his belt. He pressed a button on the wand, and immediately bolts of lightning poured out of it randomly, cracking across the room and striking two of the guards. It also nearly sent a bolt directly into St. Germain, who swore as he rolled away. Soon, the room was filled with prodigious amounts of black smoke, and the lightning stopped as abruptly as it started.

  “Capture him!” Cagliostro shouted. Three of his men quickly advanced toward the door, which was fully obscured by smoke.

  That’s when the rumbling began again—but this time, from the hallway.

  Weatherby started to get up, but Shaila held up her hand to keep him there. With the noise from the hall now echoing louder from the chamber, she figured Finch’s play wasn’t finished yet.

  She was right.

  More lightning spewed forth into the chamber from the hall as the rumbling grew louder. A roaring crescendo of shouting accompanied the rumbling and seemed now to pursue the Chance men back into the ritual chamber, prompting Cagliostro to look up from his preparations in consternation . . . then shock.

  Right upon the heels of the pirates, a wooden spar appeared, attached to the front of what appeared to be a cart . . . with a squat mast in the middle of it holding up a sail. Finch was at the front of the contraption, frantically turning a wheel attached to his pack that would, by all appearances, get his lightning wand going again. Behind the cart, four men from the Daedalus were pushing it at a rapid clip, shouting at the top of their lungs.

  And jogging behind them . . . “Anne?” Weatherby whispered.

  “Now!” Finch yelled. With a final shout, the Daedalans gave a great heave, sending the wheeled cart flying into the chamber and straight for the altar and Cagliostro. Finch fired his device once more, sending deadly lightning and bilious smoke coursing throughout the chamber—so much, in fact, that Finch toppled over in the cart from the shock as it careened toward Cagliostro.

  “Attack!” cried Anne, drawing her sword. The men of the Daedalus responded as if Captain Morrow himself had given the order, throwing themselves against their adversaries with naught but dirks and fists. Barely seen through the smoke, the cart—with an unconscious Finch aboard— crashed into the altar pedestal with a massive crunch of wood against stone.

  Good a time as any, Shaila thought. “Now!”

  She sprung up onto her feet and lunged at the guard two meters in front of her, just as he was turning around and bringing his pistol to bear in response to her shout. Shaila grabbed his wrist and, using the momentum of his turn, swung his arm over her head so that he fired into the wall above. She kept going, twisting his arm further as she crouched and swung her leg out, catching him behind his knees and sending him crashing to the floor. A heavy boot to the face finished the job quickly.

  Shaila looked up to see Weatherby awkwardly punching another guard in the face. His form was atrocious, but the hit sent his opponent sprawling to the ground. Weatherby grabbed the man’s sword and ran to help St. Germain and Greene, who were struggling with yet another guard. It seemed more pirates had entered the fray behind the sail-cart; pickets from outside the pyramid or stragglers from within, maybe. It was all swordplay now—even Anne was dueling with a couple of unwashed Frenchmen. Shaila looked down at her unconscious opponent again and, cursing inwardly, grabbed the man’s sword, hoping she wouldn’t stab herself with it if she tried to use it.

  As she tested the blade in her hands, she heard Cagliostro’s voice once again. “Gebhurah, sphere of strength!” he cried hurriedly, eyeing the battle below him. “The dreams of Althotas’ strength will be reality once again. Luna, keeper of dreams, restore the dream of victory to our Ascended Master!” Cagliostro quickly emptied a small pouch of dust onto the altar; the dust motes rose into the air quickly, like a reverse hourglass, until they too formed a sphere that hovered above the altar.

  Shaila turned back to her allies. “Weatherby, Stephane, with me,” she snapped as she headed toward the altar. “Count, you and Greene figure out a way to disrupt this thing for good.” She started for the altar, only to find Yuna rushing down the steps, zapper in hand.

  “Down!” Shaila yelled.

  Shaila hit the deck as Yuna fired. She heard Greene scream as the wide-array blast hit him and felt his body land on top of hers. As she struggled to get out from under his twitching, unconscious body, she saw Yuna rushing toward her, the older woman’s lips forming a thin, frustrated frown as she dodged the numerous hand-to-hand skirmishes that now filled the room.

  Yuna raised her zapper once more, just as Shaila had managed to roll Greene off her. She flinched as she saw Yuna pull the trigger . . . but nothing happened.

  Shaila smiled broadly. “Those wide-area shots drain charges pretty fast,” she said, getting to her feet in the heavy pressure suit, testing the weight of the cutlass in her hand. “Get out of my way, Yuna.”

  The older woman looked dismayed, but stood her ground. “I can’t,” she said. “You’re wrong about this, Shaila.”

  Another rumble filled the room, and Cagliostro started shouting again. “Our Earth is in the sphere of Chesed, and we ask, Althotas, that you show your mercy to our world, knowing that its children are the ones freeing you this day! May all your actions be tempered with mercy, allowing the life embedded in the Philosopher’s Stone to thrive!” With that, he pulled a fist-shaped rock out of a bag on the altar.

  “The stone!” cried St. Germain from behind Shaila. The alchemist rushed toward his former student, but was tackled before he could get there; one of the guards was not as unconscious as they had thought. Cagliostro took the Philosopher’s Stone, placed it into the light, and soon it hovered along with the other spheres above the altar.

  Shaila, who had been wa
tching the whole thing, turned back to Yuna and swore to herself for getting distracted; Yuna wasn’t there. Shaila swung around, trying to spot her again.

  And that’s when the wall of the temple exploded, knocking Shaila and everybody else in the chamber to the floor and sending a torrent of pebbles and dust spewing into the room.

  “MERCY?”

  Shaila shook her head as she tried unsuccessfully to pry herself off the floor, her head pounding in the spot where a brick or rock struck her. The voice she heard—a deep rasp that sounded like an earthquake made of bees—reverberated through her body.

  “WHO HAS SHOWN ME MERCY?”

  As she struggled to stand, Shaila looked up at the wall facing the altar. The thin beam of light was gone, along with a section of the wall itself. In its place was a swirling vortex of darkness, about three meters wide. The inky depths were so black, Shaila’s eyes began to water looking at it.

  A cry and a gurgling sound tore her attention from the wall to a spot a few feet to her left, where she saw Weatherby take advantage of the confusion to dispatch another one of the pirates—permanently, this time. His sword withdrew from the man’s belly covered in blood.

  “CONTINUE THE RITUAL,” the voice rasped. “EARN MY MERCY.”

  Cagliostro dragged himself off the floor, using the altar itself for support. He stared wide-eyed into the void above and in front of him. “My Lord Althotas!” he cried. “I will continue!” With trembling hands, the alchemist snatched up a flower from the altar—the va’hakla plant, Shaila surmised. “Divine mother Venus, housed in the sphere of Binah, source of verdant life! Bring forth the knowledge of life itself, so that matter may take breath and life may flow to you, mighty Althotas!”

  Cagliostro released the flower into the air, where it hovered over the altar and, improbably, grew new shoots and blooms even as it too became spherical. The ground trembled once more, the most violent tremor yet, and the hole in the wall grew by at least another meter.

  “Lt. Jain!” Weatherby shouted as he staggered over to her. “We must press on!”

  Shaila looked around anxiously. “Where’s Stephane?”

  “I do not know,” Weatherby said, taking her arm. “Follow me to the steps. I will clear the way.”

  The two Royal Navy officers made for the stairs leading to the altar, but were intercepted by the three pirates that had gone after Finch. The ruffians drew their swords and charged. Weatherby rushed forward, attempting to fight them all at once, but one of the three shoved past him and made his way straight for Shaila, sword back and ready to strike.

  Reflexively, she raised her own cutlass and managed to parry the blow, sweeping the pirate’s blade to her right. She lunged forward in attempt to skewer him, but he sidestepped the blow; she felt his blade crunch into her pressure suit on her right side, felt a sharp line of fire on her skin just below her rib cage. She dropped her blade in pain as a wave of terror swept over her. It was the greatest fear she had ever felt, greater than when Atlantis was struck over Jupiter. She knew what she had to do back then, but not now. Not here.

  She staggered backward from the pain. Her hands fluttered at her sides, looking for a weapon. They found her helmet instead. She grasped it and, with a scream, lashed out at the man.

  The helmet connected with her assailant’s head, dazing him and forcing his attempted coup de grace off target. His blade caught more of her pressure suit, but that was all. He stumbled backwards, his sword limp in his hand.

  A moment later, he looked down to see a foot of steel protruding from his chest. With a gurgle, he fell to his knees. Behind him, Anne Baker withdrew her sword from his body with efficient prowess and a grim look on her face.

  “Miss Baker,” Shaila said hoarsely, giving the younger woman—Christ, she was just a girl, really—a nod of gratitude.

  Anne nodded back and raised her bloody blade in salute. “Lieutenant,” she said, the ghost of a smile approaching her lips for a moment.

  “Divine Father Mercury!” they heard Cagliostro cry out. “Come now into the sphere of Chaknah, and show our Ascended Master Althotas your wisdom, so that he may bridge the gap between worlds and slip into the spaces between space!”

  Cagliostro opened another vial and a silvery liquid snaked up out of it, forming a swirling globe above the altar. The room rumbled violently.

  “Go!” Weatherby shouted. Shaila turned to see him dueling desperately with one of the pirates. The other was dead at his feet. “Go! Stop him!”

  With Anne at her side, Shaila ran for the stairs, taking two at a time despite the pain from her wound. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was deep enough for her to feel her own blood trickling down her side. She knew she wouldn’t have very long before the blood loss countered her own adrenaline.

  They reached the top . . . and froze.

  Inside the shattered wall and inky abyss, a face was visible, one that was vaguely human but undeniably beautiful. Long blond hair fell straight from the top of its head, while its alabaster features were both elongated and rounded. The face grew closer with a smile of serenity, and white light began to fill the ritual chamber.

  “Althotas!” Cagliostro shouted, ethereal joy spread across his face. “Come toward the portal, my master! Come into a world that welcomes you!”

  The angel reached up a robed arm, its hand opened, palm downward, seemingly seeking to grasp the edge of the wall from the inside.

  “It’s coming through,” Anne said quietly, seemingly in awe. All Shaila could do was stare, enraptured, awash in feelings of wonder and peace. What if Yuna was right? What if this . . .

  As the alabaster human hand reached the edge of the portal, it began to change, becoming a sickly shade of green. The fingers—now four instead of five—grew elongated and now sported a wicked barb upon the tips of each. The arm followed, also growing longer and more heavily muscled, covered in a thin sheen of viscousness. Next, a leg began to jut out of the portal, insectoid in movement, covered in the same alien slime. Shaila stared in horror as the four-toed foot—three in front, one jutting right out the back heel— hit the ground.

  “YOU HAVE DONE WELL,” bellowed the voice from beyond the portal. “I SHALL COMPLETE THIS WORK NOW.”

  Shaila and Anne turned to Cagliostro, whose furrowed, sweaty brow and open mouth spoke of confusion and terror. “My lord Althotas,” he said quietly. “You are not as you once appeared to me.”

  “YOU SAW THAT WHICH I WISHED YOU TO SEE, AND THAT WHICH YOU WANTED TO SEE FOR YOUR OWN ENDS,” the voice said, a hint of mockery flavoring the gravelly hiss. “I AM AS I ONCE WAS. AND YOUR WORLDS WILL BE MINE ONCE MORE.”

  Anne didn’t bother to wait for Cagliostro’s response; she grabbed the alchemist by the arm and, using all her strength, shoved him away. He lost his footing and tumbled down the steps with a scream.

  That left Yuna, who had made it to the top of the platform and was staring into the vortex, fear etched on her face.

  “How do we close it?” Shaila demanded.

  “I don’t know,” she said softly.

  “He told you nothing?” Anne asked incredulously.

  Yuna could merely shake her head as Weatherby quickly mounted the steps behind them, having finally dispatched his opponent. However, his left arm was now hanging limply at his side, rendered useless by a pirate blade. He, too, stopped short at the sight before him.

  Within the swirling darkness, the face of the angel entered the chamber—and transformed into a monster from Hell.

  Its eyes were huge black oval pools, framed by green, slimy skin. Its nose was nothing but two nostrils flat upon its face, its head bare. And its small mouth was open, gaping, full of teeth and dripping ichor.

  “STAND ASIDE,” the creature said. “MY REBIRTH IS NIGH.”

  Another arm reached out, gripping the edge of the portal, while the other leg stamped down onto the ground. The rest of the creature unfolded itself from the portal, its torso bony and yet still sinewy. Finally, it stood before them, more t
han three meters tall.

  It smiled. Horribly.

  “I AM ALTHOTAS, WARLORD OF MARS,” it rasped. “I RULED YOUR WORLDS IN AGES PAST. I WILL DO SO ONCE MORE.”

  Shaila stopped staring long enough to look down at the altar. The globes hovered there in the shape of the Tree of Life, with only the topmost remaining. “What’s left?” she asked. “All the planets, the moons . . . ”

  “The sun,” Yuna said dully, still staring at Althotas.

  Althotas stepped forward to the altar, leaning over it so that he was nearly face to face with Shaila. “KETHER, SOURCE OF LIGHT AND LIGHT. I HARNESS YOUR POWER ONCE MORE. SHINE UPON ME AND ALL SHALL BE AS IT ONCE WAS.”

  Althotas reached out toward the altar, toward the lever in the floor Greene had spotted earlier. Shaila had no idea what it would do, but it couldn’t be good. She rushed forward and swung her blade at the creature’s arm.

  And missed.

  Althotas moved impossibly fast, dodging under her blow to strike her squarely in the chest, sending her sprawling backward into the altar. He then pushed Weatherby backwards with a second lightning strike, sending him sprawling to the ground. Grinning with all its horrible teeth, Althotas grabbed the lever . . . and pulled.

  “NOW!” he rasped, looking up.

  Nothing happened.

  He yanked at it again.

  Nothing.

  With an inhuman, ear-splitting shriek, Althotas yanked the lever completely out of the floor, pulling the rope along with it, then looked up expectantly.

  A loud crack rang out through the chamber—and a dark green spot appeared over Althotas’ left eye. He staggered back with another shriek, clutching his face.

  Shaila looked up toward the sound, where she saw Stephane, dangling upside down five meters off the ground, yet with a smoking flintlock in hand. His leg was tangled up in a rope hanging from the ceiling, the unexpected result of his sabotage of the trap door.

  “Nice shot,” Shaila whispered with a smile. She rolled off the altar, barely managing to stay on her feet and mentally adding broken ribs to her growing list of injuries.