The Nucleus acknowledged the professor's outburst with a brief nod and continued. “Atlantis was badly affected by the leviathan floods that swept down from the north, but worse was to come. The sudden and extreme melting of the polar ice caps allowed the land trapped under the billions of tons of ice to rise and the reverberations made themselves felt down in the fault line that is beneath this ocean under which Atlantis now lies.”
“The Mid Atlantic Ridge,” whispered Jane to McHarrie who nodded in agreement.
“As the polar lands rose, Atlantis sank under the smoke of erupting volcanoes and violent earthquakes.
“The sinking was rapid and much of the Atlantean technology was lost. Survivors of Atlantis were numerous but of the original population many perished, unable to escape the great waves that washed over the doomed continent. Of the colonies that had been established in the dark lands only that in the distant mountains at the roof of the world survived the convulsions of the earth. Its name is Shangri La.”
Once again Professor Miller Hayre convulsed and spluttered. “Shangri La? My... My good God Almighty! I've heard of it! In the Himalayas! The Tibetans have many legends of Shangri La, the golden city of heaven. Some call it Shambala. Good grief... good grief...” He lapsed into a thoughtful silence as he mulled over some unpleasant possibilities. The Nucleus continued.
“The few survivors lay the foundations for future empires on Earth, hoping to create a new Atlantis but without the frailties and fractures that their civilisation had succumbed to in its final days. Civilisations such as Egypt, Sumeria and the Olmecs owe much to the knowledge that Atlantis was able to impart. We were able to remain in contact with some of the survivors, these creators of your world. Their ambitions and vision were perhaps too great compared to the limited resources they had at hand but nonetheless they achieved much, building power generators in fledgling Egypt that trapped and stored the Earth's geomagnetic energy while designing and guiding the building of statues and monoliths that harked back to the times of when Atlantis was great. The survivors were a broken race though, unable to accept the limitations of the brave new world they faced and over time Atlantis and its knowledge passed beyond human ken into myth and legend.
“And we, the Nucleus, watched and stored everything for the generation that would find us.”
Seated on hard wooden benches in a sparse, close room on the Renown, each scientist brooded alone, deep in their own thoughts, dwelling on the shattering revelations that the Nucleus had revealed to them. The entire pre-history of mankind would need to be rewritten, the scientific community would be thrown into a turmoil, but above all lives would be changed forever by the knowledge that the Nucleus held within its memory. The Ministry of Science and Engineering would go stark staring mad about this discovery.
Miller Hayre gloomily imagined the droves of scientists that would now descend on New Atlantis, all demanding to see his discovery, all demanding precious time to test their own theories about Atlantis, all impinging on his own time with the Nucleus. And that’s if Ministry of War didn’t close the area off and declare it a state secret which was very likely. Bugger. But they had to let people know because this discovery was just far too big to hide.
McHarrie’s mind was racing. The possibilities for constructing new weapons powered by the Atlantean power crystals was now within his reach. For too long they’d been limited to using the crystals only to power vehicles, being unable to channel the energy efficiently enough to power a weapon. The Nucleus had hinted at crystal powered weapons. He was sure of it. His friends in the Society would be extremely interested when he reported back to them.
Doyle was not in a good mood. He’d only been allowed to blow up one thing and that had been it. What a waste of time the trip had been. He wondered if the Nucleus would have anything to say on the matter of explosives and thermodynamics. Now there was a thought…..
Jane’s thoughts were her own.
2 The War Factory
The silence of millennia echoed through the corridors of ancient stone. Once, many generations ago, long before the supposed dawn of modern civilisation, the corridors had rung to the sounds of scientific and military endeavour. The clash of metal and grating of stone still hung in the air, a tinkling that could be heard if you listened hard enough. Once there thrived a civilisation that reached the four corners of the Earth whose people lived in prosperity and freedom, people that were giants eight feet tall. They sailed the oceans bringing peace and prosperity wherever they went and were treated like gods. But they became complacent and complacency bred contempt for each other. Hatred. These mighty people split into factions and fought. The mighty energies they had harnessed for good they channelled into creating mighty war machines. And they fought. And fought. And now they fight no more. But the war factories they created still stood, although they were now many hundreds of fathoms beneath the waves. Silent, dark and lonely, they remained undisturbed, monuments to the evil excesses of a long gone people.
Undisturbed.
Until now in the bleak winter months of 1935...
Water hung from the high vaulted ceilings, stretching, fighting the inevitable force of gravity before dripping down, splashing loudly into cold black puddles. Lonely howls of unknown creatures wound through the miles of darkness sounding like lost souls stranded on the banks of the long since dried up Styx.
Suddenly, there was a deep low, bass thud that resounded far down into the hidden depths of the ancient mausoleum of war. Dust trickled down from crumbling joists, scaring skittering creatures away.
The dripping of water continued its reign of the silence, dripping constantly, unceasingly.
Once again the air was assaulted, this time by a shrill whine which slowly increased in volume before screaming to a halt. There were more low thuds, followed by a sharp crack of stone and a huge bang, as a huge two foot thick chunk of granite fell into one of the corridors. Blinding light streamed in, slicing through the thick dank darkness, shredding the gloom. Motes of dust spiralled in the sudden draft, the smell of oil and grease permeating into the violated sanctity of the temple of destruction.
From beyond the light source came a deep menacing tread. Something was coming. Something heavy. The light flickered as a bulky squat humanoid shape loomed into view at the newly cut doorway. The figure was heavily armoured with rounded plates of iron and steel covering every aspect of its seven and a half foot tall body. Partly hidden by the heavy cast armour, tubes snaked from the legs and arms interfacing with the bulky wide carapace. The mighty right arm held an enormous cannon like weapon. Steam and gases rose from gaps between the armour blowing away in the oily breeze. Above the mighty carapace a helmet shaped like a skull with a single slit for eyes and a grid for a mouth stuck out from the protection of the power armour, taking in all that was lit by the lights shining from the shoulder pads. Captain James Riley had arrived.
In the depths, something stirred and awoke after many centuries of hibernation, long disused neural and synaptic pathways lightening and flashing, old memories and old grudges stirring and coming to the fore. It sent out commands to its children feeding off their blood lust, listening to their garbled stories of devouring unknown enemies, blasphemers who dared intrude on hallowed ground.
Riley’s team moved smoothly into action like the well oiled machine it was. Hand picked from the elite squads of the myriad regiments of the British Empire, the soldiers underwent months of gruelling training and conditioning before they were considered good enough for Nightshade. The Nightshade Division consisted of the best infantry troops in the world, genuinely the elite of the elite. Captain Riley himself came from the Royal Scots Lions Rampant unit as did Johnston, Sergeant Miller came from the Essex Rifles' Long Toms, Rafferty from the Irish Guards' Fianna Fail and Black had recently arrived from the Royal Sussex Regiment's Roses of the Crown. Only the best of the regiments made it into the elite squads and they had to be beyond exceptional to be even considered for Nightshade. But Nightshade
were only human...
Quickly the five soldiers scanned the immediate area, power armour creaking and steaming as weapon barrels swept around. Then without a word, Riley led them deeper into the building.
Torchlight flashed over the intricately coloured wall murals that were etched and painted on every corridor and room wall. Bright reds, blues and greens swirled in the yellow light, huge sea scenes dominating and drawing the eye at every turn. Here and there, small globes threw a minty green luminescence into the close surrounding area but beyond there was only darkness. Riley led them deeper and deeper going over the plan he held in his mind’s eye as he did so. Find the power crystals. Escape. It was simple. Neat. Easy. Except for one thing. Two previous expeditions had failed to return to their home submarine dreadnaughts. Twenty men were missing - more than likely dead if the garbled radio messages were to be believed. The messages consisted of screams, cries for help, savage snarls, the rending of flesh and had shocked everyone who dared listen to them. The British scientific colony of New Atlantis appealed for help and the Nightshade Division were sent in, supposedly on a training mission to test out the new power armour the boffins at Bletchley Park had designed. In reality the Ministry of Science and Engineering at Whitehall in good ol’ Blighty was having conniptions about this opposition to their continued acquisition of the Atlantean power crystals.
Riley flexed his muscles feeling the heavy armour and its motors shift as he did so. The supporting straps chafed despite the generous padding. The armour felt heavy even coupled with the ingenious motors that increased the wearers strength. After refining the massive power crystal driven engines of the dreadnaughts, the bright sparks at Bletchley Park had got bored and decided they wanted to turn a man into a walking tank. Using tiny chips of power crystal, the boffins invented the small engine encased in the backplate of each suit of armour and fed the resultant energy out through various tubes and cables to the motors in the shoulders, arms, hips and legs. Add on plates of steel and iron moulded from tank armour and you had a fearsome addition to the battlefield. Or so they said. Riley felt cumbersome in the enclosed armour, preferring the freedom of unencumbered movement. He'd get used to it.
A solid metal door appeared out of darkness ahead of the soldiers, shining an unnatural silver hue. Complex symbols and writing were embossed just above head height on the tall door. Riley pulled out a piece of paper from a compartment on his hip and compared the symbols and complex lines written on it with those on the door. They matched. Their objective had been reached. With a sigh of relief he turned to his men and…..
….. screeches and howls raced down the wide corridor they had just come down. Screams from the very depths of hell itself were raised in a cacophony of hatred against the intruders.
“Quick. Inside now,” Riley shouted over the terrifying racket.
The door squealed open on protesting hinges.
Sergeant Miller turned to face up the corridor, covering the squad’s rear as the men slowly squeezed through the doorway, hulking frames outlined against a soft blue light from within the large room they entered.
Something moved ahead of him, caught in the green wall lights. White fangs dripped and yellow claws scraped against the granite floor, night black bodies swarmed over each other desperate to kill, screeching with rage.
Miller raised his gatling cannon and flicked the safety catch off, moving the ammunition belt out behind him so it wouldn’t catch on his armour.
“Miller! Move it! Get in here!” ordered Riley.
“There’re hundreds of them. I’ll hold them off. Get the crystals and get out of here. Now.” Miller was glad his voice didn’t betray the icy fear that gripped his heart with hard fingers. Humans he could handle no matter what race or creed they were. Even animals wouldn’t cause his trigger finger to twitch the way it did now at the sight of the eyeless, unearthly reptiles swarming ahead of him.
Armour clattered and creaked as Riley appeared behind him and swore profusely at the sight.
The two men looked at each other, a mutual sense of understanding passing between them. They had no choice.
“Victory or death, Miller,” Riley said has he turned away.
“Victory or death, Captain,” Miller returned, repeating the Nightshade motto as he heard the metal door and his only escape clang shut. He could hear bars dropping down behind it. He could feel Death at his shoulder, waiting.
The black horde had stopped, seething. Heads turned and focussed on the armoured soldier, standing massive and immovable, all alone against them. They could feel other warm living bodies nearby, other life sources shining brightly behind this one. Kill, kill, kill! As one they surged forward.
Miller took an involuntary step back as night descended screaming upon him. He pressed the trigger of his gun, the barrels span creating a shrill whine which drowned out the screaming which in turn was drowned out by the roar of bullets hurling themselves through the air, thirsting for lives to end.
The torrent of night paused and swirled as body after body fell, shredded by the unending stream of bullets, bright blue ichor splattering and dripping from the walls. But as the waters of the Amazon are relentless so was this tide of hell and the sheer mass of bodies pushed the fiends on.
Brass bullet cases span and bounced away from Miller, collecting in small piles on the floor. The roar of the spinning cannon deafened him and the flickering glare of cannon fire blinded him but still he stood, seeking new targets with unerring aim, protecting his squad, a King Canute against the sea.
Suddenly the rage of fire power stopped, the gatling cannon whining uselessly, out of ammunition. Miller clicked a switch and the gun fell to the floor with a clatter. His power armour complained as the flexed his arms, stretching them wide, preparing for unarmed combat. The iron gauntlets enclosing his fists bunched into huge sledgehammers. Behind his all enclosing helmet Miller scowled at the milling mob willing them to attack so he could get the job over and done with.
The dam burst with a howl of victory. Fangs flashed and talons reached for flesh to rend.
Victory or death. Miller swung his right arm like a battering ram, swiping away the first row of creatures, crushing them against the wall, marring the decorative frescos. The sheer bulk of his armour blocked the corridor, holding back the Stychian animals, giving his comrades the precious time they needed. Steam and oil surged as Miller’s performed a similar brutal sweep with his left arm, bones crunching and snapping under the force of the blow. Miller blinked as razor sharp teeth snapped bare inches in front of his face and a breath of old blood and stale meat assaulted his nostrils. And then they were on him. The weight and ferocity of the attackers caused the lone man to stagger back against the bolted door. He could feel the plates of his armour compress together as venomous jaws clutched and bit down hard. Claws scraped along his backplate like nails down a blackboard. Miller groaned with effort as he took a step forward simultaneously trying to pull his arms back to throw punches and sweep the attackers away but they were too numerous. It was like being stuck in a bog, a wicked morass that sucked and held his limbs in clasps of steel refusing to let go. The suit of armour creaked and protested, motors whining as Miller pulled his arms together crushing the many screeching creatures trapped within. Miller felt the crack more than heard it and suddenly his left arm was a dead weight against his side. The experimental motor must have broken, not surprising given the strain it had been under. At the same time, Miller stepped on the remains of one of his enemies, an unexpected occurrence that caused him to momentarily lose his balance. It was enough. A slavering creature flung itself against him followed by many more and Miller felt himself slowly topple. With a crunch of metal on stone, Miller screamed in pain as he landed on his useless left arm, twisting it into an unnatural contortion and snapping a bone within. Sensing a weakness, claws scratched and pulled at his left shoulder joint where his arm was bent round exposing the pipes and thinner armour underneath the heavy layers of plate metal. The stink of o
il and the iron taint of blood flooded Miller’s nostrils as razor claws cut the precious pipes and down into the thin armour beneath before piercing the soft skin and muscle of his shoulder. Pain lanced through Miller’s mind as he felt the claws slice further into his arm. A guttural snarl brought Miller to his senses. Right in front of his face, a lizard like face devoid of eyes seemed to stare at him, lines of serrated teeth dripping with saliva as the animal’s nostrils flared and sniffed the air.
Miller bunched his right fist in preparation to pound this foul thing. In the brief time his arm lay outstretched, two scythe like claws sliced down between the armour plates and cut his arm off at the elbow. Miller screamed again, the excruciating pain shining like a fiery sun in front of his eyes. And now the end was near.
The metal door began to buckle under the ferocity of the creatures’ attacks, bulging and groaning under the force and weight of bodies behind it.
Directly opposite the door, a window spanned a quarter of the circumference of the the cavernous round room that Nightshade found themselves in. Only dark gloomy liquid night lay beyond occasionally illuminated by photoplasmic plankton and fish. Mainly the dusty glass reflected only fuzzy orbs where the surrounding light globes cast their light. A shattered stone table lay on the floor surrounded by the savaged remains of four human bodies. A rainbow of pastel light spilled onto the floor from a large rucksack that lay next to one of the ruined carcasses. Riley stepped over to the bodies and carefully examined them avoiding their horrifying visages. This was definitely the first expedition. One of the bodies still had a broken name tag attached to his chest that proclaimed him to be Lucius de la Cruzenove, the second in command. They had found some power crystals before they had been attacked by the look of things. Johnston rooted through the rucksack counting as he did so.
An Atlantean Triumvirate Page 3
