The Cydonia Objective mi-3

by David Sakmyster

  Come on. Refine the question. He focused, thought carefully.

  Where did Commander Maurice get it?

  A blast hit him, bright and intense:

  A centurion, this one wrapping a cloak about himself as he races alone on a horse across a craggy terrain. Pouring rain, raging winds. The same spear, strapped to his back as he rides, heading toward a familiar circle of giant stones on the moors.

  Caleb groaned. Before that, show me…

  Another blast of light. A shadowy image of a heat-riddled city, a crowd of jeering, shouting men in rags. More Roman shoulders pushing the crowd back, making room for…

  A blast of BLUE, like a broken reel of film giving way to a blank screen. It jitters, and for a moment Caleb sees a hillside at twilight. The same Roman soldier seen previously on the moors, dragging the spear point behind him. The point, covered in oddly-translucent crimson blood, leaving a trail in the sand. Behind him, up the hill…

  The briefest image of crosses…

  And then the blue screen again. Fiercely blue like a cloudless sky over the ocean.

  And then he’s–

  #

  Lurching up into his brother’s supporting arms. Brought to his feet now, against the central pillar.

  Alexander moved into view, his face pale by the flashlight glow. Worry crossed his features. “Dad? You okay? Looks like you saw a ghost.”

  Caleb straightened, wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded. “A couple, I think.”

  “What were you looking for?” Montross asked. “Not the way out, I take it?”

  “No, figured you had that covered. I was checking on our friend, The Spear.”

  “And-?”

  Caleb rubbed his eyes, then pushed off the pillar after giving it one more glance.

  “Now I know what it really is.”

  4.

  Cairo Airport

  “Where are we going?” Phoebe asked, boarding the Cessna-14, a plane she knew was capable of travelling long distances without refueling. She glanced backwards, to the darkened stretch of Cairo Airport’s runway, half-expecting to see armored vehicles racing after them or sleek ninjas bursting out of the shadows.

  Commander Temple took her by the elbow and gently led her up the stairs to join Orlando inside. “Ultimately back to our base, but first we’ve got another passenger to pick up.”

  Phoebe followed him inside to a luxurious cabin, where Orlando was already sitting in a huge white leather chair, tapping the armrests and grinning as he looked around. Two 40-inch flat screen TVs were built into the wall in front of the seats, a bar rested on the left side and two couches faced each other behind the three rows of seats. Orlando whistled. “Now this is more like it. You guys sure know how to spend the taxpayers’ money.”

  As a crewman hauled up the ladder and sealed the door, Phoebe took the seat beside Orlando. “So, we’re going to rescue someone else?” A note of hope flickered in her voice. Maybe they’d found Alexander or her brother?

  Temple signaled the captain, then shut the cabin door and sat in a chair beside them. “Yes, and I’m sorry for this, but it’s not going to be without danger.”

  Orlando groaned and held his bandaged neck. “Just tell me there aren’t any eels.”

  Smiling, Temple said, “No eels. We’re going someplace a lot dryer.”

  Phoebe lowered her eyes. “Why can’t we just go somewhere safe, let you pick up this person, then meet us? Seriously, Orlando’s hurt, and we haven’t slept in days.”

  “Sorry.” Temple shook his head as the engines breathed into life and the plane rattled. “But this is urgent. And for this mission, well… We kind of need you.”

  “Oh great.” Orlando rolled his eyes at Phoebe. “Another psychic gig. We know the drill: all the risk, none of the reward.”

  “Your talents…” Temple began.

  Orlando held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah. We know. If you ask me though, freakin’ Spiderman ruined it for all of us after the whole ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ mantra.”

  “We’re not superheroes,” Phoebe contradicted. “Let someone else go.”

  Temple shook his head. “This is part of the deal in rescuing you. Plus, the Dove saw that you’d be instrumental in helping us. Indispensable, in fact.”

  “All right, I’ll bite,” Orlando said. “What’s the objective? Who’s the target?”

  Smiling, Temple leaned back. “Her name,” he said, “is The Hummingbird.”

  #

  The plane lurched, rocked to the side, then ascended. After the rocky take off, Orlando turned to the commander. “Great, another bird.” He scratched under his thick hair. “Doves, hummingbirds…” He glanced at Phoebe. “Crowes.”

  She jabbed him. “Okay, who is this hummingbird person, and more importantly, where is she?”

  Temple opened a briefcase by his seat and pulled out a red folder, sealed with a string. He held it up. “Exactly where she is, you’ll have to tell us. But the general vicinity is here…” He pressed a button on his seat’s armrest, and the TV screen in front of them lit up. Displayed there was a map.

  It took Phoebe a couple seconds to recognize the outlines, but it wasn’t hard. She’d seen it on the news enough lately. “Afghanistan?”

  “Uh oh,” Orlando said, straightening up. “Seriously, I didn’t sign on for this. Would’ve joined the army if I wanted to sweat it out in a desert battling Taliban, avoiding roadside bombs and rabid scorpions. Thanks but no freakin’ thanks.”

  Temple pressed a couple keys and the image zoomed in to a location north of the center of the country, about a hundred miles west of Kabul. A site marked by rocky hills, huge cliffs and rugged peaks.

  “Bamian,” he said, pointing to the screen as he got up and fixed himself a drink. Ice. Gin. “Know anything about it?”

  Phoebe nodded, her eyes darkening. “For centuries it was a major tourist site and pilgrimage location. And before that, a thriving city. Part of the ancient Silk Road trade route. Home to the two colossal Buddhas, carved by monks in the seventh century right into niches in the sandstone mountainside. One was like, a hundred and sixty feet tall, larger even than the Statue of Liberty, and the other one was over a hundred and twenty feet.”

  Temple returned to his seat. Pressed another button, and the screen shifted to a bright view of the mountainside and the enormous niche housing a standing, faceless Buddha.

  “You said ‘was’?” Orlando asked. “Are they…?”

  Temple took a sip, then pressed the key again. The same niche now, but inside it was only rubble. “In 2001, just several months before 9-11, Mullah Muhammad Omar ordered that these emblems of the infidels be destroyed. That was after they also raided the Kabul Museum and destroyed countless priceless artifacts from the region.”

  “That should’ve been our cue of more to come from those whackos,” Orlando said.

  Phoebe swallowed hard, staring at the image. “The statues survived for over a thousand years, even managed to escape destruction when our old buddy Genghis Khan invaded. One of his grandsons had been killed on a raid here, shot by an arrow from the well-fortified guard posts on the ridges. Genghis was pissed, and personally saw to the city’s complete destruction.”

  “Yet he left the Buddhas?”

  Phoebe nodded. “Maybe he respected them—or the original builders—too much to risk that sacrilege.”

  Orlando sighed. “Something the Taliban could care less about.”

  After taking another swig, Temple said to Phoebe, “And I’m guessing that you know about the legends.”

  “Always legends,” Orlando said, groaning. He eyed the bar and licked his lips.

  Temple noticed his glance. “Help yourself. Self-serve around here.”

  Phoebe shifted and leaned forward, still staring at the picture. “Well, when it comes to ancient history I guess I take after my brother and my dad a bit. But you’re right. There are myths about this place, namely that those statues were here long befor
e the Buddhist monks arrived.”

  Orlando slowly got to his feet and headed to the bar as Phoebe continued: “Legends claim they were built as ‘imperishable witnesses’, reminders left in the mountain by survivors of the great flood.”

  Orlando chose an old bottle of scotch after reading the label and whistling. “Let me guess. Atlanteans?”

  Phoebe shrugged. “That’s what some believe. That they migrated here after the sinking of the island, that they built a network of caves within the mountain and under it. And the seventh-century monks only found the Buddhas already here, and used the existing caves as their homes, painting beautiful murals and designs—and also I recall, smoothing out the faces on the statues—and covering their nakedness in plaster robes.”

  Orlando returned, sat and raised his glass to the screen. “Well, so much for the ‘imperishable witnesses.’”

  Phoebe turned to face Temple. “Why are we really going to Bamian?”

  Temple turned off the TV. “I told you, for the Hummingbird.”

  “And,” Orlando asked, wincing after a swig. “Where is she? Oh wait, you’re just going to say that it’s up to us to answer that question.”

  “Exactly,” Temple said. “But I’m glad you’re not uninformed about the caves and tunnels. Because we know this much from our source: that she’s down there under all that bedrock and sandstone. Somewhere in the very network of miles and miles of caves and tunnels in which we believe many of the terrorists are hiding, waiting us out and coordinating their attacks.”

  Orlando finished his drink. “And you want us to…?”

  “I didn’t say you two need to go down there,” Temple replied. “You have the unique ability to keep yourselves out of harm’s way and still get the job done. Just find her for us. Tell us exactly where they’re keeping her. And then we’ll go in and get her.”

  “Wait.” Phoebe faced them. “You said you had other remote-viewers on your team. The Dove, for one. Why not use them? Why us?”

  Temple lowered his head. “We’ve tried, but… there’s been difficulty.”

  “Like what?” Orlando asked, swishing the ice around in his glass. He glanced out the window at the expanse of moonlight speckling the shrouded desert below.

  “They’re using the Hummingbird’s talents. Blocking us.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. “She’s a shield?”

  Temple slowly nodded. “A very powerful one. They have another, as well. We don’t know too much about this one, except that he’s Al Qaeda too. A top-level member. Highly-trained, and ruthless. His shielding skills and the Hummingbird’s extend to technological surveillance as well.”

  “Meaning,” said Orlando, “that you haven’t been able to spy on them? Not with satellites or psychics? No wonder we can’t find any of these terrorist cells.”

  Temple rubbed his hands together. “Two shields are needed to be effective. One can’t stay awake and in control of the shield twenty-four-seven. But it’s in those times when the Hummingbird is asleep and the other one is, shall we say, not in complete focus, that we’ve been able to get as far as we have. We know their approximate location. At least as of last night. And so, we were dispatched. First to get you, then to get her. We’ve got a small window of time. It has to be now. Before they move again.”

  Orlando refilled his glass, then set it down, seeing Phoebe’s reproachful look. “Yes, but again, I don’t see how we’re going to narrow this down for you. If the shields or whatever are working…”

  Temple held up a hand, then set his head back, resting against the seat pillow. He fitted a sleep mask over his eyes. “You’ll do fine.”

  “How?” Phoebe asked, almost exasperated.

  Turning to his side, Temple said, “Because you two are the best. You’ll find her because you know what questions to ask. Questions that will get you past the shield.”

  Orlando snatched up his glass again as he headed back to his seat. “What do you mean, get past it?”

  Temple smiled. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. I trust that you’ll find it.”

  “But—” Phoebe started, then gave up as the commander fit headphones over his ears and promptly dozed off.

  Orlando shook his head. “And we don’t get to sleep?” He shifted uncomfortably, frowned then looked on the seat below him. He picked up the red folder, sighed, then handed it to Phoebe.

  “Guess we’ve got our homework assignment.”

  Phoebe nodded reluctantly. “Let’s get to work.”

  5.

  Cairo Museum of Antiquities

  “You’re sure they’re coming this way?”

  Mason Calderon leaned on his dragon-headed cane as the commandos barred the entrance doors behind him. The sun was just coming up over the high-rises and the bustling traffic began in earnest outside, while inside his team spread out through the exhibits.

  The two boys put down their skateboards, set their feet on them simultaneously and grinned back at Calderon. “Oh yes,” said Isaac. “Our brother will be here soon.”

  Calderon felt other eyes upon him, shivered for a moment fearing someone distant might be observing him, but then faced the glass case to his left, where a four-thousand year old bust of Pharaoh Ramses II, cast in limestone, stared back at him. Calderon felt those eyes boring into his soul from across the millennia, cold granite eyes that sought him out—possibly, he thought—as an equal. A fellow seeker after immortality, a king, a divinity forced to exist among lesser beings.

  A smile crept on his face, a thin mimicry of Ramses’ expression. Destiny was in his corner, and a long line of worthy predecessors awaited his ascension.

  He watched the boys skateboard in and out of shadows and cones of light, gracefully moving among the ancient artifacts, past friezes, mummies, trinkets and weapons, rolling towards sarcophagi and shelves of canopic jars.

  “This way, Sir.” One of the commandos led him ahead, as two followed at the rear, leaving another pair guarding the main doors against unwanted intrusion. Outside, the administrator and curators were being briefed about another possible bomb threat, and escorted to a safe perimeter.

  Calderon followed the commandos and the boys through the halls, past treasures remarkable and commonplace to the eras from which they were plucked. He thought about the power the boys had, the same one shared by their parents, by Xavier Montross and the others in the Morpheus Initiative. Certainly an entire wing of this museum could be filled with the bones of psychics who claimed to share their ability. Other mystics and prophets who could see the past, and some of them even the future. The woman who glimpsed the opening of Thoth’s box by three brothers must have received some vision and spoke of it in a prophecy that had eventually reached Pharaoh’s ears.

  Calderon continued into a stairwell where below, the boys’ voices echoed cheerily. They were carrying their skateboards, laughing as they tapped the boards against the stairs. Still, he thought, a shame he hadn’t been born with the gift. To be chosen for such a task, selected by Destiny, and yet not given all the tools and weapons he should have… How he rued that missing aspect, and yet… Perhaps it was a blessing. It kept him single-minded, without the distraction of curiosity and the power to quench it.

  He knew what was required of him. Knew what they needed to complete the weapon. The Tablet of Destiny. It was so much more than that fool Caleb could imagine. He’d had it for seven years and didn’t even begin to gleam its secrets. Oh, for sure its latent power would have stimulated Caleb’s mind—and his son’s, and anyone who came near to it; but to really understand its power, its true destructive capabilities…

  Calderon was ready. Robert Gregory and the other Keepers had an inkling of what the tablet really was. And so did George Waxman, Stargate’s head man and the originator behind the Morpheus Initiative. In his quest for psychic candidates for the government, he had tested one man who had seen it for what it truly was: a threat to all life on this planet. And, Calderon mused, any other planet or satellite we might
choose to target. Good thing Caleb was such a believer in the preservation of knowledge. He would never consider destroying such a find, regardless of what Waxman feared could happen. And so he kept it, believing himself a better Keeper than his other new friends, including his wife.

  But he was wrong, and the time was coming. The time of release. Marduk’s vision, nearly achieved. It was so easy to set the gears in motion to retrieve the tablet. Robert Gregory, as the Keepers’ leader, desperately wanted the most prized element from the lost Alexandrian Library. And all Calderon had to do was keep fanning the flames, leaking out information about who had it, and how he might get it.

  Of course, to get by Caleb’s defenses, they needed a psychic, someone just as powerful to see the way. And Xavier Montross had been only too willing. Gregory and Montross did all the work, but it was Calderon who had pulled the strings.

  And now here they were. Tablet in hand. Translation almost in place. But even without that, the contents of that locked box under the Sphinx, they had what they needed. The Tablet. The ancient piece of technology, an interface between mind and machine.

  The weapon was built and ready. Waiting for this final piece, the instructions and codes to harness the power of the universe.

  All that remained was to eliminate any threat to its deployment. And that meant the threat to the Tablet itself. The one artifact that could destroy it.

  He had to act fast. Their enemies—their real enemies—wouldn’t be idle for much longer. Not if they too, could see.

  #

  Calderon watched the boys eagerly glide ahead, deeper and deeper into the museum’s secrets. Now they were nearing a restricted door in the back, which Calderon knew led to a private stairwell that would take them to a basement below the storage sublevels.

  “It’s down here, father!” Isaac yelled back, grinning.

  Jacob waved his hand. “They’re coming, hurry!”