by E. E. Knight
“Leukemia. It’s in remission. The doctors tell me to rest, but what is that against the Awakening?”
With that, dripping first in the hall and then on the kitchen floor and table, Kunai told Alex that he’d dreamed that the Deep Gods were beginning to rouse themselves. One or two had awakened, a vanguard of the consciousnesses to come.
Alex made him a cup of coffee, forced him to eat some buttered toast. Kunai tore into the bread like a starved man and then went on with his tale.
“Meet, yes, we’re going to meet. I’ve been to Capricorn Atoll to prepare for instructions. Detailed instructions, not just impressions from dreams. I need to get the nine plates, the Prophecy Panels used to communicate with the Deep Ones. The ones originally at the atoll were destroyed long ago. But I know where there is another set.”
“Not another cottage in Cornwall, I hope,” Alex joked.
Kunai did not smile. “They’re in the Whispering Abyss, or so it’s written on an Ethiopian monolith. Whispering Abyss. You know from whom I first heard those words?”
“No.”
“Your father. Where I first met you, in Peru. I saw some bits of an article he was doing when I first became involved in the Truth and the Old Order. All this time, right under my nose.”
“He’s quit all his research into us, you know that. Warned me a dozen times not to have anything to do with you.”
Kunai’s eyes lit up as he smiled. “Now you understand why I told you to keep your membership a secret from even your father.”
“I’ll call him and ask for a visit. You can use the crystal on him before the door’s half open and—”
“I’ve already been to Scotland, Eighteen. The crystal didn’t even make him blink. Tough-minded old bird!”
The Old Man was that.
“What do you need of me?” Alex always had that phrase ready on his lips when conversing with someone ranked seventeen or higher.
“Visit your father. Any pretense will do. We need those old papers of his on the Méne. The precise location of the Abyss is recorded there, I’m sure of it. Someone’s killed Von Croy, so the only other copies are buried somewhere in Lara Croft’s vault, and I’m content that they remain there. I don’t want her to get even a whiff of our interest. If half of what I’ve heard about her is true, she could spell trouble for us. Meanwhile, I’ve put together a team that can go anywhere in the world on three days’ notice and retrieve the plates as soon as you get the information.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Alex said.
“Wait. Your task is greater than mere theft. It won’t be enough for us to possess your father’s papers. He, more than anyone now living, will know the danger we pose. He will alert the world.”
“No one would believe him.”
“Perhaps not. But we can’t afford to take that chance. You’re going to have to eliminate him, Alex.”
“K-kill him, you mean? My own father?”
“Eighteen, I’ve been waiting for some time to make you my direct subordinate. As number two, your power would be second only to my own. But there’s one final trial before you join the elite. One last test to pass. To show your devotion, you must sacrifice someone near to you. It’s something that all of us 1-percenters have done to reach our positions.”
“I thought the text read ‘sacrifice that which is dearest.’ I was going to give up my college chair.”
Kunai chuckled. “Like a Catholic might give up chocolate for Lent? No, Alex. A blood sacrifice is necessary.” Kunai produced a revolver from his jacket pocket and pushed it across the kitchen table. “Wipe it off carefully and then wear gloves.”
***
Alex ate dinner with the Old Man—well, the Old Man ate, and Alex made enough of a hash of his broiled meat to make it look as if he’d eaten—then left. After a visit to the hardware store and two strong cups of coffee laced with equally strong whiskey, he hurried back for the ferry across the Irish Sea to Dublin.
He bought a ticket but never boarded.
He went back to the Old Man’s house, wearing a cheap woolen cap with oversized earflaps.
The glass cutter hadn’t even touched the window when he saw the Old Man standing in the doorway of the kitchen, carrying a Clint Eastwood—sized pistol. He almost ruptured himself in his haste to get away, leaping the hedge and cutting through backyards to a chorus of barking dogs.
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do it,” he confessed to Kunai later. They sat in his tiny kitchen. Alex poured himself a hot cup of coffee and spiked it with scotch.
There were dark circles under Kunai’s eyes, his skin had thinned against the bones of his face. “You disappoint me. I fear you won’t keep your number very long.”
“No!” Alex protested. “I’ve given my life to this.”
“But you can’t give your father’s? Getting those papers was your responsibility. You’ve failed.”
“I’ve had dreams too of late. Very specific ones.” Alex felt as light as air. When he walked to the counter, it seemed as though his feet didn’t touch the kitchen tiles.
“Specific how?” Kunai coughed.
“You can’t keep up the pace anymore. You’re making bad decisions.”
“What are you saying?” Kunai fumbled at his shirt pocket, going for the crystal that he always carried.
“Responsibility flows up, as well as down,” Alex said. He grabbed the scotch bottle and smashed Kunai across the face with it. The blow sent the older man spilling from the chair, and Alex dropped down on him, driving his knee against Kunai’s throat. Cartilage crackled under his knee, sounding like bubble wrap being popped.
Alex prized open Kunai’s weakening fingers and grasped the crystal on its ivory handle. He looked at the distorted image of his mentor, tried to funnel his own sense of exhilaration and peace to Kunai.
But the image in the glass shrank to a tiny point, black and dead.
The Prime is dead, Alex thought as he knelt above the body, gasping for breath.
Long live the Prime.
***
But Tejo Kunai still had work to do. Alex called a meeting of the top 1 percent, in this case numbers two through eight; he had spoken in Kunai’s name often enough before that no one was suspicious. All knew of the man’s health problems. At the meeting, Alex entered with the crystal in hand and announced that Kunai had died and appointed him successor. For men and women who claimed to be an intellectual, spiritual, and moral elite, they became convinced of his inheritance of the mantle of leadership astonishingly easily. Not one of them proved able to resist the suggestive power of the crystal. He asked for detailed, written status reports of their current projects and the responsibilities of the 10 percent under them, especially those of the team selected to recover the plates.
Among those reports, he first saw A1ison’s picture. She’d been hired through lower-numbered functionaries as an archaeologist willing to work for money. He recognized her beautiful blue eyes from his dreams.
He used the substantial funds now at the Méne’s disposal to have Alison visit him in Lisbon, then Buenos Aires, then India, as he became familiar with the global organization that before he’d only known from having his strings pulled. Now he pulled the strings. She needed only the tiniest nudge of the crystal to be convinced to join. He fell in love with the brilliant mind first, then the young, strong body. They first made love the night she got her tattoo.
***
The Prime looked across the ruins of Ukju Pacha, brought back to the present by the sound of helicopter blades in the distance. Ajay hung about one of the vents to the Whispering Abyss as though listening for clues to the fate of Lara Croft and her ex-lover, Borg. His Tomb Raider swayed on her feet; the effects of the avitos bulbs she’d crushed between her teeth before entering the chamber, which had allowed her to kick the Norwegian with enough strength to send him flying into the Abyss, were ebbing, leaving her sapped and moody.
He didn’t want to think about Alison anymore. He was gettin
g tired of her anyway. He resolved to look to the future.
And there she was, sitting on the grass, waiting for her next set of instructions: Heather Rourke. Bright, pretty, mature, and plugged into the Washington, D.C., power network, where journalists often wielded as much or more influence than the politicians they covered. The time for globe-trotting and obelisk-rubbing was just about over. Once the Prophecy Panels were in place and had served their purpose, it would be useful to have someone with the keys to the global telecommunications kingdom among the chosen Méne.
17
The wasps chased Lara and Borg.
At least, that was how she thought of the giant insects that had been attacking them for what seemed like hours now. The other bugs had resembled fat bumblebees, but these were waspish, their thin black bodies splashed with bright yellow; their long legs dangled limply as they flew.
The Tomb Raider backpedaled, a necklace of chemical lights strung across her chest, guns out, protecting Borg as he picked their path through the tunnel. The buzzing suddenly grew louder, indicating that the wasps were coming again.
“Incoming!” she cried, and dropped to the ground.
Tight streams of sticky tobacco-juice-like liquid flashed out of the dark, passing over her head. Lara fired back, lighting the twisting tunnel with muzzle flashes. Her VADS system had run dry awhile ago, and she was down to reserve ammunition now. But again the wasps retreated.
Borg cried out in Norwegian as a parting salvo of wasp spit struck his neck. As they had discovered, the liquid was a powerful acid; Lara had taken some across the back of her hand in an earlier assault and it still burned. Thankfully, neither of them had been hit in the eyes, ears, or mouth yet. Now Borg dropped his chemical light and clawed at his already-blistering skin.
Lara slung her camel pack under her arm and squeezed it like a bagpipe, directing the spray across Borg’s neck. When it was washed clear of the poison, she helped him to his feet. “Still with me, Borg?”
“For now,” Borg said. “But I do not think we can hold them off much longer.”
“With any luck, we won’t need to. The breeze is stronger than ever. We’re going to make it.”
Water was flowing somewhere ahead of them, and together they hurried toward the sound. Behind them, the buzzing began to grow louder again.
At a Y-intersection in the tunnel, they came to an underground river. Lara knelt and put her hand into the swift-moving flow.
Cold. Not quite ice-cold, but cold enough for hypothermia to set in within twenty minutes or so.
Lara ignored the buzzing as best as she could and looked around.
They stood in a much rougher underground chamber. They’d traveled west, or perhaps southwest, some distance—GPS didn’t work deep underground, so she’d navigated on instinct and air currents, following the breeze.
The river plunged into the rock wall of the chamber a stone’s throw away. The breeze was coming from a narrow space between the river and the wall.
“I hope you are not thinking what I think you are thinking,” Borg said.
“How are you at swimming with those arms, Nils?” Lara
asked.
“I am an excellent sinker,” he replied.
“We have two choices,” she said. “Either we take a deep breath and jump in this river and hope it comes out into the open before we run out of air, or we try to fight our way back past the wasps with the twelve bullets I’ve got left.”
Borg knelt and peered down the river, just as she had.
“Cover up your light,” he said.
She pocketed her chemical stick, placed a hand over the glow that made its way through the cotton canvas.
After a moment in the coal-mine dark of the cave, they both saw a faint smear of light in the river.
“Sunlight,” Lara breathed.
“It seems a long way off,” Borg said. “But it’s there.”
The buzzing behind them grew louder again. The wasps were coming back, with fresh poison to spit.
“It looks like the river is our best chance,” Borg said, glancing nervously behind them.
“I agree.” Lara turned off the VADS gear. According to Djbril, water wouldn’t harm the system, but there was no point taking unnecessary risks. “Were you serious about not being able to swim?”
“My arms are functional underwater, but their weight drags me down. I can fight against it for a time, using my legs, but not for very long.”
“You’ll have to hold on to me. I won’t let you sink.”
“I hate this,” he said.
“Just think of it as another BASE jump. A really wet one.”
“It is not the wet that I mind. It is the cold.”
“When we get back to civilization, I’ll put us up in a Jacuzzi suite.”
“The current is swift,” Borg observed. “It’s going to be quite a ride.” He lit a chemical light and tossed it into the river. The light disappeared into the cavern mouth. “Hopefully, that will show us any rocks in our path.”
“Good thinking, Nils.” She lit one of hers and tossed it in for good measure.
“Here come the wasps!” cried Borg as the first stream of spit splattered off the rocks beside him.
“Hang on to my backpack with that claw of yours,” Lara said, then rolled into the river with a splash. Borg was right behind her.
The chilled water stuck its knives everywhere in Lara’s body. Diamond-pointed filaments of shock ran up her limbs. Right after her dip in the Jacuzzi suite, she’d write a check to a university to come up with a microthin survival wetsuit that she could fit into her lucky pack.
As she rode the swift current, trying to keep her toes pointed downstream, Borg’s kicks struck her own quickly fluttering calves.
“You managing?” Borg sputtered.
The Tomb Raider’s eyes didn’t leave the bobbing glow of the chemical lights ahead. “It’s okay. We’re in the tunnel.”
Blast, a rock.
She bounced off it sideways. Ahead loomed an overhanging bulge—
“Duck!” she croaked. There was just enough time to submerge. She hoped Borg would sink as well as he’d promised. A sharp tug at her backpack, and Borg no longer kicked. He’d struck the rock, perhaps been knocked unconscious.
The mechanical hand kept its grip where a human hand would have let go. Lara fought the deadweight, broke the surface as the water plunged down a short drop. She managed to get a breath before being sucked under again.
The deadly cold flow, indifferent to the humans fighting in its grip, worked for them for a change and pushed them to the surface.
Lara turned so she could sidestroke and pull Borg along. Her chemical necklace revealed a larger cavern. They came up and out of the water, followed by her head. The channel widened, slowed. She could see the lights they’d thrown floating ahead, hardly bobbing at all.
Borg, a hundred-plus kilos of deadweight, twitched, started kicking and thrashing. Lara risked not looking ahead and shifted herself so she could support his head.
“Borg! Borg!”
“Ja, ja!” he sputtered, but calmed down a moment later.
The Tomb Raider turned and swam on, holding the light up as much as possible. She caught up to her thrown light, bobbing gently in the cold, dark water; the current had slowed with the widening of the tunnel. The pain in her limbs ebbed, replaced by a warm feeling.
Alarm bells went off somewhere, but her brain was muzzy. In Russia she’d had a wetsuit … Where was Michelov? The Spear…
The next thing she knew, she was being dragged out of the water and onto a smooth-pebbled shore. Borg was pulling her, but whether he was even aware of doing so, she couldn’t tell. Once out of the water, he collapsed, holding his head. A distant roar filled the cavern, and a stronger light shone from further downstream. Their two thrown chemical lights floated past, heading toward the light. The breeze here was warmer, and smelled of green, growing life, though the rocks were still cave cold.
The Tom
b Raider stripped off her backpack with numb fingers, took out her shiny silver survival blanket. She threw it around Borg and herself, then pulled him up and off the cave floor. She wrapped herself around his back, put her legs around his stomach, and searched his wet hair for the cut that was the source of the blood running down his face. She lifted a flap of skin and saw pink-tinged skull beneath.
“You’re cut. Not too bad,” she lied. A dressing from her lucky pack helped. When she had better light she’d have to do stitches.
“C-c-cold.”
“I know. It hurts the worst once you’re out of it.”
Lara clung to him, feeding off his warmth, hoping that her body was feeding the warmth back into him and not just draining his life away. His hard, warm body and the masculine scent trapped under the survival sheet stirred her…
“Where did you grow up, Borg?”
“Tretten in the Gudbrandsdalen, near Lillehammer.”
“Did you see the Olympics?”
“I was seventeen. Of course. We went into town every night to see what was going on, ten of us in a van.”
“Which country had the sexiest women?”
“Norway, of course.”
Lara squeezed him. “A true patriot. How about second sexiest?”
“Hmmm…” Borg pursed his lips. Lara felt his heart beat a little stronger. “The Italians dressed very well. The Americans went to the most parties, or that is what I was told by the Norwegians. I had a crush on a Chinese skater, but though I tried many times, I never saw her in person. The Chinese women were guarded like a harem. But I think I will have to say the Czech women came in second. They were proud to be led by a poet and flirted with everyone. Worse than the French girls, even.”
“Did you kiss any Olympians?”
“Ha!”
“And that’s Norwegian for?”
“‘None of your business.’”
It had grown warm under the blanket. She looked at his dressing. It seemed to have stanched the worst of the bleeding.
