“Which means?”
Finch shrugged. “A door will be opened. Perhaps it will be between our two universes. Perhaps a third will be opened as well. Or more. I cannot say. I—”
The Englishman paused at the latest flare-up of light from the blue portal above the altarpiece. The portal remained the same size and was now oddly square, like the frame of a painting hanging in the ether. But along the edges of the glowing portal, a number of glowing, thin tentacles of blue light began to snake out in all directions. The number grew, quickly.
“What in the name of God?” Dolomieu breathed.
Finch grimaced. “God isn’t here at the moment. We must do something.”
But it was too late.
With a surprising speed, the strands of light lashed out from the portal toward the assemblage, striking each person directly upon the amulet they wore. And those that wore them began to cry out in pain.
Not knowing what else to do, Finch ran toward the altar, past the two guards who had held him, who were now convulsing up on the floor of the temple in apparent agony. He had to stop Berthollet.
Then it struck him, as he approached, that Berthollet already had stopped. He was simply staring ahead, watching his soldiers and savants crying out in horror and torment. “What is this?” Finch heard him mutter.
Finch gave him a quick glance; the French alchemist seemed unaffected by the events around him, and he had not been struck by a tendril. He simply seemed to be in shock. That suited Finch well enough, allowing him to ignore his potential adversary in favor of more pressing events.
The Book of the Dead remained upon the altar, its onyx pages open and blue tendrils seemingly caressing the hieroglyphs upon them. Caressing . . . and tracing them? Finch blinked several times at this, then grabbed the book and slammed it shut.
As he prepared to run, he felt a ring of pain around his forearm, piercing through the thick bandages he still wore. Looking down, he saw a strand of blue light wrapping around his arm, pulling with surprising strength and, God help him, with a cold that could only come from the very Void itself. Reflexively, Finch swiped the book across the tendril and, to his surprise, the strange thing dissipated, leaving his forearm aching with frostbite. Had it been a moment longer, he might have lost much of the limb.
Tucking the book under his good arm, relatively speaking, Finch leapt from the altar and made for the doorway, where Dolomieu remained. The look upon the young man’s face was one of terror, and Finch could see him looking off behind Finch’s back.
Finch turned, and could not believe his eyes.
Those struck by the light tentacles had begun to rise from the floor. They were covered in frost burns and seemed desiccated, as if all fluid and blood had been leached from their bodies. They looked, for all the Known Worlds, like mummies.
And they began to walk toward The Book of the Dead, and the poor bastard who carried it.
Behind them, Finch could see Berthollet smiling slightly, even as he feverishly flipped through pages of his notes. Perhaps the bastard had done the ritual correctly after all.
CHAPTER 20
June 21, 2134
Shaila watched as Stephane and the Chinese astronauts—the other shook off the zapper surprisingly fast—synched their comms and began to thoroughly record all of the glyphs and carvings in the room. Shaila was made to sit in the furthest corner from the exit, though she didn’t know why, since nobody had given two shits about poor Elizabeth Hall. Why didn’t they just kill her too?
Something had happened to Stephane. Something terrible. And as she felt her wrist throb—it was severely sprained, if not broken in a few places—she knew she couldn’t count on any mercy from whatever he’d become.
She was able to subtly tune into their comm channel easily enough, but they weren’t speaking anything recognizable. Even her suit’s computer was drawing a blank.
“Stephane,” Shaila said, interrupting some kind of conversation. “What’s going on?”
The conversation immediately stopped, as did the three pressure-suited astronauts. They turned almost in unison to look at her. The Chinese guys looked surprisingly normal, but Stephane . . . his pallor was taking on a greenish tint, and his eyes . . . dear God, they looked horrible. They were blood-shot and the pupils were all too wide. The sweat was visible on his face, rolling down in drops.
“Quiet,” Stephane said dully. He then barked something at the two Chinese, who returned to scanning the carvings on the walls. It was slow work, seemingly at a high resolution. They needed something there, but Shaila couldn’t figure out for the life of her what it was.
And she realized, she didn’t care. Hanging out there was no longer an option. The Chinese guy with the laser drill had it slung over his back, and Stephane had her zapper tucked in a pocket of his suit. They were preoccupied with their scans. She thought about grabbing that green slab that Stephane kept with him, but he was demonstrably stronger than he should be, given the state of her wrist. They were armed, she wasn’t. It stood to reason they had to get off Titan at some point. They had the advantage at the moment, so she needed to change the circumstances. That involved her leaving, and fast.
Shaila balled herself up in the corner of the room, tucking her legs tightly under her . . . and pushed.
She floated quickly across the room, behind the three astronauts, and grabbed her zapper from Stephane’s pocket before landing in the corridor. And she ran. Hard.
An explosion of rock on her right, one that sent gravel ricocheting off her sit, gave notice that her presence was missed faster than she had hoped. She lengthened her strides and began using the walls to push off, trying to gain velocity in the light gravity. More laser blasts scorched the rock behind her, forcing her to randomly switch sides of the corridor as she pushed. Thank God it was getting more winding by the moment.
And narrower.
The crevasse. It was a bitch to get into. It looked really, really small now.
Shaila flew toward it at speed, flipping so she approached feet first, hoping that she’d knock some rock loose along the edges. She did, but not enough. Her boots skittered across the surface before slipping into the crevasse, but her angle was wrong. Her backpack caught at the lip, preventing her from sliding through.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Shaila muttered as she worked herself around, trying to get through. She looked up to see the Chinese astronaut down the corridor, drill in hand. He paused to take a long shot, and Shaila closed her eyes as she twisted and turned and . . .
A shower of rock fell onto her visor—and she pushed herself free with such velocity that she flew off the lip of the canyon wall and into the Titan atmosphere, a good 200 meters above the canyon floor. Instinctively, she spread her arms and legs wide, and found that her already slow descent was further arrested. This made sense, given Titan’s low gravity and high atmospheric pressure. She could, conceivably, flap her arms and fall even slower.
Shaila saw bursts of red light moving past her; the guy with the laser drill wasn’t about to let her go. Thankfully, the range of your standard mining drill wasn’t that great. Shaila tucked in her arms and legs and balled up, feeling herself fall faster, at least on a relative basis. She looked up to see the astronaut still taking pot shots from the crevasse opening. Stephane and the other Chinese guy were behind him.
They would be on the move.
Shaila’s languorous fall allowed her a bit of time to gather her thoughts. She likely wouldn’t have time to sabotage the Chinese lander on her way to the Armstrong’s lander. Best she could do would give it a zap and hopefully cause a system or two to reboot. That would have to be enough.
Shaila hit the ground and bounced off her feet—pretty jarring, even in the low gravity—but managed a considerable forward leap in the process. It was a couple klicks to the lander, and she soon managed a good pace, giving her direction enough of a zigzag to keep any possible assailant guessing.
“Jain to Armstrong, come in,” she spat. “
Archie, where are you?”
Her heart leapt in her chest as she got a reply. “Jesus Christ, Jain, where the hell you been? I’ve been trying to call you.”
“Hall is dead. Stephane’s been compromised. Give me a report on Nilssen and Conti.”
There was a good long pause before Archie came back. “Compromised?”
“Report on the Tienlong,” Shaila insisted.
“Nilssen and Conti are still aboard. They seem to be all right. They’re trying to get systems back online. Comms are still a goddamn mess.”
Shaila considered this. “They’re gonna get company soon, and—”
An alert on her HUD cut her off. Something was jamming her comm signal. “Identify jamming source,” Shaila ordered.
“There is a signal coming from an area concurrent with the location of mission specialist Durand,” her computer answered. “The range of the jamming signal is potentially several dozen kilometers, perhaps more.”
Shaila swore as she dashed past the Chinese lander, drawing her zapper and firing several microwave pulses into the ship. There was no discernible effect; it was a gamble to begin with. She kept moving. Whatever Stephane was carrying—probably that green tablet thing—it was putting out a jamming signal that was keeping everyone blind on the surface. There was no telling how extensive the signal jamming would be. Just comms? Sensors as well?
When Shaila ventured a glance behind her, she saw the astronaut with the laser drill about 100 meters away, still in pursuit. Stephane and the third astronaut appeared to be heading for the Chinese lander.
He’s going with the Chinese, Shaila thought. And the Chinese killed some of their own crew. This is . . .
Her thoughts shifted as she spied her lander ahead. “Begin lander launch sequence,” she ordered her computer.
“Signals jammed. Cannot comply.”
“Fuck!” she roared. She looked back at the astronaut trailing her. That laser drill could theoretically carve up her lander, with her in it. She’d have to deal with him first.
Shaila began to lessen her pace, dragging her boots in the orange dirt with each leap. It took a while in Titan’s microgravity, but she soon found that if she spread her arms and legs wide after each leap, she’d get a bit more drag from the atmosphere. It was a strange form of jumping jacks, comical if not for the situation at hand. The ground blurred beneath her, and even turning to keep tabs on her pursuer was dicey, as she nearly sent her body spiraling out of control. Finally, she saw a large boulder ahead that might give her a chance to arrest her motion and provide cover, so she reached out and laid a gauntlet on it, holding on for dear life until her motion finally ceased and she felt her body begin to float downward. She must’ve been going at a pretty good clip, because she felt something in her shoulder pull painfully in the process.
Thankfully, her zapper was in her other hand, even if her wrist remained unsteady. She poked her head over the boulder and aimed.
There. About 50 meters away and closing fast. The Chinese astronaut was in mid-leap and readying his drill—the jury-rigged device probably needed recharging after each shot, which gave her the edge.
Shaila fired when he was 40 meters off. And again at 25 meters. At 10 meters, her opponent plowed into the dirt face first, unconscious, leaving a trail of orange dust wafting up into the air.
She zapped him again for good measure. Because . . . goddamn it, he deserved it.
Shaila turned and leapt the last 150 meters to her lander in just under twenty seconds. She knew that whatever had the astronauts in its grip was also giving them some pretty good strength and stamina; the guy she stunned would be up soon.
She forgot to grab his drill. Fuck. She really should’ve killed him. The fact that she wanted to, and thought so little of the consequences, would probably keep her up at night later. But not now. Not in the least.
Shaila jumped atop the lander and opened the airlock, diving in and starting the cycle. She was also able to begin warming up the lander while in the airlock, thanks to a well-placed holopad control in the lock itself. By the time she was able to enter the warm, breathable cabin, the lander had nearly run through its entire startup sequence.
Vaulting into the pilot’s seat, Shaila aborted the non-critical checklist items and got the engines warmed up. She tried to hail Armstrong again, but comms were still being jammed. Sensors weren’t though; she pulled up a hologram of the area and saw the Chinese lander had already taken off and was heading for orbit.
And there was movement 150 meters away. The guy with the drill was already waking up. Four minutes . . . usually, zappers required fifteen to twenty minutes recovery time. Her own record was eleven minutes.
Shaila fired up the engines and went for a full-throttle launch. As the lander rose off the surface of Titan, she could see the Chinese astronaut she had eluded just standing there, looking at her lander.
Then he raised the drill to the front of his visor . . . and fired.
That was the last thing Shaila saw on Titan before clouds enveloped the lander.
October 18, 1798
It said something of the estimation the Count St. Germain had for his wife that she was seated next to Weatherby, her hands bound before her just as his were. Certainly, with the Count never having seemed to be a God-fearing man, the institution of marriage was likewise something for which he had little regard. But Weatherby also felt it had much to do with the utter capability Anne could muster, especially in the face of what was happening with her son.
“What have you done to Philip? Why did you take him?” Anne demanded, and not for the first time. To this point, the Count and his coterie of French and Xan allies continued to excavate the room and record the glyphs and images from the walls using sketchpads and pencils. Philip assisted readily in this, paying no heed to his bound mother, nor the captain who had befriended him on the long voyage from Venus.
St. Germain, however, deigned to answer this time. “I had no intention of involving Philip, my dear, until you did by bringing him hence. As I delved into my research, I realized he could well be the key to deciphering our find here. For this is no mere relic we’ve uncovered. This is the Emerald Tablet! The keystone to Al-Khem, taken from Earth long ago by the victorious Xan to keep humanity from enjoying the light of true knowledge! Once I explained to Philip what we were to achieve, he volunteered most readily for what is to come.”
“And what is that?” Anne asked, her voice breaking for the first time. “What would you sacrifice for this knowledge? Our son? Our flesh and blood? All we hold dear?”
St. Germain frowned. “You witless girl. After all we have been through, all we’ve accomplished together! You, and your Captain Weatherby here, who have seen the face of true evil in the form of Althotas! You know it is but a matter of time before the Martian warlord finds new ways to make his Will felt upon the Known Worlds. The Emerald Tablet is a weapon for humanity and the Xan to use to defeat him fully, once and for all!
“And,” he added, his voice softening, “I love Philip as much as you, Anne. Nothing here will harm him. Indeed, he will enjoy a depth of knowledge and wisdom mankind could only dream of. He will be the vessel in which the Tablet’s lore is placed!”
Weatherby looked anew at the boy, pale and sweating and grinning with a smile born not of enthusiasm, but of zealotry. The thoughtful boy who walked the decks of Fortitude, taking everything in with a glance, processing it, seeking its meaning . . . gone. In his place, a lessened creature, doing his father’s bidding without so much as a glance toward the mother upon whom he doted.
“My Lord Count,” Weatherby said, “you know full well the dangers of ancient Martian alchemy. Or have you forgotten the lessons of Cagliostro, who was lured into aiding Althotas while thinking he would usher in a golden age of human knowledge? Does this not sound familiar? And why not select yourself, rather than your son, to be the vessel for this font of wisdom?”
The glare from St. Germain’s face would have reduced a lesser man t
o obsequiousness. “The ritual for unlocking the power of the Tablet requires a knowledge of alchemy only I can approach, with all due respect to my wife,” he replied icily. “It also requires a vessel for that knowledge aside from the ritualist. One of the French here might have sufficed, but there remained a question as to strength of Will. There is no such question with Philip, being the son of two alchemists. And I will remind you, Philip volunteered. He drank of the waters of the Pool of Souls, as spelled out in the ancient lore provided to me by these worthy Xan.”
The three Xan accompanying St. Germain—all unhooded, their alien countenances in full, mystifying view—made harmonic, excitable noises before continuing with their work. Each of them bore wicked looking swords, fully five feet in length, and some form of firearm of unknown make and efficacy, though the latter was never really in doubt.
On Weatherby’s other side, Representative Vellusk shifted in his place and made a mournful sound. He too was bound and captive, and had looked entirely morose since they were taken. “What is he talking about, Representative?” Weatherby whispered as St. Germain returned to his work.
“The Pool of Souls,” the Xan whisper-sang. “It is where the souls of the dead are kept, in the depths of the moon you call Enceladus. It grieves me as little else has in life that this man, and worse, these who would call themselves Xan, would violate it.”
“There are souls in the very waters of this pool?” Weatherby asked, incredulous.
“All the souls of the Xan since time long forgotten, and of our enemies besides. It had been our hope that those who were violent in the past could one day be redeemed through the time spent with our more peaceable brethren in the Pool of Souls. There, they may together find enlightenment and become one with all Creation.”
Weatherby quickly whispered this information to Anne, which sent them both pondering. “If Philip had partaken of these waters, Representative, is it possible that he might carry in him the soul of someone else?” Anne asked.
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