Two Graves

by Douglas Preston

  To Alban’s mild surprise, the defectives responded. There was a sharp and growing murmur, more restless movement.

  “Oh, ho!” Alban cried facetiously. “Speech, speech!”

  This, to his relief, elicited a merry round of laughter from the soldiers. And he told himself it was, in fact, quite amusing, this crowd of pathetic imbeciles getting themselves all exercised with the pent-up frustrations and privations of many years. But he found himself shocked at the articulateness of Forty-Seven. That was not supposed to be allowed. And as he glanced around, he was unable to suppress an uneasiness developing in his forward-time sense, like an approaching storm. The ever-branching paths were narrowing, coming together and converging in his mind, leading toward a single future.

  He looked back at his father, who was staring at him with glittering eyes. His finger moved to the trigger. It was time to get this over with.

  “This is not right!” Forty-Seven cried out loudly, turning to the crowd. “Deep inside, you know it’s wrong! Open your eyes! We are all brothers—sisters—twins! We share the same blood!”

  The world-lines whipped and curled about in Alban’s mind, a sudden five-alarm fire. He saw it, felt it: the great turning of the wheel. This couldn’t be happening, not with their careful indoctrination, their years of planning and refining… and yet it was happening, and he could already begin to glimpse, like the ghostly image of an underpainting, how all this was going to end. The murmur of the defectives was growing into a hubbub, then into a roar, and the crowd moved tentatively forward, their hoes and shovels and scythes raised, some picking up rocks.

  “We can stop this!” Forty-Seven shouted. “Now!”

  Alban took a step back, the pistol leveled at his father. Oberführer Scheermann rapped out an order and the soldiers—lined up and heavily armed—raised their weapons.

  “Go back to your fields!” cried the Oberführer. “Or we shall fire!”

  But Alban knew that they would not—could not—fire on the defectives. Except for a handful of the latest iteration of twins—the best and most advanced, like himself—the others could not, if push came to shove, actually kill their siblings with their own hands. And if the Nazi officers, their minders, tried to shoot the defectives… It was all coalescing in Alban’s mind with horrifying clarity. It would be the end of the program, the colony, an abrupt and shocking end to more than half a century of scientific research. The defectives, for all their hideousness, were essential. For the first time, he realized they were as essential to the project as he was. One could not exist without the other. Why had he not seen that before? Why had nobody seen that before? The whole plan had been based on a false hypothesis—a bluff. And now his own twin was calling that bluff.

  This realization, this sudden reversal of fortune—unexpected and dreadful—left him stunned.

  The crowd of defectives continued to jostle forward toward the line of soldiers, less tentative now, shouting, gesturing with their crude tools. Alban could feel the heat of their fury.

  Now. He squeezed the trigger and fired at Pendergast.

  But his father had anticipated it. Somehow, he had begun to move even before Alban fired, like a flash, incredibly quickly and unexpectedly—how did he do it?—evading the shot. Alban fired a second time but this shot was ruined by a volley of stones that came flying out of the crowd toward him, striking him and forcing him to fling up his arms in self-defense.

  Pendergast had veered away and now lunged at him, launching himself in the air. Alban evaded with a pirouette, his father just striking him in the side. He fired again, but it was impossible to aim with the pelting rain of rocks and he was forced back, turning and hunching, his arms raised to protect his head. He could hear Scheermann crying an order to his regulars: Fire over their heads! With the lieutenants repeating it down the line, there came a massive volley of shots, and then another, like thunder.

  It gave the defectives pause in their headlong rush. They halted in a kind of confused, chaotic milling, and the incipient fight abruptly turned into a standoff. Alban cast about and found his father, back up again, standing next to his twin, Forty-Seven, at the head of the crowd. Once again, he raised his weapon. But as he did so he saw in his mind the inexorable turning of the wheel, the crooked pathways of time growing straight… and he backed up, horrified by what he saw, as Pendergast stared at him with those terrible eyes. It was useless: every branch, every road of time led to a dead end, a checkmate at the end of every time line.

  All at once he turned and fled, running through the line of soldiers, who parted to let him pass, as he knew they would. He needed to get to the lake and get a boat to the fortress, to find Fischer.

  And to warn him of what was about to happen.

  82

  PENDERGAST WATCHED ALBAN RUN, AND HE UNDERSTOOD why. Alban’s own gift had allowed him to see far enough ahead to—in essence—defeat himself. His genetically enhanced ability to sense just far enough into the future to carry out the Hotel Killings with such success, to elude his father’s pursuit with ease, to kidnap his brother from the Riverside Drive redoubt, to survive and prevail in almost any imaginable confrontation—this gift had now turned against him. Knowledge of the future—even a brief, ten- or fifteen-second glimpse—turned out to be a double-edged sword with the keenest blade.

  Meanwhile the standoff continued. Tensions were escalating to the breaking point: the defective twins were lined up on one side, furious, disorganized, raging; and on the other side was the Twins Brigade, lined up in disciplined ranks, silent but deeply rattled. And in the middle, the small cadre of Nazi officers who were only now realizing their dilemma as the two sets of twins, each about a hundred strong, faced each other in a standoff.

  “Submit!” screamed Scheermann at the defectives. “Go back to your camp!” He pointed at Pendergast. “Take that man into custody!”

  Tristram, at the front of the crowd, cried out: “Touch my father, and we attack!”

  A murmur of assent. The Oberführer hesitated. Pendergast waited. And then he saw the moment had arrived.

  Without warning he strode toward the lines of twin soldiers and seized one by the collar of his uniform, as a teacher might seize a truant schoolboy.

  “Stop him!” screeched Scheermann, removing his own sidearm, but in the standoff he seemed paralyzed to act, obviously surprised by the sudden, unexpected flight of Alban. Pendergast ignored him and dragged the astonished, passive soldier across the gap while with his other arm he snatched one of the defectives—the soldier’s twin—by his ragged shirt, yanking him out, bringing the two men together.

  “Meet your brother!” he cried at the soldier. “Your own brother!” He turned to the groups of twins facing each other. “All of you, right now—seek out your brothers and sisters! Your own flesh and blood!”

  And he could see the eyes of the twins roving despite themselves, locking one after another on their opposites. There was a restless muttering, and the orderly lines of twin soldiers began to slacken, grow loose.

  “That’s enough,” Scheermann said, raising his pistol toward Pendergast.

  “Lower your pistol or we attack!” cried Tristram.

  “You, attack? With hoes? You’ll be slaughtered,” Scheermann said contemptuously.

  “Slaughter us—and there ends your grand experiment!”

  Scheermann hesitated, his eyes darting along the line of ragged twins.

  “These men—” Pendergast pointed at the Nazi minders—“they’re your real enemy. Dividing brother from brother, sister from sister. They’ve turned you all into guinea pigs. But not them. They haven’t participated. And they remain in charge. Why is that?”

  The Oberführer’s pistol hand was shaking ever so slightly. The seething crowd moved toward him. “Fire and you die!” came a voice, and another.

  “Go back to your brigade, soldier,” Scheermann said contemptuously.

  The soldier did not move.

  “Obey or face discipline!” Scheermann sc
reamed, swiveling the pistol from Pendergast’s head to point at the soldier.

  “Lower your weapon,” the soldier said slowly, “or we’ll kill you all.”

  The commander’s face was white. After a moment, he dropped his arm.

  “Step back.”

  The Oberführer took a careful step back. Then another. Suddenly his arm flew up again, and he fired into the soldier’s chest. “Attack the weak twins!” Scheermann screamed to the Nazi minders. “Fire at will! Destroy them!”

  A roar of anger and dismay rose from the twins on both sides of the battle lines. There was a moment of terrible stasis. And then it was as if a dam had burst. The disorderly crowd of twins rushed the Nazi officers, their crude weapons raised.

  Scheermann backed up, firing into the crowd, but he was immediately mobbed by the crowd of defectives, surging forward at a roar. There was a fusillade of shots from the soldiers and their commanding officers as the battle was joined, hand-to-hand, the Nazi officers firing every which way into the crowd at point-blank range, causing a dreadful slaughter. All was confusion, a fearful firefight erupting in the open field, soldiers struggling with the ragged defectives, the roar of automatic weapons, the clang of shovel and scythe against rifle, the screams of the wounded coming out of the fury of dust and blood.

  “Brothers and sisters!” Tristram’s voice rose up. “Don’t murder your own kin!”

  Something was happening. Many of the Twins Brigade were breaking ranks, changing sides, some throwing down their weapons and embracing their siblings—others turning their weapons on their officers. But a small cadre of latest-iteration twins remained with the Nazi officers, defending them furiously.

  The chaos began to resolve itself and two sides emerged, fighting each other. The small group of loyalist twin soldiers and their Nazi officers were now outgunned and being forced to retreat, slowly, firing all the while, exacting a huge toll. The rest of the Twins Brigade who had turned were fighting alongside the defectives, more organized now, mounting a stronger attack and putting an end to the initial slaughter. The Nazis fell back into the cover of the cornfield, pursued by the main body of reunited twins. The battle raged on in the cornfield and a fire soon started, the flames leaping out of the dry stalks, a pall of smoke blanketing the scene, creating still more confusion.

  Pendergast relieved a dead soldier of his sidearm, knife, and flashlight and headed into the corn toward the fiercest nucleus of fighting, battering his way through shattered cornstalks and heavy columns of smoke, looking for Tristram. He could hear the boy’s voice in the thickest part of the action, calling, exhorting, urging his fellows forward—and it struck him to the core how much he had underestimated his son.

  Now he circled fast around the Nazi officers and their rump of loyalist troops, retreating toward the lake. He swung around in a flanking maneuver and came up behind them, in their line of travel, crouching and waiting for them to come to him. As they did, Pendergast raised his gun, aimed at the Oberführer in the rear, as he anticipated, and brought him down with a single shot. He immediately came under heavy fire, the automatic weapons mowing down the corn around him; but the loss of their commander demoralized the retreating group, and after a moment of panic and confusion they broke and ran toward the lake, pursued by the others.

  Continuing his one-man flanking maneuver, Pendergast moved eastward through the cornfields and into the forest. He bushwhacked his way to the top of the crater rim, where he stopped to reconnoiter. The retreating soldiers had arrived at the boats, and from his vantage point he could see what was happening: a group of them were hunkering down, making a stand while the rest loaded onto the vessels, scuttling the extras so they couldn’t be followed. Another furious fight broke out as the vanguard of the pursuers, led by Tristram, reached the shore. But the Nazis and their remaining twin allies managed to cast off their boats and speed away from shore, leaving behind half a dozen wrecked and burning vessels.

  The gunfire fell off and finally ceased as the vessels headed away from land, smoke drifting across the scene. The Nazis had gotten away and were now headed back across the lake to the fortress—to make their final stand.

  83

  WITH THE NAZIS ON THE RUN, THE RANKS OF DEFECTIVE twins—now swelled by the majority of their siblings—turned toward Nova Godói. Running along forest trails, they soon reached the town, streaming in. The well-swept streets were empty, the cheerfully decorated houses shuttered and dark. The townsfolk were hunkered down, some hiding, while many others appeared to have fled.

  Reaching the central square, the groups of twins began to break into smaller parties, heading down the side streets, ready to engage in any mopping-up operations that might be necessary. Pendergast, following along, scanned the crowd and found Tristram. He went over to him. For a moment they looked at each other, and then they embraced.

  “You need to establish a base of operations,” he told his son in mixed German and English. “I’d suggest the town hall. Take the Bürgermeister and any other town officials into custody. Set up a strong defense in case of counterattack.”

  “Yes, Father,” Tristram said. He was flushed and breathing heavily, and a cut on his forehead was bleeding freely.

  “Take great care of your own personal safety, Tristram. There may be plenty of Nazis still around, including rooftop snipers. You’re a prime target.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I have some unfinished business. At the fortress.”

  Pendergast began to turn away, then glanced back at his son. “I’m proud of you, Tristram,” he said.

  Hearing this, the boy flushed with confusion and even surprise. As Pendergast turned to go, he realized this was probably the first time anyone had ever praised him.

  Leaving Tristram to secure the town hall, Pendergast made his way by side streets to the village quay. There were some snipers, but without leadership, and in the growing dark they were ineffectual. The sun had set over the western ridge of the cinder cone, a streak of blood fading in the sky. Across the lake he could see the two boats with the remaining Nazi forces arriving at the island’s shattered docks. He stared up at the cruel-looking lines of the castle, painted vermilion by the last rays of the dying sun.

  The Nazis and the few remaining super-twins sympathetic to their cause had been soundly beaten and were in retreat. But there were still many enemy soldiers about; the Nazis retained their scientists, technicians, and laboratories; and their fortress remained a formidable redoubt, almost impregnable. They had been dealt a severe blow—but there was nothing to stop them from taking up their evil work again.

  On top of that, Fischer was still alive.

  For a long time, Pendergast stared across the lake. Then he walked down the quay, selected an inconspicuous and still-undamaged motor launch, jumped in, started the engine, and cast off, heading in the direction of the island.

  The night was now so advanced that his little vessel vanished into the darkness of the lake. Keeping to a quiet speed, the engine purring and barely audible, he made his way across the lake, circling to the western side of the island. A few hundred yards from shore he cut the engine and rowed, using the flashlight, carefully hooded, to locate the tunnel from which he’d swum when escaping the fortress hours before. Finding the entrance, he rowed the launch into the stone passageway, then started the engine once again and threaded the labyrinth of watery passages until he felt the keel of the boat scrape against the stone of the floor. Beaching the craft, he continued on foot, passing the bodies of the colonel and several of his men, until he reached the large, domed space with the steel cage set into the center of its floor.

  He paused, listening intently. Overhead, he could hear the faintest sounds of activity: the rhythmic tromping of boots, the faint bark of orders. But down here, in the lowest level of the fortress, all was quiet. He turned back to the ammunition dump contained within the steel cage, shining his light into it. It was a large and varied assortment of munitions and ammo: rolls
of det cord and bricks of C-4, stacks of M112 demolition charges, 120mm tank gun cartridges, cans of precision-machined gunpowder, land mines, stacks of crates containing small-arms ammunition, cases of grenades, RPGs, mortars, .50-caliber machine guns, and even a brace of mini-guns with dozens of ammo boxes for each.

  The large cage was securely locked, and it took Pendergast over five minutes, using improvised tools, to gain access. Once inside, he looked around more closely. As he’d noticed on his prior passage through this space, the Nazis had made use of a natural fissure in the old volcano to store their weapons. Despite the vast amount of shells, weapons, and casings visible within the cage, it was only the tip of the iceberg: an even greater amount of ordnance lay below the level of the floor, protected by the walls of the fissure itself. The Nazis had taken no chances that, in the event of an attack, a lucky shell hit from an invading force could accidentally touch off their magazine: it was buried deep in the lowest level of the fortress, its main bulk surrounded and shielded by protective volcanic rock.

  It was also designed so that, if it did go off, the explosion would be severely confined by the natural rock. It would not destroy the fortress above.

  Or would it? As he contemplated the arsenal, Pendergast remembered something else: the broad, fresh radial pattern of cracks he’d noticed in the curtain wall of the fortress. These were not cracks caused by the normal settling of an ancient wall; just the opposite. They had been caused by an upward heaving of the ground, an upsurge that had separated and dislocated the huge blocks along the castle’s foundation. That indicated only one thing: a recent resurgence of the volcano’s caldera floor by the upward movement of magma. Which meant the dead volcano was perhaps not so dead, after all.

  As if on cue, a tremor—similar to the ones he’d noticed earlier—shook the floor ever so slightly beneath his feet.