Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy

by Jennings Wright

  “It’d be a long way to swim,” Marty said.

  “Here we go…” Vasco pushed aside a wall of dried shrubs and they found themselves standing in an access shaft. A stone retaining wall held a hillside at bay. The arched opening was still solid because of perfectly fitted stone. As they came out into the open, a flat expanse of green stretched out before them.

  “Wow, that’s beautiful!” Neahle said, squinting in the bright light. They hadn’t seen the sun in a week; it felt marvelous on their skin but a little less marvelous to their eyes.

  Little yellow flowers dotted the landscape and a line of short trees and shrubs marked the edge of a hill.

  “So there’s nobody here anymore?” Marty asked.

  Vasco shook his head. “No. Most of the Middle East was deemed Third World and was wiped out. There were a few cities saved, like Dubai, and, of course, the Firsts have their slave labor working the oil fields.”

  “So this tunnel is kind of worthless then,” Clay said, walking forward and picking a long piece of grass. He stuck it between his teeth.

  “It’s useful for vitamin D and general well being,” Vasco said. “You can’t live in the dark forever; you’ll get sick, not to mention depressed. We send everybody who’s not out on ops here at least once a month, in small groups. They bring picnics, swim in the lake, run in the fields, get some exercise. It’s good to realize that there is more to life than war. The good thing in all this mess, if there is one, is that the Firsts left so much empty land. Almost all of Africa, for instance, is uninhabited by people.”

  “Can we go there?” Neahle asked. “I’ve always wanted to go to Africa!”

  “We haven’t found a tunnel yet,” Vasco said. “I don’t think there were a lot of tunnels in Africa, and caves don’t count. It has to be manmade.”

  They walked for a long time in silence, feeling the breeze through their hair and the sun on their skin. After a mile, Neahle spotted a homestead in the distance and pointed.

  “There! Was that a farm?”

  “Barely,” Vasco said. “They were subsistence farmers. We think they had a small plot of vegetables and probably sheep or goats. They also had two old motorcycles; we’ve gotten them up and running so we can get down to the Sea of Galilee.”

  “Somebody’s a mechanic?” Clay asked. He was pretty good with machinery himself.

  “Samson’s our main mechanic. We’ve got a couple of other younger guys who took shop or helped their dads in the back yard, but nobody’s as good as he is.” He noticed Clay’s interest in the bikes. “You a mechanic?”

  “I was learning to be, before. I went to community college for a year. It was a two year program, so I guess I won’t finish…”

  “Sounds like maybe we have your job figured out,” Vasco observed.

  “I like to work with my hands, and if the engines are older, I won’t have any problems. The newer ones with computers and all, those were trickier.”

  “We haven’t gotten any of those up and running, although we’ve stolen some from the Firsts and need to keep them running. Be sure to tell Samson when we get back; he’ll be very glad to have a partner!” Vasco led them down an overgrown path that had been, at some point in the distant past, lined with rocks painted white and blue.

  Inside the barn were a lot of rusty equipment, an old cart, and the two motorcycles under a sheet. Vasco whipped the sheet off, filling the air with dust and sand. Everyone coughed. “Sorry! They get some fierce winds out here, and, as you can see, the walls aren’t very weatherproof.” The walls, in fact, were made of rough, warped planks of wood and many places had gaps ranging from one to three inches.

  After topping off the fuel tanks from a red plastic gas can, Vasco screwed the caps back on and patted the seat. The black vinyl was cracked and had been mended with tape, but the tires were in good condition, with lots of tread.

  “Fire it up!” he said to Clay. He straddled the other bike and cranked the engine. They turned over quickly and settled into a satisfying double growl. He motioned for Marty to climb on while Neahle climbed on behind her brother.

  It was only a ten mile drive to the large lake, and they could see it growing as they came down out of the hills.

  “We’re in Israel now,” Vasco yelled. Neahle peered around her brother’s broad back to check out the difference between the two nations. It all looked the same.

  Soon they were parked along the shore of the bright blue lake. There was a narrow rim of coarse yellow sand where they stopped; they could see that some places were rimmed with bluffs, and others had a dark rocky shore. Taking off their shoes, they walked down to the water.

  “Is it safe?” Neahle asked Vasco.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, as safe as any untreated water and you’re good to swim, wade, whatever. No one’s gotten sick yet. There’s good fishing in here, too.”

  “I know the story of Peter’s full nets,” Marty said. “But back in Jesus’ time they had boats.”

  “I’ve got some poles stashed. You guys enjoy the beach; if anybody wants to fish, you can join me over there.” He pointed northwest towards a rocky outcropping. “We have good luck there, and Will’s all set for a fish fry back home.”

  They watched the older man trudge off through the loose sand, his boot laces tied together and wrapped around his neck.

  “This is pretty weird,” Marty said.

  “You’re just now figuring that out?” Neahle asked.

  “What I mean, specifically,” he said, glaring at his cousin, “is that we’re in Israel. We just crossed over from Jordan. And there’s no one, anywhere. Just us, fishing in the lake with old Uncle Vasco. All my life I’ve heard about Arabs killing Jews and the border problems and all that, and here we are, and… nothing. Just swimming and fishing like we’re on vacation.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Clay said. “I don’t think most of the world is like this.” He pulled off his shirt and threw it on the ground. “I’m going swimming, and then I’m going fishing, and I’m not going to think about Firsts and wars and mass murder and slaves until I have to.” He ran, barefoot and in his jeans, and dove into the water.

  Chapter Twelve

  The McClellands first excursion to the surface in Paris started in the dead of night and was a totally different experience. Most of the locations had only one portal, but Paris had hundreds. Many came up through manholes in the street, but those were only used at great need. Typically, the outsiders entered the city under the boarded up Opera Garnier, where the largest reservoir of water was located, or through an ancient wine cellar that led to a long abandoned house on the northern edge of Paris.

  Dressed in black from head to toe, the McClellands joined Samson, Hannah, Vasco, and a man they hadn’t met on a mission to bring supplies to rebels living a couple of miles. Displaced and hunted, the small band of ten had been holed up in a former grocery for almost two months, not daring to venture out.

  “We’re bringing them food for the next few days,” Vasco said. “And we’re going to try to figure out from some of the other rebel groups if the pressure’s off. We call this little band the Northside group. When they first came together, they were way out in the northern suburbs. They haven’t had good luck… This is their fifth or sixth safe house.”

  “Guess they’re not so safe after all,” Marty said.

  Vasco grimaced. “If they get routed again, we’re going to have to encourage them to break up and spread out among the other groups. Maybe even leave Paris. They’ve gotten us a lot of intel here, but they tend to get a little careless in their success; they’ve been chased by Firsts more than any other cell in Paris.”

  “Clay, you and I are headed over to what we call the Depot after we drop these bags off at the Northside house. There are a couple of bikes that need work,” Samson said as he switched the
large duffel he was carrying over to his left shoulder.

  “Gotcha,” Clay said.

  Vasco turned to the newcomers. “Marty, we don’t have the biggest computer base here, but I’d like you to check out what we’ve got. We’ll take you to the vault on Ile St. Louis as long as it’s safe. We’ll have to wait til after dark, though. The Firsts don’t live on the islands in Paris’ original communities because the buildings are too old for them; they keep to the newer, more modern arrondissemonts. They’re not very sentimental and they’re into creature comforts. We’ll take bikes to get us close, then walk across the bridge.” Vasco led them up a metal ladder that opened into the basement of the Opera Garnier.

  “What about me?” Neahle asked.

  “You and Hannah are going to be go-betweens for Northside and several other groups. We need to pass intelligence to the groups and make sure everyone’s on the same page with the next op. Hannah knows what that is, so she’ll catch you up. Can you be sneaky?” Vasco asked, smiling at her over his shoulder.

  “Sneaky?” Neahle considered. “I guess so. I used to spy on Clay and his friends.” She winked at her brother.

  Vasco laughed. “Good enough. Hannah’s done this a lot so just stick with her. She’s got the full assignment; right now you’re just shadowing her. Learn everything you can—about Paris, about the rebels, and about the Firsts. You’ll be leading ops yourself one day.”

  “I will?” Neahle asked. “I don’t know if that’s such a fabulous idea…”

  The opera house, built in the mid-eighteen seventies, was staggering. As the group came out of a service door, the scope of the building was evident even with the dim light coming through the hastily boarded windows. A wide staircase shaped like a Y led patrons to the upper levels. The ceiling and tall walls were painted with elaborate frescoes which were obscured by the lack of light. The floor was covered with dust but the marble underneath still glistened when Neahle scuffed her shoe over it. A dozen chandeliers lined the walls, long dark. A huge arched window was covered with thick, heavy gray draperies; slits of dim moonlight peeked through and illuminated the metal guard rails and busts in the foyer.

  Clay whistled while Marty stared in awe at the incredible opulence. Neahle was speechless.

  “Wow,” was all she finally said.

  “I was here once, in our own world,” Vasco said, looking around. “Our parents brought us to Paris on a family vacation. This theater is the setting for The Phantom of the Opera. The book, I mean, by Gaston Leroux. I don’t remember what we saw here. I think I was about ten. I remember just staring at the ceilings and the walls and the statues until all the singing was over.” He smiled at the memory. “It was like a fairy tale, all lit up, everyone dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns. I try to remember that our Opera Garnier is still like that, not dead and dark like this.”

  He started walking again, leading them to another service door, this time exiting into an alley. He motioned for the others to stay back as he stepped quickly through the door. Large debris had been stacked up near the exit to block casual observation. One minute after leaving, he knocked three times on the door, the signal that all was well, and the others quietly left the building and stood huddled around the trash.

  “We all follow Hannah to the Northside group.” Vasco turned to the McClellands. “No talking, keep your head down, stay near the buildings. Their safe house is only a couple of miles away, but we’re not going a direct route. Try to pay attention to landmarks so you can find your way back here if we get separated. Walk with one of us at all times. If you hear me yell ‘run’, do it immediately. Don’t ask why, just go; follow your partner. Got it?”

  All three nodded, Neahle with wide eyes. Up until this point their new had seemed like a dark fairy tale, an epic story of good versus evil. Now it was real, and she realized that she or anyone else standing here could die or be captured that very night. She swallowed, clenched her teeth together, and moved closer to Hannah.

  “Go.” Hannah started down the alley, away from the street, walking fast, leading them into the darkness.

  Clay was partnered with Samson, and Marty with a Hispanic man in his late thirties called Monkey. Monkey was obviously of Mayan descent: short and stocky with a round, flat face and almond shaped eyes that were surrounded by laugh lines. When they first met, Marty had asked about his nickname. He had shrugged and grinned. “I like to climb.”

  Hannah had overheard. “He climbed the Eiffel Tower!” she had said laughing.

  “The Firsts didn’t catch me.”

  “That’s true—they were chasing us one night after we’d tried to bypass the security system at the local telecom office. Fortunately they didn’t have many men to send after us, and we had a pretty good head start. I went under a bridge, but Monkey got to the Eiffel Tower and started climbing. They never even saw him, from what I hear.”

  Monkey shook his head, but he had been grinning.

  Now everyone was silent, their faces grim. As they kept to the shadows, they made no noise on their black sneakers. Monkey was right in front of Marty, then Vasco, with Samson following Clay and staying in the rear. The twists and turns of the old alleys, service lanes, and roads confused all of the McClellands by the end, and they knew they would never be able to find their way back to the Opera Garnier alone. It was a disconcerting thought.

  Finally, Hannah stopped in an alley, holding up her hand. She peered around the corner of the old stone building, quickly looking both ways before drawing her head back into the shadows. She turned, nodded, and then took off running, crossing the wide Boulevard Saint Denis. She slipped under the trees on the north side of the road and walked quickly underneath their canopy, turning left onto Rue de Mazagran. Halfway down the block she turned right into a very narrow passage between two buildings. Reaching a deeply shadowed courtyard and slipping along the back of the building, she knocked on a black metal door. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Then a slap with the palm of her hand. The group huddled behind her, anxious to be inside.

  A tale man, very pale with a blonde beard spreading down his neck, opened the door with scared eyes. When he saw the seven waiting outside, he stood back and gestured them in, his nervous eyes constantly roving the courtyard and the sky until he closed the door behind them.

  The grocery store had been small, with one apartment in the back and another above. The Northside rebels had appropriated the two living spaces, propping open the doorway in the back hall so that the apartments flowed as one. Neahle saw four adults and one child sitting in the living room, maps spread out over an antique dining table. They all looked up as the outsiders entered.

  The child ran to Vasco and hugged him around his thighs. She was about four, with curly red hair and freckles on her pale skin. He knelt down and gave her a kiss on both cheeks, then turned her and sent her back to her mother, who was a pretty woman with long red hair pulled back into a ponytail. She smiled, and her husband, a stocky man in his forties, came forward and shook Vasco’s hand.

  “You are welcome, my friends!” he said in heavily accented English. Seeing the newcomers, he added, “I am Alain, this is my wife Élodie. And Maryse.” He ruffled his daughter’s hair. Introductions were made and Vasco passed the duffel bags to the group.

  “This should last you five days, maybe a week. Beans, smoked fish, venison, apples, some greens that were picked yesterday.” Alain nodded his thanks. “I’m leaving with Marty and Monkey; these two are going to the Depot,” he said, pointing to Samson and Clay. “I’ll leave the girls with you. See you tomorrow!” With that, they left quickly and quietly through the door they’d entered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hannah set her back pack down on the floor and joined Alain at the table.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, noting marks made with a red grease pencil on the laminated maps.

  He poin
ted to a spot west of the Arch de Triomphe. “We want to move closer to La Defense,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Neahle asked, standing next to Hannah and trying to make sense of the map.

  “La Defense is a business district just west of the city proper. And it’s a crazy idea!” Hannah said. She looked up at Alain, then down at the map. “You can’t possibly stay hidden there. There’s no housing, nothing. It’s suicide.”

  Élodie put her hand on Hannah’s arm. “I told him. It is too close to the Executive. There are guards everywhere, nowhere to get food, fresh air, even water…”

  Alain protested. “If we are close, we can find a break in their defenses. We can get into the Executive and find out where the prison is going! That is our mission!” The couple was obviously continuing a recent argument.

  Hannah glanced at Élodie and Neahle. “Our mission is not just to rescue Darian. We have to make sure he has people able to fight with him, too. If we all die trying to rescue him, then it won’t matter one way or the other, will it?”

  Alain crossed his arms over his chest. “We are the oldest band. We are the most experienced. The others can recruit slaves and find those who are living on the streets.” He pointed to himself. “I will find Darian!”

  Élodie’s eyes filled with tears. She had her hands on Maryse’s thin shoulders. “You have a child. A wife. We all want to find Darian, but there are many others looking all over the world! It doesn’t matter who finds him. You don’t even know that the Executive has the schedule!” Neahle was uncomfortable with these strangers’ strong emotions and wanted to shrink back into the wallpaper.

  Defiant, Alain stood tall. “I will find Darian,” he repeated, obstinately.