Hellgate: Goetia

by Mel Odom

  “Good. Then maybe we can get something done.” Lyra stood.

  Leah fully expected to be abandoned at that moment and wasn’t looking forward to it. She could deal with being alone. Isolation was often a part of her job. She just didn’t like knowing that nothing was getting done.

  “Control,” Lyra said, confirming Leah’s suspicions that others were listening in to the exchange. “Break silence.”

  “Control here,” a male voice responded.

  “Bring Leah Creasey’s armor to this room and countermand the orders to hold on sight.”

  “That’s not how we were told to handle the interview.”

  Lyra’s tone changed to one of steel and fire. “You’ll do it now, on my authority, or you’ll answer to charges.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And open this bloody door before I do it myself.”

  The door unlocked immediately.

  Leah followed Lyra Darius through the narrow, twisting hallways of the underground complex. The unit’s headquarters were kept deliberately small. It didn’t take much to take care of the operation she was part of.

  “Tech Ops tells me it’s only going to be a few hours before they have the burned pages of the manuscript you found—”

  “Simon Cross found,” Leah interjected. She accepted her armor from a man who came to her at a dead run.

  “—and that they’re expecting a full recovery of the data on the pages.” Lyra stood in the hallway while Leah pulled her armor on. The older woman even turned her back and provided a modicum of privacy by staring back any passersby of the moment.

  When she had herself presentable, once more comfortable in the armor she’d worn nearly every day for the last four years, Leah said, “Thank you.”

  Lyra set off at once. “The thing that stood in your stead is your years of service prior to the demon invasion. And the fact that I’m predisposed to the notion of the importance of the Templar myself.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I also liked that you brought the Goetia manuscript here.”

  “When Simon found out it was burned, he thought he had no choice. I thought recovery was possible.”

  “I think it would read better in your report that you simply seized the first opportunity to bring the manuscript to our attention. Your motives aren’t quite so questionable that way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You can oftentimes disguise your motivations by simply stating your actions.”

  “Duly noted.”

  The Tech Ops room was compact. It was wall-to-wall with computer hardware and special peripherals. Three people, two men and one woman, sat at the screens and spoke commands to the AIs.

  “Jenkins,” Lyra said.

  “Here.” One of the young men swiveled around and looked at her. He looked as if he was fresh from Academy somewhere, but since there’d been no new recruits in four years, Leah knew that was impossible.

  “You’re working on the manuscript,” Lyra said.

  “I am,” he agreed.

  “What do you have?”

  Jenkins swiveled back around in his chair and spoke commands quickly. “The original document you brought me was badly burned. Fortunately, there hadn’t been any additional damage to the baseline structure of the pages. Separating the pages was logistical nightmare. I won’t bore you with the details of using the electromagnetic stasis nanostabilizers to fix the print—”

  Lyra held up a hand.

  “You have a question, ma’am?” Jenkins asked.

  “No. I’m voting for not being bored.”

  “Oh.” Jenkins looked properly flummoxed. “Of course, ma’am.” He turned his attention back to the monitor. “In the end I overlaid the stabilized pages with a molecular Gutenberg imprint scanner tuned to the chemical compositions of the inks—there were six identifiable kinds—and lifted the text and images. Once I had them, I uploaded them to the computer and started using de-encryption programs.”

  “There were images?” Lyra asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve managed to render them, but I’m not certain how much of that is pertinent.”

  “Why?”

  Jenkins hesitated. “Because they’re…strange.” He voiced a few commands and images came up on the monitor.

  Leah leaned in for a closer look. The images were drawings done in exquisite detail. But they were of horrendous beings.

  “Demons,” Leah said.

  Jenkins nodded. “There are names given here. And they coincide with the Goetia book as we know it.”

  That announcement threw Leah for a moment. “What Goetia book as we know it?”

  Jenkins glanced at Lyra, who nodded.

  “Goetia has been a popular entry in supernatural works. Or New Age as many of them came to be called.” Jenkins spoke quietly and book covers took shape on the monitor next to the one showing the demons. “All of them are supposed to have been penned by King Solomon. One of the most famous was a rendition by Aleister Crowley in 1904. It was called Ars Goetia, and Crowley maintains that the book was written as a means of psychological exploration.”

  “But that’s not the book we’re looking at here,” Lyra asked.

  “No, ma’am. Not only that, but this book has another book hidden within it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a secret text hidden in what you see here.” Jenkins brought up more pages. These were filled with text in a language Leah couldn’t identify.

  “Language has never been my strong suit,” Lyra admitted.

  Leah’s background had included encryption, but not linguistics. If someone tried to hide information in English, French, or Japanese, she could ferret through most of those and find suspect passages.

  “What you’re looking at here is Coptic Egyptian,” Jenkins said. “Presumably the language King Solomon might have used for scholarly works.”

  “Where’s the secret text?” Lyra peered more closely.

  “Here.” Jenkins spoke commands and certain words and phrases were highlighted on the monitor.

  “This looks like a different language,” Leah said.

  “I wouldn’t have known that,” Lyra said.

  “I’ve a bit of a background in linguistics,” Leah admitted. “Nothing sharp enough to handle something like this.”

  “You’ve more than I do,” Lyra said. “I can speak passable French and Italian, but I have extremely limited use of those written languages.”

  “That is a different language,” Jenkins said.

  “What language?” Lyra asked.

  “We don’t know.” Jenkins sighed in an enervating manner as only the young could do. “I’ve sent it round to the experts in documents, but they’ve yet to identify it either. And I must admit I’m pretty keen on languages myself.”

  “How did you find it?” Leah asked. “It looks seamless.”

  “It is seamless. The conjugation of the verbs and the syntax is faultless. However, the molecular scan revealed the hidden words because they were always shown with two layers of ink. One was written right over the top of the other.”

  Jenkins spoke commands and one of the words overlaid another. The letters were formed differently.

  “Those aren’t a match,” Leah said.

  “No.”

  Leah stared at the jumble of letters. “Something as atrocious as that should have been immediately apparent.”

  “If both inks were written so the human eye could see them, it would have been.”

  “Explain,” Lyra said.

  Jenkins faced her. “The second layer of ink was invisible to the naked eye. Judging from the chemical composition we were able to extract from the burned vellum sheets—and heat does change a chemical signature, mind you—we’ve made a tentative match to one of those chemicals used by the Cabalists.”

  “A Cabalist wrote this?” Lyra asked.

  Leah felt her stomach knot up. If that was true, it might screw up her hopes of getting the tr
anslation back to Simon and the other Templar.

  “We don’t know that a Cabalist wrote this,” Jenkins said. “Given the time that we think this manuscript was written, based on the chemical composition of the paper and the inks, it’s possible someone else was using the ink as well.”

  “But you don’t know what it says?” Lyra asked.

  Jenkins shook his head. “We have no clue at all.”

  FORTY-THREE

  E leven-point-seven miles east of the Templar fortress, Simon stood on the lee side of the ATV he’d used to arrive at the rendezvous. He scanned the surrounding darkness through the HUD.

  Nathan and Danielle stood at attention nearby. Other Templar secured the perimeter.

  In the distance, Simon could see the London landscape. Black smoke from the Burn occluded the sky. Even after four years of seeing it, the fact that the city was unlit at night was strange and foreboding.

  “Simon,” the ATV comm ops radioed. “I’ve got two unfriendlies onscreen.”

  “Put them through,” Simon said. In the next moment the two unknown vehicles ghosted onto his HUD.

  “They’re on a direct approach vector,” the comm ops man stated coolly. “At thirty-seven miles per hour.”

  “Can you give me an ETA?” Simon asked.

  “Given the terrain and based on the fact that they’re pretty much maxing out the ATV, I’d estimate between twenty-two and twenty-six minutes.”

  Twenty-four minutes later, the two ATVs rolled up onto the tree-covered hill where Simon and his crew waited.

  “Simon Cross,” someone radioed from one of the ATVs.

  Patched into the comm channel from his ATV, Simon saw the Templar’s face appear on the HUD. He opened the channel at his end so his face could be seen as well.

  “I’m here,” Simon answered. He recognized the Templar’s features although it had been years since he’d seen the man.

  Donald Pettibone was in his forties by now. His face was lean and haggard. A thin salt and pepper mustache framed his upper lip. He was a sergeant of the House Rorke and had trained many of the Templar in small-unit maneuvers. The Fists, as they were called, of the House Rorke were some of the most disciplined of all Templar.

  “It’s good to see you again, Simon,” Pettibone said. He smiled a little, but there was no warmth to his dark eyes.

  “I’m glad you’re well, Sergeant Pettibone. Still training?”

  “Always.”

  “I’m surprised you’re away from it now.”

  Pettibone hesitated. “The High Seat felt it would be better if you saw a friendly face.”

  Friendly face or not, Simon still didn’t trust the situation. “What does he want?” He didn’t feel generous enough to refer to Booth by either his name or his rank.

  “To talk with you.”

  “He could have come himself.”

  Pettibone pursed his lips in distaste. Simon wasn’t sure if it was because he’d suggested Booth come or because he’d forced Pettibone into admitting the High Seat didn’t want to do that.

  “He feels it would be safer if you visited the Underground,” Pettibone said.

  “Then we’re at an impasse,” Simon said. “Booth has wasted both our times.” He started to turn away.

  “Lord Cross.”

  Pettibone’s use of the hereditary title froze Simon in place.

  “That was my father’s title,” Simon said, “and he chose not to use it except at House functions. He saw himself as a knight first, a Seraphim and defender of the House Rorke and the Order.”

  “I know that, Simon,” Pettibone said. “I’m only reminding you that the title is yours now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are some who feel you should be treated accordingly.”

  Simon studied the man’s face. There had never been any deviousness in Sergeant Donald Pettibone. He was as truthful a man as ever served a House.

  “When I left the Templar Underground four years ago,” Simon said, “there was no mention of the title or my station.”

  “The situation was still very raw then.” Pettibone blinked and pain showed in his unwavering gaze. “We had lost so much and things were confusing.”

  “And that’s changed?”

  “It’s more settled these days.”

  “Yet I don’t see Templar in the streets fighting the demons.”

  “Not to be disrespectful, but you’re not massing an army against them either,” Pettibone said. Hurt pride tightened his jaws.

  Touché, Simon thought.

  “You know as well as I do, because your father—God rest him—and I taught you tactics. Grand Master Sumerisle tried routing the demons through sheer numbers. That didn’t work then, and that was when there were more Templar to go to war against the demons. Now it’s the demons numbers that have increased, and they’re increasing every day. We have to pick and choose our battles.”

  “I pick and choose mine,” Simon growled. “And I see my warriors fall defending innocents or striking against the demons where we can. When was the last time High Seat Booth took up a sword or pistol against a demon?” From what he had heard, Booth hadn’t left the Underground except to come strip Macomber away.

  “That’s disrespectful,” Pettibone protested. “Your father would never have acted in such a manner.”

  “You’ve known since the day you started training me that I was my father’s son but not my father.” Even during those early years Simon hadn’t meekly accepted anyone’s teaching. He had challenged Pettibone on several issues and had tried the man’s patience severely. “Tell Booth that I decline his invitation. You may even tell him I did so respectfully if you wish.”

  “Lord Cross…”

  Simon turned on his heel and walked back to his ATV. “We’re leaving, Sergeant Pettibone. I wish you a safe return.”

  “High Seat Booth offers you the Flag of Honor,” Pettibone said quickly.

  Without turning, Simon stared into the sergeant’s face on the HUD.

  “That’s right,” Pettibone continued when Simon didn’t respond. “House Rorke extends the Flag of Honor.”

  The Flag of Honor hadn’t been used in over a hundred years. It had first been established to settle the grievances between rival Lords of a House shortly after the Order had gone into hiding after Phillip the Fair denounced them as heretics. Despite how close-knit the Order was, there were sometimes personality clashes or debts of honor over the hand of another Templar woman that had to be settled.

  The Order had wanted those clashes set aside so the Houses wouldn’t be divided or conflicted within. It had been a similar clash that had caused House Pherral to fall during the Great War over a hundred years ago. As a result of Lord Pherral’s actions—and Simon didn’t know what they were because those records were sealed—House Pherral was stripped of its powers and privileges within the Order.

  While growing up, Simon had known Rorke Pherral, one of the Fallen House’s descendants. Pherral had been in line under his father to become the next High Seat if the House had stood. But that line had died when the father and son had died at the Battle of All Hallows’ Eve.

  “A Flag of Honor guarantees you safe passage,” Pettibone said. “And it will give you a chance to be heard before all the Houses of the Order.”

  “This is about the Goetia manuscript, isn’t it?” Simon asked.

  Pettibone hesitated. “The High Seat wants to see that manuscript.”

  “How did he learn about it?”

  “High Seat Booth convinced Professor Macomber to tell him about it.”

  “How?”

  “Macomber saw the Templar Underground. He knew the secret would be safe with High Seat Booth. The High Seat sent a team to Akehurst Sanitarium, but it was plain that someone had already been there. Given the damage done to the dead demons that we found, we knew it was Templar that had killed them.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why Booth has offered the Flag of Honor,” Simon pointed out.
“Booth could have petitioned the Order for an army to attack the stronghold we have.”

  “They’d have had a bloody fight on their hands if they’d tried,” Nathan quietly promised.

  “The High Seat didn’t want to do that. You’ve become something of a popular figure among the Underground. He felt that many wouldn’t agree with that choice of action. Even with the Goetia manuscript and the secrets it holds at stake.”

  Simon couldn’t believe that.

  “There are a lot of people who are pulling for you, Lord Cross,” Pettibone said. “They don’t necessarily agree with what you’re doing, especially with the young Templar that have slipped away from the Underground to join you like some Children’s Crusade, but they know you’re out here making a difference.”

  Simon thought about that and was sorely tempted to agree to the offer. Even though he believed in what he was doing, he also knew he was dragging his father’s good name down with him while he did it.

  The Flag of Honor would give him a chance to set that right.

  Nathan dropped a hand on Simon’s shoulder and switched to private communication. “Don’t do it, mate.”

  “It’s the Flag of Honor,” Simon said.

  “But it’s Booth that’s extending it. I’d feel better if it was some other House making this offer.”

  “I’m sworn to House Rorke.”

  “And you’ve gone rogue of late, mate. We all have. We don’t belong to a House anymore. Besides that, there’s bad blood between you and Booth, and Booth’s not one to let go of something once he’s got his teeth in it.”

  “Booth can’t do anything to me under the Flag of Honor. The Order won’t let him.”

  “You’ll be stepping right into the spider’s web, mate. That’s never a good thing. We won’t be able to protect you there.”

  “Nathan, I appreciate what you’re saying, but I’ve got to do this. The people that have come to us, the civilians and the Templar—including those kids—could use the resources of the Templar Underground.”

  “They need you, mate.” Nathan’s face was somber on the HUD screen. “If they lose you, then they’ve lost more than they could ever replace.”

  “They could lose me tomorrow,” Simon said softly. “I’m one man, Nathan. One Templar. The next battle against a demon could be my last.”