The Alien Element

by M. G. Herron

  Eliana reached out a hand and ran her fingers along the carvings.

  “Moons, temple, God, death.”

  “What does that mean?” Ross asked.

  “Moons over the temple bring the Gods and cause death?” she said with a rising inflection, uncertainty edging her voice. “Is that too big of a leap?”

  Ross whistled. “Maybe…maybe not.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  Eliana scanned the horizon through the ring of pines and saw how the bowl of land swept down and away, toward the other site they had been at not three days ago—on the high ground on the opposite side.

  If Ross had traveled to that other planet with her and met those people, maybe he would see the connection as clearly as she did. Why else would they have a carving of double moons here? Or was she misinterpreting it? Was it something else entirely?

  She couldn’t help it—Eliana pictured in her mind the ancient city of Uchben Na where she had seen a man sacrificed by the light of two moons, where she had seen the god they called Xucha, and had nearly been sacrificed herself.

  Was it really a coincidence that they had found no other ruins in this area, apart from these low stone buildings like warning signs, cautioning travelers to be wary of whatever lay beyond them, below them, or between them? She stared into the valley and imagined a Maya city where that lake used to be.

  “It’s almost like these structures were put here like outposts,” Eliana said. “Like warning signs. They say, in pictures, don’t go into the valley or you risk bringing death upon yourself.”

  Ross grunted in agreement.

  The people of Kakul told a kind of exodus story while she’d been living among them. It had been hard to follow, since she still had only a rudimentary command of their language. She remembered a man in a snake mask telling the story in the light of a bonfire…what had he said…

  When the world was complete, Xucha wrapped his sinuous body around the world and squeezed the sky shut. But he squeezed too tight, and the sky turned a bruised purple as a result. The sky was broken, and even the gods were stuck here, and no one could go back through again.

  Back through? Back through to where?

  Eliana gazed into the low bowl of the forest. The land looked like a God had reached down and taken a big scoop out of the forest with his powerful hands.

  Back through to here.

  Eliana turned away from the ruin and began snapping photos of the carving and the positions of the monolith.

  She was not certain what these carvings meant. Nor was she certain of her recollection of the Kakuli mythology. But she was sure that someone had occupied this area during several millennia when Mayan civilization reigned.

  And she was certain of one other thing—no matter what Amon thought or said or wanted her to do, no matter what he might do to try to forbid her from going back through the Translocator, it was her duty as an archaeologist and researcher, as an explorer and seeker of truth, to return to Kakul.

  If anything could corroborate what she had found here today, lying hidden in plain sight for over a thousand years, it was whatever was depicted on the walls of the stone city of Uchben Na, and the stories preserved and passed down by Rakulo’s people.

  She had to go back. She just had to.

  21

  Margin of Error

  As the light faded, alloy rings swung, rotating around the platform and casting crisscrossing shadows in a geometric pattern around him. Amon ducked under the rings before they had fully come to rest and walked down the ramp, bracing himself for the worst.

  When he saw her, he grimaced and felt his gorge rise. His whole body tensed up painfully, and his mouth filled with bile before he managed to swallowed it back down.

  His first reaction after the terror was a feeling of immense relief—relief that the body twisted impossibly in the middle of the floor had blonde hair. It was not his wife—not Eliana. That was all that mattered. A sudden trembling lightness shook him.

  It’s not Eliana, he repeated to himself. Eliana was alive and well—as far as he knew. She sent him a brief text message a few days ago. God, why hasn’t she called me back? What is she doing? Is she safe?

  The second emotion that struck him was intense guilt mingled with sadness, for the woman on the floor was wearing a suit and practical black shoes whose soles had been worn, he knew, from a lot of recent travel. Her body was maimed and twisted horribly, her limbs scrambled and wrenched into an unnatural arrangement. The fabric of her suit had been blended with her skin in places. She had a blonde ponytail, but her face was placed elsewhere, and Amon didn’t dare turn her over to look for it. The cavity of her chest had also been cracked open, exposing a grotesque arrangement of organs that a biologist would barely recognize as human. The pockets of her blazer were still intact somehow. Amon reached down and took the FBI badge out of Agent Monica Wiley’s inside coat pocket.

  The most he could hope for was that she had died quickly and painlessly. There would be time for an autopsy, whatever good that would do, but first he had to play investigator in Agent Wiley’s place. Amon had to find out who did this to her.

  Footsteps shuffled up beside him on the right.

  “Fucked up, right?” Wes said.

  Amon ignored him. “How long ago did her body appear?”

  “A few minutes after you went to the moon,” Reuben said. “We got an incoming transmission—looked like it was you, but you had stopped answering me. I thought it was because the electronics on the suit cut out after all.”

  “The electronics on the suit are fine.”

  “Anyway, I initiated the translocation, and she showed up in the platform like that. Scared the hell out of me.” Reuben swallowed. “I thought it was you at first.”

  They shared a glance. Amon glared at Wes, but Wes didn’t seem to notice. He was pale and seemed genuinely distraught at the sight of Agent Wiley.

  Amon made himself look back at the grotesque body. As he did, he felt the anger bubble up from his toes and fill his body with a hot rage. He twisted the helmet and began unzipping the cumbersome space suit.

  “She didn’t deserve this,” Reuben said.

  Agent Wiley had been with the Interpol agents less than a few hours ago. What had happened after Amon left? It must be connected to the lunar base.

  “He’s showing off now,” Amon said.

  Amon had to find and stop Lucas. Not even the early molecular reassembly tests run by the Nazis during world war two had been so horrific—at least they were still dealing with the power source issues.

  Even the next generation of Translocator disasters that occurred during the European Space Agency’s early experiments were overseen by careful, intelligent men. At least their mistakes were limited to lab mice. Not people.

  What had been done to Agent Wiley was another strata of cruelty entirely.

  Amon gritted his teeth and tightened his fists as he swore that he would put an end to this. For Agent Wiley.

  Where was Agent Moreno? Amon ran to the warehouse, quickly shed the suit, pulled his jeans and polo shirt back on, and found his phone. It told him he had one missed call. From the same ten-digit number Agent Wiley had called from.

  He dialed the number, hoping it was Agent Moreno simply looking for his missing partner and a ride home. But somehow, he didn’t think that was likely. The call rang three times before being answered.

  “Hello, Amon,” said a voice on the other end of the line.

  Amon froze. He knew that voice. It was neat, precise, and…dangerous. Was that new? Or had the faint edge of steel under the dulcet baritone always been there?

  “Lucas,” Amon said, his tone as flat and even as he could keep it in his rage. “Tell me you’re not behind this. Tell me you didn’t murder Agent Wiley.”

  “You murdered her, Amon.”

  “I did not!” he shouted. Then, collecting himself, Amon lowered his voice again. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Why are you doing this? If you di
dn’t run across the border, this could all have blown over by now. You know I never would have pressed charges. We could be working together again, Lucas. Instead, you’re murdering innocent people, not to mention federal agents. You—”

  Lucas’s voice went flat. “We were never working together,” he said. “You made it very clear that I was always working for you.”

  “We were a team,” Amon said, disbelief coloring his voice and constricting his throat. Were they really having this conversation right now? “I always said that Fisk Industries belongs to all of us.”

  Lucas chuckled softly. “You always said that, but you never meant it. Still, it’s a good thing I was there in the early days, or you’d have been too distracted by your visions of grandeur to keep the company afloat long enough for you to build anything.”

  “I was never—”

  “I don’t have time for personal chatter, Amon,” Lucas said, interrupting him.

  That put Amon back on his heels. He clamped his mouth shut, fearing for Agent Moreno’s life. What about the CERN physicists? What if Lucas somehow managed to get ahold of Eliana? Damnit, but where was his wife right now?

  “Think of this like a business transaction,” Lucas said. “It will go smoother for you that way—and for Agent Moreno and these other poor bastards—if you shut up and do as I say.”

  Amon and Reuben exchanged quick, worried looks. Glancing over at Wes, Amon was momentarily pleased to see that even the old cowboy, who normally had a gung ho, “fuck you, come and take it” attitude about everything, seemed frightened.

  At least now Amon knew the FBI agents’ suspicions were true. He could face a problem he knew. And he knew Lucas. They had been close for twenty years. After college, they met while working for an electronics manufacturing company. They both had engineering degrees, but Amon worked in the R&D department, while Lucas had taken a job as a sales rep. A year later, Amon was making his own panels in his small garage, and he and Lucas combined their skills by making cold calls during their lunch hours to get the business started.

  “Okay, Lucas,” Amon said in a reasonable tone. “Let’s talk about this. What do you want?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I want that carbonado. And don’t get any ideas, Amon. I know your noble instincts get you into trouble sometimes. If you call the cops or the FBI, or try to surprise us with those security guards you’ve got now, Agent Moreno and this pretty CERN secretary will suffer slow, agonizing deaths.”

  “You can do that? You can determine how much they suffer?”

  “Within a certain margin of error.”

  What you’re doing is wrong—that’s what Amon wanted to say. Instead, he tried to keep a reasonable tone of voice. “Maybe I can help. If you just tell me what you’re trying to do, I’ll help you iron out the errors—”

  “Enough,” Lucas said. “Quit stalling. I don’t need your help. Bring us in or I’ll send another body your way. I’ve just sent our coordinates to your machine. Bring in the first group, and then send again for myself and your other FBI agent friend.”

  Amon bent over and rested his hands on his knees. Damnit. Damnit! Who told him about the carbonado experiments? Who told him where Amon was going with the FBI agents?

  “Okay,” he said. “Just one question. Are you using the CERN particle accelerator to power your Translocator?”

  “No. Please. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “How long did it take to build?” Amon was grasping at straws now.

  “Enough questions. Translocate us in.”

  Amon muffled the receiver of the cell phone against his shirt and mouthed silently to Reuben and Wes. “Alert the guards.”

  “Do it now,” Lucas’s shouting voice could be heard through his hand, which was clutched over the receiver. “And keep those security guards out of it, or you’ll have more blood on your hands.”

  Amon ended the call. Lucas must already have known exactly how many guards were on shift at night, and what Amon would try to do. Was Roger the mole, or was it someone else? Who had known about his work with the FBI agents except for Agent Wiley, Agent Moreno, and Reuben. He’d have to figure that out later.

  “You can’t be serious,” Wes said.

  “What choice do we have?” Amon gestured to Agent Wiley’s body. “He’s clearly not bluffing.”

  “Amon,” Reuben said, “we have a responsibility to protect the Translocator.”

  “You don’t think I know that? We also had a responsibility to keep the blueprints out of the hands of dangerous people. It’s my fault this happened. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  Reuben stared at him, obviously battling his conscience. “That’s what Lucas is expecting.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Amon said. “You don’t have to do it. I will.”

  Amon stepped up to the holodeck, locked in on the coordinates Lucas had sent originally—somewhere in Switzerland, but too far from CERN to use their particle accelerator as a power source, he noted—and initiated the translocation.

  A familiar cry cut the air. The rings of the stabilization sphere began to spin. When the rings wound down and the light faded, six soldiers armed with AK-47 rifles were arranged in two rows on the platform. All tall, blond men. Were they Russian mercenaries? Did they work for Hawkwood, the security company that had colluded with Lucas before to help him steal the plans and drain Fisk Industries’ bank accounts? Amon couldn’t be sure. Their shirts were bulky and black—probably wearing body armor underneath—with no markings. They all wore matching camouflage pants and combat boots. They looked well trained and deadly as they jogged down the ramp and efficiently took up positions surrounding Wes, Reuben, and Amon. Two of the men remained close to the platform.

  Gazing around at the men boxing them in, Amon finally recognized one of them. It was the Interpol agent who had followed Amon toward the bathroom. He met Amon’s stare, and smiled.

  “Activate it again,” the man said. He had a square nutcracker jaw and no glint of humor in his flat blue eyes.

  Amon complied, and the CERN secretary and two other scientists in lab coats, all with their hands and wrists bound tightly with heavy-duty plastic zip ties, appeared on the platform, along with two more mercenaries. The mercenaries herded the captives down the ramp into the middle of the room. The captives’ eyes went wide as they approached Agent Wiley’s grotesque form. The secretary gave a high-pitched whimpering cry as she sidestepped away from the body. A few of the others paled and looked like they might be sick.

  “One more time, Mr. Fisk,” the square-jawed leader of the mercenaries said.

  How polite, Amon thought as he activated the Translocator once more. This time, a tall, well-groomed man in a charcoal suit and shiny black shoes appeared on the platform. In one hand he held a gun pointed between the shoulder blades of Agent Moreno. In the other, he held a clear plastic cube by a handle, like a transparent toolbox. Moreno was more heavily bound than the others, with his arms and hands held tight to his side. Lucas smiled broadly as he walked down the platform, prodding Moreno ahead of him with the gun.

  “Amon, Reuben, and Wes,” Lucas said expansively. “So good to see you all again.”

  “Let him go, Lucas,” Amon said. “This is between you and me.”

  Lucas shoved Agent Moreno toward the other captives, then stepped blithely over Agent Wiley’s body. He waved his gun. The armed squadron of mercenaries surrounding Amon, Wes, and Reuben shoved them away from the holodeck with their rifles. Lucas set the plastic cube down at his feet, then searched for something on the monitor. He pulled out a manual keyboard and typed in a console window that Amon couldn’t read from where he stood. Then he closed the console, returned the keyboard to its hidden tray, and withdrew the canister of carbonado solution.

  “I see you’ve made some modifications,” Lucas said. “Nothing I can’t figure out, I assure you.”

  “You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Pain exploded in Amon’s face as the square-jawed mercenary s
lammed the butt of his rifle into his cheekbone. He fell to his knees.

  “Fine,” Lucas said, his voice coming faintly through a ringing. “Have it your way.”

  Amon glanced up as Lucas gestured to one of the mercenaries. The big man walked over and grabbed a scientist from the group of hostages, pushed him out away from the others, and shot him in the head. His body collapsed next to Agent Wiley’s, blood pooling at his feet.

  “No!” Amon shouted. But he couldn’t move out of the ring of soldiers. Wes’s face had turned into a grim mask. Reuben looked away.

  Amon pushed himself back to his feet as a pounding came at the blast door. “Mr. Fisk?” one of the guards said on the other side. “Is everything okay in there?”

  Two large mercenaries grabbed Amon. Still dazed from the blow to his head, and half their size, he was unable to resist as they brought him to the door and made him open it. They shoved him into the middle of the doorway. As the blast door drew open, the mercenaries shot the guards while they were looking at Amon with a puzzled expression, before they could even make sense of the scene or take aim with their own guns.

  Amon felt helpless as their bodies crumpled to the floor. He was yanked back and thrown to the ground where Reuben and Wes had both been forced to a sitting position. Two mercenaries stood guard over them. Lucas took the plastic cube and strode through the blast door and down the long hall.

  If Wes is the mole, why is he being treated this way? The man’s face was unreadable. Amon’s conviction that it was Wes who ratted them out faded. He didn’t know who it was anymore. Reuben? Enzo Badeux? Could it be?

  Lucas returned not ten minutes later with the large carbonado held in the plastic cube. Amon had managed to recover some of his wits by this point, and through the throbbing in his head finally realized that the cube was a containment device. A glimmering liquid filled a thin space between the plastic walls.

  “Where did you get that?” Amon asked from his position on the floor. He needed to get some more information out of Lucas before he disappeared through the Translocator again.

  “I made it,” Lucas said.