by M. G. Herron
When she was tied down securely, two tiny, wire-thin tendrils slithered out of the wall and tickled her cheeks.
Their cold lengths plunged into both ears at once.
She gasped as visions began to gallop across her mind’s eye.
33
Hit the Mark
The wormhole still hung in the air, bending the light all the way around it. It felt wrong, hanging there in the middle of the platform, like a fracture in the fabric of reality. A blemish. A fault.
Yet there it was.
“I don’t trust it,” Amon said.
“Can we neutralize it?” Audrey asked.
“How?”
Audrey arced her hand forward and tossed another paperclip below the wormhole. The paperclip was drawn toward the fault at an unnatural upward angle. When the metallic object came into contact with the corner of bent light, a small blue spark sent the paperclip careening through the rings, to bounce off the wall some fifteen feet away.
“What did you throw at it the first time?” Amon asked. “To make those sparks?”
Audrey glanced at him. “A wrench.”
Amon laughed. “Very subtle.”
“I figure the…wormhole? The wormhole wasn’t left here to destroy anything. If it was a bomb, it would have gone off already, right? So it must have been placed here simply to interfere with the Translocator. And, as such, there was a high probability that it had some kind of self-defense mechanism.”
“Since we can’t neutralize it…”
They both glanced back to the warehouse side of the Translocator lab, where the scientists were searching and sorting through the equipment at their disposal. Jeanine had finally arrived, claiming she had missed their phone calls because she had forgotten her phone at home while she visited her boyfriend. Amon wanted to believe her, but he saw how Agent Moreno watched her out of the corner of his eye when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.
Jeanine took the lead in the organizational effort, however. The boxes earmarked for the lunar base contained all sorts of supplies suited to their purpose, as the research buildings and basic infrastructure of the base were still heavily under construction. Audrey and Amon had scoured the warehouse with the team, then come back in here to sort out what, precisely, to do.
“We could build a glass prison around it, like in a superhero movie,” Amon said.
“You ever notice how the bad guys always escape from those?” Audrey said. “As soon as you call something inescapable—”
“Good thing we’re fresh out of giant glass prisons. Here’s what we do have: metal sheeting, plexiglass, a box of white t-shirts, nylon webbing, and four kinds of rope.”
“Well it can’t be sealed off completely,” Audrey said. “No metal sheeting—it’s too brittle. And I want to be able to see the thing.”
“It has to be big enough, too, and strong enough to contain a threat in case the rift is opened again from the other side and the man in black comes back for seconds.”
“Did I see steel rebar in the warehouse?” Audrey said.
“What are you thinking?”
The design came together quickly after that.
With the whole team’s help, they managed to weld a six by six foot cage of two-inch steel rebar around the wormhole. It took the better part of a day to complete. Then they wrapped the cage in a net of heavy-duty nylon webbing, the kind used to tie down awkwardly-shaped gear on stormy trans-pacific voyages—sturdy stuff. They had enough mesh to secure it tightly around the cage on all sides.
Easy enough to cut a hole and reach an arm in—or pull someone out if you had to. But sturdy enough to contain a threat—or at least slow them down.
Amon was helping rivet the edges of the mesh to the metal deck of the platform when Agent Moreno came hurrying across the room, his phone clutched in his hand, followed closely by a frowning Wes McManis and the angular and thin Dr. Badeux, who had arrived that morning from France, and had been acting as a tireless buffer between the FBIs demands and the immediate problem of the wormhole Amon was trying to mitigate.
“Amon, the president is asking to speak to you,” Agent Moreno said.
Amon’s gut clenched. That was new. He glanced at Dr. Badeux, who shrugged.
“President Roscoe?” Amon said, stupidly.
Agent Moreno thrust the phone into Amon’s hand. He took it and raised it to his ear.
“Amon Fisk, is that you?” The man’s southern accent was unmistakable. It was the president himself.
“Hello, Mr. President,” Amon said, after a drawn out pause. He rubbed his one sweaty palm against the seam of a pants pocket several times, and then pulled at his collar even though it was loose—his old nervous tics coming back to him.
“I’m glad we met at that Christmas gala in DC two years ago, because I’m afraid I have the unfortunate responsibility of informing you that your Translocator has become an issue of national security. The NSA are now overseeing this matter on my behalf.”
“Yes, sir,” Amon said. What else could he say?
“You’re still in charge of the machine, because we need you.”
It seemed to Amon that a silent for now was implied in the President’s orders.
“Yes, sir,” Amon said.
“You should know that the NSA has secured the area under my direct orders.”
Amon winced. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but don’t you think that will just draw needless attention? What if the media gets wind of it?”
“They already know, Amon. The news broke an hour ago.”
Amon forced himself not to glance at the people gathered around him, staring with rapt attention. Was it the loudmouth, Wes, breaking under the same business pressures to which Lucas had been susceptible? Or was it Jeanine? She had arrived later than everyone else had; did she really stay at her boyfriend’s house, or did she leak the information to a journalist?
“I’ve already talked to authorities in the city of Austin. They’re preparing for a city-wide evacuation, if the need arises. I’ll take care of all that. What I need to know right now is this. Are you fully committed to the safety of this country, Mr. Fisk?”
Amon swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“And can you contain it?”
“Honestly, sir? I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Amon didn’t know what the president had been told—or who was listening who couldn’t be trusted—so he didn’t go into detail. “But I’ll try.”
“You do that. You have every possible resource at your disposal. Just ask Agent Moreno. He knows how to contact me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The call ended. He thought he heard the president harrumph, but that could have been the sound of a finger brushing against the receiver.
Amon looked between the FBI agent and Wes, who frowned. “Did you hear all of that?” Amon asked.
“There’s something else,” Agent Moreno said. “Two more places were raided—a firearms manufacturer in Boise, Idaho, and a cache of supplies bound for the middle east at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa.”
“Damn,” Amon said. “Lucas is always a step ahead of us.”
“What’s his game plan?”
“I don’t know, but trust me, he has something specific in mind. He’s not the type of person to do anything randomly.”
Jeanine and Audrey bolted the last rivet into the floor.
“We’re done here, for now. I need to walk and think for a minute. Enzo, can you fill me in on what’s happening at the lunar base?”
Dr. Badeux pushed his square glasses up on his nose, clasped his hands behind his back, and fell into step beside Amon as he strode from the room. Agent Moreno and Wes trailed behind them.
“Wes?” Amon said, turning back for a second. “Would you mind cataloging the parts we used for the cage?”
“Aw, come on now.”
“It’s important. I want to make sure we keep track of everything and pay the LTA back later, in full.” Amon ste
pped closer to Wes and lowered his voice. “Besides, I need someone to keep an eye on them.”
Wes’s nostrils flared, but he nodded reluctantly and hung back. Amon didn’t really need anyone to babysit his scientists and engineers, but he wanted Wes to think he was needed—and get him out of earshot.
Amon, Agent Moreno, and Dr. Enzo Badeux walked down the long hall.
As the elevator carried them up, Amon said, “I trust both of you. You can’t be the mole, Agent Moreno, because you’re trying to find and stop the mole. And it can’t be you, Enzo, because you didn’t know the guard rotation or where in the building Audrey’s lab was, since your office is in D.C. now. But as for the rest… Does the press know about the wormhole?” Amon said.
“Thankfully, they don’t,” Dr. Badeux said.
“That Reagan Gruber knows something is up,” Agent Moreno said. “I had my men keeping an eye on his online updates. He posted about the police showing up at Fisk Industries. He has a lot of wild theories, but none of them have quite hit the mark yet.”
“That’s something, at least.”
The elevator doors opened on the lobby.
The level of activity stunned Amon. He had expected an empty lobby. Instead, FBI agents crowded around mobile communication stations and talked quietly amongst themselves. They glanced at the trio of men as they arrived, but didn’t stop to greet them.
Sunlight streamed in through the jauntily slanted glass wall, and Amon felt himself sway unsteadily. He blinked his heavy eyes. He needed sleep, but he couldn’t afford to sleep yet. Several unmarked white vans were parked in the otherwise empty lot visible across the quad. He had no doubt that similar vehicles surrounded the entire campus. That would be the NSA people.
Which meant Fisk Industries was now on lockdown.
Except for holidays, Fisk Industries had been shut down only once before. This time, Eliana had gone through voluntarily. Though how she had gone was unsettling, it was not an accident. Amon wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself in the face of the facts: he had lost her again. Not lost her through a technical accident, not even lost her in the confrontation with that that black-armored god-pretender.
No, Amon had lost his wife several weeks ago, when he refused to help her return to Kakul and search for archaeological clues to continue her research in the one place she needed to go. He might as well have pushed her through that black rift, that wormhole, with his own two hands.
God, what a fool I was. Amon clutched his temples and covered his tired eyes with one hand.
“You should rest,” Enzo said. “Is there a place you can sleep?”
“Back in the Translocator lab, in the lounge.”
“It’s not safe,” Agent Moreno said. “Somewhere else. I’ll post men to guard you while you sleep. Just for a little while.”
Amon nodded. Moreno was right. He trudged to his office at the back of the first floor.
Amon thought he could keep Eliana safe by keeping her away. In the red morning light streaming in through the glass windows, it seemed so painfully obvious that he had been guarding the wrong thing—hedging against his own desires and fears, rather than thinking of what Eliana wanted and needed. She must have felt like she had no choice but to take the opportunity to get back to Kakul when it presented itself. If Amon wouldn’t let her use the Translocator, what other choice did she have?
He should have tried harder to have more empathy with her situation, to see past his own misgivings. She had always said he could be inconsiderate about other people’s feelings when he was focused on a project.
Still, Amon felt that if he could just talk to her, maybe he could explain…
Amon’s thoughts ran over and over on this loop as he stumbled into his office. He kicked his shoes off and fell onto the leather couch under the framed hi-definition photographs of the historic rocket launches that had inspired his passion for most of his life. That led to thoughts of the wormhole, that bizarre corner of light hanging suspended in the air four floors below him, looming like a loose screw ready to cause the long-anticipated explosion of this metaphorical rocket launch.
Stern, muffled words came through the door as Agent Moreno gave orders to the FBI agents stationed outside.
Amon tossed and turned until a restless, fear-haunted sleep took him.
34
The Way of Things
Maatiaak’s men surrounded Rakulo. Together, they passed under the stone arch. Rakulo saw the ripped and scattered foliage and the exposed carvings that they used to hide. This must have been where Eliana had come to look at the stones.
She had found something. Or, rather, Xucha had found her.
One problem at a time.
He would only be able to help her if he got Maatiaak to agree to a truce. His one saving grace was that if Xucha was occupied with Eliana, there was a good chance he wouldn’t interfere with what was about to happen.
Maatiaak led the group of warriors, old and young, across the overgrown stone plaza of Uchben Na. The city had not aged well. Facades had chipped, steps had crumbled, statues had fallen over and broken into pieces. Weeds and tree roots grew between the paving stones. A row of grinning skulls carved across the roofline of a tired old temple to Rakulo’s left had somehow survived the wreckage of time. Black eyeholes stared out over the group as they passed, vacant and hungry—a reminder of what the gods desired.
Blood. Flesh. Death.
This Rakulo had known since he was a child. It was an unavoidable fact of life. No wonder Maatiaak had laughed at him when he suggested throwing himself into the Well of Sacrifices. No one had ever made that leap and survived, not in his lifetime, not in the lifetime of his father, not in the lifetime of his grandfather’s father.
Citlali walked uneasily at his side, wincing and drawing painful breath through her teeth in pain. Occasionally, if she began to lag behind, one of Maatiaak’s men would push her gently forward. They were not mean about it, merely firm. Rakulo would have reached out to support her as she walked, but his hands remained bound. He leaned close and let her put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Maatiaak looked like he might object, but swallowed his words.
Maatiaak tried to look nonchalant, but Rakulo saw how he kept Citlali in his line of sight, and set the pace at an easy walk. It was good he still cared for his daughter, or they might be in a worse situation than they already were.
They found the path of white stone on the far side of the plaza, and began to follow it into the forest. After several long minutes of walking, the path opened up into a clearing, in the center of which lay the sinkhole his people called the Well of Sacrifices. A flat outcropping of stone on the near side jutted over the edge of the opening. Sacrifices were thrown from there, so they had a clear fall into the green-tinted waters below.
“Here we are,” Maatiaak said. He untied Rakulo’s restraints and pushed him out onto the jutting stone. “Time to see what you’re made of, boy.”
Rakulo glanced down at the water a hundred feet below, then around him at the jungle. Everything was vivid and bright. It was bizarre to be here in the daylight, as the sacrifices were usually cast into the water under the light of the full moons. In the daytime, the sinkhole seemed…innocuous. Exposed. Like how shadows and creaking noises might frighten a child at night, and in the morning light turn out to be nothing more than a tree branch knocking against the side of a hut. In the daylight, the Well of Sacrifices was not a holy place filled with death, but a clearing in the forest where a sinkhole filled with rainwater fed an underground river that couldn’t be seen from this vantage point. When the child sees the tree branch in the morning light, he laughs at his own fear from the night before. So Rakulo felt his hysteria bubbling up now, as he looked around him.
Peering over the edge into the water, he spotted a canoe, just visible at the near edge. He suppressed a sigh of relief. Reuben and Quen were making their way along the wall to the river fork to where the hungry plant roots waited to devour Rakulo, body and so
ul. He hoped they managed to disable it in time.
Maatiaak approached to gaze over the side. Rakulo must not let him see Reuben and Quen, lest he get suspicious. He had to believe that what was about to happen was the god’s choice, not Rakulo’s doing, or the result of Quen and Reuben’s blades.
Rakulo put his body in front of Maatiaak. “Xucha wants us all dead, you know. He doesn’t care for our lives. We only exist to feed the gods. They are always thirsty, and it is only the blood of our people that quenches their thirst. Is that how you would have our people live for the rest of time? Beholden to a dark master? A cup from which the night god drinks endlessly, for eternity?”
“It is the way of things, Rakulo. You cannot change what has been for a thousand years. That is how our people continue to thrive.”
“Thrive? We’ve been killing our own children for a thousand years. How many huts lie empty in the village? Dozens. When was the last time a new hut was built? Years ago. People don’t want to have children because they’re afraid Xucha will punish them and strike down their children, like what happened to my little brother. Does that seem like thriving to you? Our people are not thriving, they’re dying.”
“You’re as short-sighted as your father was. If it wasn’t for my interference, Xucha would have punished our people after you became Chief!”
Rakulo’s blood chilled instantly. He had thought that Xucha’s power had weakened after his father’s body had been sacrificed. He had believed that his resistance was working, that their willingness to stand together had given Xucha pause. If they didn’t sacrifice their own, then the sacrifices must end.
How naive he had been. This was the truth that Ixchel had unwittingly discovered after Ekel’s disappearance—while Rakulo was training his young warriors and scouring the wall looking for a way out of this trap, and carving canoes, and tying ropes, Maatiaak had been running interference.
Maatiaak laughed. “Did you really think that Xucha would just sit back and let you disobey him? He is a powerful GOD! No, you foolish boy. I convinced him to wait. I offered my own life to appease him—but he didn’t want it. He was patient. I took him my chickens and my fish. When he tired of those, I captured two of the old hermits hiding out in the woods. Did you ever wonder why so many men left Kakul to live in the caves? Cowards, all of them. I caught them, and offered their lives, as unwilling as they were—except for Gehro. He was too sneaky to be caught. So then I convinced old Ekel to sacrifice himself for the good of the village, to die a noble death and go to join his wife in the afterlife.”
