by M. G. Herron
“We don’t have enough evidence to charge him with anything yet,” Agent Moreno said. “But we can hold him for forty-eight hours.”
“How did you figure out it was him?” Amon asked.
“I already had people looking through phone and email records of your employees, searching for the mole. It could have been anyone. After Wes found that news report on Reagan Gruber’s radio show, it gave me the idea to check him out a bit more—they have a phone number for anonymous tips listed on their website. Call records show that Wes has contacted that number several times in the last few weeks.”
“Wow,” Amon said. “But…you know, he could be telling the truth. And Gruber is only right half the time when he’s talking about Fisk Industries and the Translocator. Wes could easily have been feeding him misinformation.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it. There could be another mole. I still don’t know how Lucas found the information. None of the numbers on Wes’s phone records point back to Lucas, at least that we can tell.”
Startled gasps from the scientists gathered at the holodeck drew Amon’s attention. He and Agent Moreno ran across the room.
“The wormhole, it’s gone,” Jeanine said.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I—we didn’t do anything. We were just measuring the magnetic field, and then it was gone.”
He didn’t understand it, but Amon wasn’t one to disregard a lucky break. “Spin it up. If the test runs pass muster, first we have to send some extra supplies to the lunar base, and then I’m going after Eliana.”
“I’m going with you,” Agent Moreno said. “You don’t have any field training.”
“I have more than you think,” Amon said.
A beeping sound came from the holodeck.
“Incoming coordinates!” Jeanine shouted.
Amon and Agent Moreno exchanged glances. The scientists closed their laptops and moved away from the Translocator platform, where the now-empty cage they’d constructed stood on the platform among the sphere of still rings.
Agent Moreno drew his gun and adjusted his grip as Amon approached the holodeck.
37
The Well and the Wall
Rakulo plummeted through the air like a rock.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the canoe, hidden under the hanging vines. Reuben and Quen stared with expressions of dismay as he fell.
Green ichor tinted the normally purple water rising to meet him. He pulled in a deep gulp of air and held it.
His feet hit the surface. It parted and cold water rushed over his body. Rakulo kicked both legs, and a moment later his head broke the surface. He expelled his held breath and pulled in air. His hands parted the green ichor on the surface of the water.
But it was not the glowing green of a sacrifice being accepted by the gods. It was the sickly green ichor from a dozen severed veins, dripping where they had been ripped from the earthen wall and chopped up—dozens of lengths. They had found more after all.
The bulbous plant beneath Rakulo reached out its roots weakly. It burned where the ends brushed against his legs. He kicked away, windmilling his arms backward, and bumped into something hard. Quen and Reuben pulled him into the canoe.
He looked down at his legs. Where the roots had brushed him, white welts marred his brown skin like burns. But he was alive, and in one piece.
The tentacles of the bulbous plant went limp under the water again.
Rakulo grinned at Quen and Reuben, then glanced up. Maatiaak was staring down over the rim of the sinkhole.
“The gods decided not to take me today, Maatiaak!” Rakulo shouted, and laughed. He couldn’t help himself. The brush with death had made him giddy, so that even the burning, searing sensation on his legs could not foul his reaction. It felt like his smile filled his whole face.
“Xucha!” Maatiaak cried, spinning around and screaming at the forest. “Xucha! Take this traitor!”
But the god did not come. Rakulo didn’t know why, but it was a stroke of luck he was glad to have. It reinforced his point that Xucha was not in control.
Ixchel was crying now. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Rakulo! My brave son! My only son!”
The other warriors, old and young alike, peered down over the lip of the sinkhole to see Rakulo in the canoe with Reuben and Quen. Seeing he was alive, and well, and laughing, they glanced around, looking for the black-clad figure in the forest, and straining their ears for the insect-like buzzing sound that usually announced his presence. When they found none of these things, they began talking amongst themselves. Several lowered their spears. Dozens turned to Maatiaak and squinted, their distrust of him evident.
“We had a deal, Maatiaak,” Rakulo shouted.
The group stepped back from the lip, and Rakulo heard arguing, but could no longer see them. He searched for a sturdy vine he could climb to get back up. It would take too long to go around.
Suddenly, Maatiaak and Citlali appeared again. They were arguing. Maatiaak struck out at Citlali, but she was faster than her father and ducked under his hand, which caused Maatiaak to spin. At the same time, Yeli jumped forward and shoved the old man over the edge. Everyone paused while he fell. He toppled head over heels through the air and hit the water with a painful slapping sound, then came up spluttering and shouting a moment later.
“See!” Rakulo said. “The gods are gone. We have banished them from the water.”
Maatiaak’s warriors stepped forward, but Citlali and Yeli had recovered and stood back to back with their spears raised threateningly.
“Lower your weapons!” Citlali said. “We had an agreement. You gave Rakulo your word!”
Although they were outnumbered, Maatiaak’s men were apparently bewildered enough by Rakulo’s ability to disable the Well of Sacrifices that after a tense moment, one man set his weapons down, and then another, until the situation had been defused. Citlali gathered the spears and blades and bows.
These people didn’t really want to hurt their kinsmen. They were just doing what they thought was right—and that illusion had been shattered by Rakulo.
“Oh!” Reuben said at his side, a stream of unintelligible words pouring from his mouth. He grinned and pointed at the bracelet on his wrist. The dot that had been red before was now green. Reuben pointed up to the surface of the Well of Sacrifices. Rakulo took that to mean that he wanted to go up.
One of Maatiaak’s men had a long rope with him. Citlali tied it to the trunk of a nearby tree and threw the other end down. With a boost from Quen and the help of several people at the top, they hauled Rakulo up first, then Reuben. Quen came last and took a dozen people to pull up.
Maatiaak remained treading water nearby. He swam frantically for the canoe as soon as Quen was lifted out of it. Even if he realized that the Well was no longer dangerous, years of training had instilled a deep fear of the water here in him.
Ixchel embraced Rakulo, and then Citlali and the others did as well. Maatiaak’s warriors each came up to him one by one and asked for his forgiveness.
“I’ll forgive you all if you agree to stop fighting with each other.”
Eventually, they all agreed. Any remaining tension leaked out of the gathering. No one enjoyed fighting their own people. They had done it out of necessity, and now that necessity was gone. The identity of the enemy was no longer clear. All they knew was that the time of Xucha, the time of sacrificing generations of their people at the Well was over. If Xucha couldn’t be defeated, then at least his source of power could be neutralized.
“Leave Maatiaak in the water for a while,” Rakulo told the others. “He needs to consider what he’s done. Maybe if he sees how we destroyed the carnivorous plant that has been devouring our sacrifices for a thousand years, that will change his perspective. Maatiaak made his choice, as you have made yours by agreeing to this new truce.”
Reuben had stepped away from the others and was pressing buttons on his bracelet. Rakulo had seen this before—next a bright
light would appear to consume him, and then he would be gone.
Reuben gestured Rakulo over, and asked him something. Rakulo couldn’t follow the man’s excited gestures, and he didn’t know his words. But then Rakulo remembered his thought about getting on the other side of the Wall using their strange abilities.
When Reuben held out his hand, Rakulo understood.
This was much scarier than jumping in the sinkhole. When he had jumped, he knew exactly what he was getting into. Where Reuben wanted him to go, Rakulo couldn’t see.
He held up a finger to Reuben and stepped over to his people for a moment. He embraced his mother, who sniffled, and Citlali and the others who had been able to trust him.
“Citlali,” Rakulo said. “I must go with him. Eliana said that their magic could take us to the other side of the wall. You’re in charge while I’m gone. Quen, mother, you must help her. Keep the peace, and make sure Maatiaak doesn’t get any more ideas. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
He walked back over to stand by Reuben.
Reuben pressed a final button, and the green light began to blink. The old man with the wild grey hair pulled Rakulo close to him and watched him with a smirk on his face. Rakulo felt at his side for his obsidian knife, but realized that Maatiaak’s men had taken it from him at the cave. The forest and the others vanished as the brightness swallowed him.
Rakulo’s stomach twisted and turned upside down, like he’d felt when he fell over the lip of the cenote into the water, but a hundred times worse. The ground seemed to tilt under his feet, and he stumbled forward—into hard bars and a netting of some kind, like you might use to catch fish, but tougher and thicker, and a bright orange in color.
When the light faded, Rakulo realized that he and Reuben were standing inside a cage. Through the bars, through the netting, he could see dozens of men pointing some kind of strange objects at them. The men were dressed all the same, but in no clothes Rakulo had ever seen before. And the objects they pointed seemed dangerous, but if they were bows or spears they were strange things, small enough to hold in one hand, almost delicate.
Rakulo glanced up and got dizzy at the height of the ceiling, and the great arch, which rose up nearly to the top, the height of a small tree.
Reuben called out. A man came forward—a confident, tall, sandy-haired man that Rakulo recognized. Reuben said something, gestured to Rakulo, and spoke some more.
Who was this man he spoke to? Why did he spark some sense of familiarity in Rakulo?
Ahh, Rakulo realized, it’s Eliana’s husband. Rakulo would not have recognized him, as they’d only met once, if it were not for the concern on his face when he said Eliana’s name.
What was he called? Rakulo had forgotten…but that wasn’t important right now.
“Xucha took her,” Rakulo said.
Both men stopped talking and looked at him. Rakulo repeated himself, and Reuben nodded before barreling into another long and wordy explanation to Eliana’s husband.
“Send me beyond the wall,” Rakulo said, interrupting them again. “If Xucha has her, I’ll find her. Send me there now. Now!”
The men’s eyebrows drew down as they watched Rakulo, struggling to understand his words. The others beyond the cage of bars in which Rakulo and Reuben found themselves trapped had relaxed by now, and lowered their weapons, apparently realizing there was no threat. While Reuben and Eliana’s husband spoke, Rakulo looked around the room, at the walls, made of smooth seamless material like the Wall on his own world.
Finally, Eliana’s husband seemed to come to a decision. He went over to a broad display of flashing lights and images that hung magically in the air, and motioned at it. The machine responded, and then Reuben was gone. He reappeared a half-second later outside of the bars. Only Rakulo was left in there now. Fear began to constrict his throat until Reuben came up to the outside of the cage, grasped the netting, and muttered something. Rakulo understood the tone if not the words, and felt his gut tighten.
“My knife,” he said, feeling at his waist where his weapon was missing. “I need a weapon.” He made a slashing motion with his hand.
Reuben said, “Ahh,” and spoke to some of the other men. He left and came back a moment later with a big blade, and a passed it through the bars. The molded handle felt cool in Rakulo’s palm. The blade sharp and bright. It, too, was made out of the same shining, smooth material that the Wall was made of.
Who were these people? How could they make things like Xucha?
But there was no time to ask, and no way to communicate his question. Rakulo held the blade at his side.
“I’m ready,” he said.
Eliana’s husband waved at the machine that made the air images, and seemed to control it somehow. The light grew around Rakulo, and then he was standing on hard, cracked earth, the ground dusty and dry beneath his sandals, in the shade of great tree.
His stomach lurched and settled. The men and the cage of bars were gone as fast as they had appeared, and now Rakulo was alone back on his own world. He looked up, and felt a chill.
He was standing in shade, but not cast by a tree—it was cast instead by the great Wall, which curved, for the first time in his life, away from him.
His people were on the other side of that Wall. He approached it and laid his hands on the cool surface. Then, deeply satisfied that he had finally made it beyond the Wall, he turned toward his purpose.
Opposite the Wall stood the tower he had first glimpsed over a year ago. It was a dark color, almost black, and seemed more like a tree, that grew out of the ground, than a building that had been constructed on top of it. It was made out of some material that reminded Rakulo both of Xucha’s black armor and the tentacles that the water-plants’ tentacles were made of. Not the same, precisely, but of the same family.
He began to make his way quickly toward the tower. As he approached, the cracks in the ground widened, and Rakulo could see water flowing through them. The base of the tower sprawled like a hand, great purple-black roots extending down into the cracks, into the water and earth.
The water was a natural light purple, but many thick roots ran through the cracks. Rakulo reached down into the softer earth bank and pulled out a root—it was thick, the size of his forearm. He lay his new, bright blade along it horizontally, and with a single downward stroke cut it in half. The two ends fell to the ground and began to seep green ichor.
They were one in the same, this plant and the one in the Well of Sacrifices. Perhaps this is where the roots led.
Rakulo walked up and down both sides of that crack in the earth, pulling out roots and cutting them, working quickly and quietly. He kept looking over his shoulder the whole time, worried that Xucha would appear and take him like he had taken Eliana. When all the roots in this crack were cut, Rakulo gripped the blade in his teeth and lowered himself slowly into the water.
That’s when the dark god appeared. A black rift opened in the air near the base of the tower, and Xucha walked out of it—without a helmet to cover his head. Rakulo caught one glimpse of that vicious birdlike face, stifled an intake of breath, and lowered himself deep into the crevice.
The figure walked along the edge above Rakulo’s head, his footsteps sounding softly. Xucha’s shadow passed over him, and then was gone.
Rakulo squirmed up the crack, into a dark tunnel of some kind that led toward the base of the tower. Rakulo followed it until it ended at a circular chamber where all the roots from all sides seemed to collect. But the tunnel didn’t end there, it curved—up.
Rakulo gazed up through the tower like the inside of some great hollow tree. Striated muscle-like walls here were wet and practically oozing with that green ichor. There was a tiny vertical shaft, barely big enough to squeeze his shoulders through. He reached up, found a large striation, gripped it, and hauled himself upward.
Rakulo took the knife out of his teeth and secured it in his tunic. Then he began to climb slowly, holding back his nausea as the green gunk coated his bod
y.
38
The Alien Element
The horrible hissing that came from the angry alien’s maw cut off. Eliana braced herself for an incoming kick to the ribs while her ears rang in the abrupt silence. She kept her hands clutched over her ears, and her body in the fetal position on the ground.
But the next punishment didn’t come. Eliana tentatively uncovered her ears and uncurled her body to peek up.
Remethiakara had turned away, distracted by something, his four-fingered fists clenched at his sides. He focused on an invisible point beyond the walls of the chamber, on something in the distance. Almost as if he was listening. Feeling…
She hadn’t believed him when he said that her “fragile vessel” couldn’t handle the sound of his speech, but now she believed him. She wouldn’t make that mistake twice. Human ears weren’t built for that kind of range. It was horrible, like rusty nails being dragged across a chalkboard. Even now, her inner ears ached from the brief experience.
The helmet still lay on the floor where she’d dropped it. What other powers did that armor grant him? She wanted to pick it up, but he was right there, standing still, not breathing, just listening.
What did this alien want with her? What did he need with any of them? If he was so powerful, why did he tether himself to her and the Kakuli people?
The millennia-spanning history Eliana had witnessed had neglected to provide answers to these questions. It gave her some context, but now she was more lost than ever.
Remethiakara sprang into action all of a sudden, striding over toward that mound in the corner. As he approached, it squeezed up into the form of…she didn’t know what. A pedestal? Its edges hardened and it became a rectangular thing, standing at the height of the alien’s armored hands. He punched Eliana’s ring into the top of the pedestal, and the whole chamber lit up with a phosphorescent flash.
Eliana squinted as a dozen tentacles emerged from the nearby wall, entwining and forming a rough oval eight feet tall and four feet wide. The tentacles intertwined like strands of rope, and pulsed.
