The Warmaster. Thomas thought. That name sounded right out of a video game.
“I know!” Doctor Franco said opening his hands. “Magical creatures love titles like that. Besides, if we knew his real name we would’ve dealt with him long ago. Names have real power over his kind.”
Finally there was confirmation that these people really read minds, and Thomas wondered if he would be able to do it too if he remained with the company long enough.
“Ahh. Yes. No. Maybe,” the Doctor continued. “I read minds. Bolswaithe’s sensors give him a 720-degree perception so he can anticipate human reactions and serve us better, and Mrs. Pianova is just good at what she does. As for you, who knows? Stranger things have happened.”
“Can you please stop?” Thomas asked him between clenched teeth. “It’s incredibly annoying.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the Doctor answered. “I won’t be able to read your thoughts for much longer. Your mind is becoming too complex.”
“Can you just tell me what’s going on?” he almost screamed.
The Doctor pursed his lips as he extended both his hands in the air. “Well,” he began. “Here is…” he wiggled his right hand looking for words, and then wiggled the other. “While us…” he moved them from side to side before giving up. “Can you walk? It’s easier if I showed you.”
Thomas immediately scrambled from the bed, but Bolswaithe stopped him and insisted to take him in a wheelchair.
The medical ward door opened directly into the right corridor of the mansion. Other employees walked diligently through the corridor, their colored tags dangling from their necks. They all nodded toward Doctor Franco as they passed.
The Doctor opened a door on the left and they entered a hall at least as big as Thomas’s station filled with photographs, paintings, and statues.
“A little history first,” the Doctor said. “This hall has the principals and distinguished collaborators of Guardians Incorporated. You might recognize some of them.”
Thomas looked at the pictures on the wall. He recognized the scientist in the wheelchair that talked through a computer, but he couldn’t remember his name. He also recognized politicians, scientists, and even actors. Many were American and English, but others looked to be from different parts of the world, from what seemed to be Wall Street tycoons to tribal chiefs – all walks of life and countries were represented in the hall.
Jolie, Mandela, Gandhi, Pasteur, Marley, JFK, Curie. The sheer number of people depicted was amazing.
Doctor Franco and Bolswaithe walked to the other end of the room. A picture of Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out hung on the wall. Thomas realized that the pictures were arranged according to date.
“Ahh,” the Doctor said and he led them toward a wall. “This is a perfect example of where to begin. Do you recognize those men?” He pointed at a picture. “That’s during World War II.”
“President Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill,” Thomas answered. Both men were seated on a bench, and a young man wearing a long coat and a golden circlet on his head sat between them. He didn’t seem much older than Thomas.
“Who’s that guy?” Thomas asked pointing at the young man seated in the middle.
“That’s King Seryaan,” the Doctor told him. “This was taken just after Stalin had left the Yalta conference in 1945. It’s even the same bench.”
The Doctor then jumped in front of Thomas, lifting up his hands, palms up. “This side is Technology,” he said shaking his right hand, “and on the other side is Magic. Both of them exist in the world but never in balance. They repel each other.” He moved his hands from side-to-side. “They are like a meter. Good and evil are a bad example – we prefer to use light and darkness. In between, there are always shades of gray. Twilight if you will. That’s where Guardians Inc. operates, and thanks to us, technology has flourished and humanity with it. There are exceptions, of course, but most humans are not magically-attuned beings. Does that make sense?”
“Um, sure.” Thomas hunched his shoulders. Magic. Like in the books his mom used to like. If Bolswaithe weren’t sitting in front of him he would say that a robot like him could only be sci-fi.
Dad used to say that life was stranger than fiction, but this was just too much, and somehow Grandpa and him were in the middle of it.
If he hadn’t seen the monsters at his house he would have thought the Doctor was completely insane.
The Doctor pursed his lips but refrained from making any comment. He went back to the picture instead. “During World War II, Guardians Inc. brokered a pact between the Allies and a faction of magical beings to counteract the union formed by Hitler and the Warmaster. They were overrunning both our worlds and our alliance stopped them.” The Doctor began to walk as he spoke.
“In the beginning of humanity, magic ruled the earth. Some magical creatures enslaved us, while others, like the Adze trolls, hunted us for food. But there was a powerful magical being that tried to help humanity: an Oracle. He wrote a book with the near future of humanity and gave it to our founder. He called it, The Book of Concord. For his help, the Oracle was banished by the other pillars of Magic, but he returns every five hundred years or so to write the next five hundred year chapter. We think that the legend of Prometheus was based on our founding father and the Oracle.”
The Doctor stopped in front of an oil painting featuring a white bearded man dressed in black and wearing a bonnet.
“The last Book of Concord appeared in Tuscany in the early 15th century. Michel de Nostredame or, Nostradamus as he has become famous, got a glimpse of the book while we were transferring it to a more secure location, and he wrote his prophesies based on what he saw.” He turned to Thomas.
“The book allows us to make decisions and keep the balance tilted in technology’s favor and magic in check. With the book under our control, we ensured the Renaissance and the advancement of human knowledge and technology to this day, but it has not always been like that.”
The Doctor continued walking and the paintings became older and older until marble Roman and Greek busts dominated the hall.
“We’ve lost the book twice before. One time it was never found, and the other time it fell in control of purely magical creatures around the 9th century. For five hundred years magic gained the upper hand and destroyed our hard work in China, Rome and Greece, and then five hundred more years after that where we couldn’t act as a rudder for humanity. It’s no surprise that we call them the Dark Ages. You’ll learn more, but let’s just say that the Guardians were founded 7,134 years ago by a Sumerian scholar who moved from Uruk to Hierakoponlis in Egypt to ensure the rise of human civilization. Of course, we only became a Corporation 221 years before Christ in India. We weren’t called Guardians Inc. then. We were the Council of Twilight, but our mission was the same. To locate and secure the Book of Concord.”
The Doctor stopped at the wall and faced Thomas. “The current chapter is being written right now, Thomas. To protect the present, we need to know the future.” He let the words sink in. “Five hundred years worth of future events, give or take a century. From here to the 26th century.”
“And you’ve controlled this book since the Renaissance.”
“Who? Me? No,” the Doctor said. “The Council of Twilight, then Guardians Inc. controlled the book. The last entry in the chapter we have is for 1907. We need the chapter that’s being written if we want to stop another dark age and, somewhere in the world, the Oracle sits, writes, and waits right now. Clues to its whereabouts are being uncovered around the world, and without you we’ll never find it.”
“What? Why me?” Thomas asked and a question formed in his mind, but the Doctor spoke before he could utter another word.
“To clear the air, I’ll tell you what I know about your new condition.” The Doctor laughed. “You’re not a warlock, a mutant, or a wizard. There is nothing ‘super’ about you. You can get tired, hungry, and afraid. You will feel pain if struck, bleed if cut,
and you certainly can be killed. The only magical thing about you is how your brain works. You’ve become a Cypher.”
The Doctor extended a hand toward Bolswaithe and the butler handed him the parchment from the library.
“This was written in eleven dead languages. The most modern was a Latin root, and yet, you can read and understand what it says. You can actually understand any language and code ever written, and translate it automatically.”
“Mysteries of the Worm. Ludwig Prinn.” Thomas read it aloud. All he could see were plain words in English repeated over and over.
“De Vermis Mysteriis, The Necronomicon, and The Book of Souls,” the Doctor said. “Our own H.P. Lovecraft and his clique tried to explain and scare away humans about the secrets found in those un-readable books. Normal people go mad trying to understand a few words. Yet, I’m sure you could read them and not be affected by what you learned from them. That’s why you answered our newspaper ad. It was written in a Demotic-Sumerian-Coptic mix. Only a few people in the world can read it, and only a Cypher wouldn’t think it was an elaborate joke.”
“But I couldn’t read the ad at first! My grandfather did.” Thomas said. “Then I could read it, and it was I who called, but only after he gave it back to me.”
The Doctor joined his hands together. “Well, that’s my mistake. Since the Atheliol manifested to you and it was you who solved it, I thought we had found our Cypher. It turns out you are both Cyphers, and now that the Warmaster has Morgan, you’ve become expendable to him.”
“So that’s why you gave an Atheliol to Grandpa? To make sure that he was a Cypher?”
The Doctor paused and exchanged a look of concern with Bolswaithe. The butler shook his head.
“He had one this afternoon. I saw him playing with it!”
“The are only two Atheliols beyond our control. What color was it?”
“Blue and silver.”
“Geungusu of Baejke takes Pyongyang,” The Doctor said. “I have never seen it.”
“We lost that Atheliol around 1269 in Xiangyiang,” Bolswaithe offered.
“Then who gave it to him?”
“I’m sure the Warmaster needed to confirm that Morgan was a Cypher.” The Doctor extended a hand. “On the other hand,” he said, “your grandfather is perfectly safe, and the Warmaster will make sure he’s well taken care of until we can rescue him. And I promise you Thomas, rescue him we will.”
What else could Thomas do? Who else would help him find Grandpa? He couldn’t run to the police; he’d never been close to his mom’s side of the family. He didn’t even know where to start looking. What if he left the mansion and more of those troll things were waiting for him? At least in the mansion he felt safe, and if the story the Doctor told him was true they were the best bet he had to save Gramps.
He was apparently stuck with the Doctor and Guardians Inc.
“We’ll rescue Grandpa. Right?” Thomas asked. “You’ll do everything in your power to save him.”
The Doctor nodded.
Thomas reluctantly took the Doctor’s hand and stood up from the wheelchair.
The First Assignment
Bolswaithe walked Thomas to the upper part of the mansion through the grand stairwell and into a large and comfortable room.
It was like the suite of a grand hotel, complete with a little studio, living room and kitchenette. The furniture was new, and the plasma T.V. was at least 90 inches wide.
Thomas approached the large windows. They opened to the grounds behind the mansion, and the carefully-tended garden was full of fountains and floral arrangements. The bushes were cut out in the forms of various animals. On the far side of the garden, Thomas could see the entrance to a garden maze and a thick forest beyond.
“I hope you find these accommodations suitable?” Bolswaithe offered.
“Thank you,” Thomas said, “but I want to search for grandpa right away.” It felt wrong to stay in such a place while gramps was missing.
“We are working on it, sir, but we need time to find out more about your grandfather.”
Thomas pressed on, but all his complaints fell onto deaf ears since Dr. Franco needed time to find out where his grandfather had been taken.
Besides, he couldn’t go back to his house since it had burned down in a “gas leak accident,” and a Guardians Inc. contractor had taken over the reconstruction. Bolswaithe assured him that he would get everything that had been salvaged before leaving for the night.
For Thomas, it seemed that his previous life was over in more than one way. He roamed around the room thinking about Doctor Franco’s revelations, his own role in this seven thousand year old plan, but especially about gramps.
Where and how was he going to spend this night? How would the Warmaster treat him? Taken away by creatures and monsters, Thomas was sure that gramps would be worrying about him in turn.
The Doctor had said that he was surely alive, and Thomas tried hard to believe him.
His mind raced as he prepared the bed and he thought that he would never be able to rest, but as soon as he placed his head on the pillow, he was fast asleep.
When Thomas woke up, Bolswaithe was standing silently in the corner carrying a tray of eggs, sausages, and a pitcher of orange juice. He held a gun in his other hand.
“Good afternoon,” Bolswaithe said as he popped two little legs from the tray and placed it over the bed. Thomas checked the clock on the side table. He’d slept more than twelve hours.
“Doctor Franco requires you to be tagged as soon as possible, young sir.”
“Tagged?” Thomas asked eyeing the silver gun. “You mean like an animal?”
“Precisely.” Bolswaithe opened the top of the gun and inserted a vial with bluish liquid. He closed it and released a safety on each side of the gun, pulled back on the backside with a loud “clack,” and pressed a button on the side of the gun – a whirring hum came from the gun as red lights lit up on the handle.
“A GPS capsule, a mild radioactive solution, and a level 9 transponder. It ensures our ability to track you wherever you are and your access to any of Guardians Inc.’s facilities around the world.”
Thomas recoiled as Bolswaithe tried to press the gun to his shoulder.
“And if I don’t want to?” Thomas gulped.
“Your work would be impossible to accomplish from this chamber, sir.”
Take the shot or never leave the mansion. It wasn’t really an option. Thomas cringed.
“I’m told that it’s quite painless,” Bolswaithe said as he pressed the point of the gun to Thomas’s shoulder. “I have a transponder, too.”
Thomas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was a hiss of compressed air, and another loud clack as the gun was fired, but he only felt a small pinprick on his skin. When Bolswaithe removed the gun a perfect circle of bloodlets remained.
“There,” Bolswaithe said putting away the gun. “Quite painless isn’t it, sir.”
“Yeah,” Thomas wiped his arm. “So no more colored tags?”
“No more. You’re now on the road of becoming a Guardian of Twilight. Congratulations. Consider yourself to be wearing a solid Black tag.”
“Guardian of Twilight?” That moniker, like Warmaster, sounded right out of a comic book.
“The ancient title of the Cypher that’s searching for the Book of Concord,” Bolswaithe explained. “With any luck you’ll become the thirteen Guardian of Twilight.”
Bolswaithe walked toward the bathroom. “I took the liberty of procuring clothes for you, sir. You will need them for our evening assignment.”
“I thought my job was in the library.”
“It still is, but some excavation sites will require your unique talents, and a team in New York has found something they can’t decode and feel that it’s a clue to the Book of Concord.”
Thomas had been to New York with his parents when he was seven years old. His mother had insisted they see the show Cats before it was cancelled on Broadway. His mem
ories of New York were mostly of the museums, the theater, and the tall buildings.
He remembered how New York smelled of eggs, garbage, and smoke. His mother insisted that he stayed close as they meandered through the Theater District, her hand clutched tightly around his wrist. She was wearing a red dress with white lace trimming the hems. He shuffled through tourists, children, the homeless.
“You’re going to love this play,” his mother said. She smiled and gold flecks twinkled in her hazel eyes. He got a whiff of her perfume – strawberry cinnamon.
His mother had been right about the play, something they would always share and talked about. They even used the names of the cats in the play for real people. Their lazy and fat neighbor became Bustopher Jones, and their grumpy mailman became Macavity, the villain.
He came out of the theater with posters, a c.d. and a copy of T.S. Elliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, which they read every night until he had memorized all the wonderful cats by name. He hoped the book had survived the troll attack on his house.
He missed her.
“What about my grandfather?” Thomas asked.
“Teams are searching for any clue to his location, but nothing has transpired so far. I’m sorry, sir.” Bolswaithe walked toward the door. “I’ll wait for you outside. Doctor Franco has assigned me to be one of your escorts.”
“Thank you, Bolswaithe,” Thomas said, “for saving my life yesterday.”
The butler paused at the exit. “My pleasure, sir.” He closed the door behind him.
***
Thomas’s breakfast was wonderful, and if they all cooked like Bolswaithe, he was sure that the robot butlers would be a complete success once they went into production.
The clothes Bolswaithe had left were exactly his size – a white T-shirt, jeans, and comfortable tennis shoes. There was an oversized black wristwatch with a thick instruction booklet sitting on the dresser.
The gadget turned out to be a combination watch-cell phone-computer-Satellite HDTV. It had all the trinkets his friends back at school would be jealous of, but it only meant more work for him – to learn how to use it and to actually use it.
The Cypher Page 7
