by S. M. Nolan
“You will understand when we arrive,” She-La said dismissively. “The important thing is to recognize you are no longer safe anywhere. If you linger, Omega will find you.”
Green-lit instrument lights shined backward from the cock-pit across one-half of Maggie's face, “You said this has something to do with a weapon?”
“Yes, the Protectorate and Omega have been in conflict over it for more than a millennia.”
“Who?”
She-La replied, “For now know this; those hunting you are known as Omega. The Protectorate—my people, know only that they exist. Their strike-force is hunting you, aided by an endless trail of resources. As much as we've tried to trace it, it leads nowhere. Omega is a shadow within a shadow.”
She flicked on a small flash-light and opened a thick file-folder beneath it, then passed it to Russell. Maggie leaned to examine a surveillance photo of four people moving in formation with raised weapons. She recognized the alley and Russell's smashed cruiser in the background.
“How did you get these?” Russell asked.
“We have resources as well,” She-La said, urging them forward.
“These are surveillance photos—a P-I?”
“No. Focus please,” she said urgently. “This the only known force within Omega's ranks. We have files on them, but given Omega's connections, there are doubts they are the only one.”
Russell looked up, “So what do they want?”
“The weapon,” She-La said simply.
“I meant with us. Why hunt people that know nothing?”
She-La looked to Maggie, “You did work on Ryusaki, but had never seen or heard from him before, correct?” Maggie nodded. “They must have felt you were a threat. It is likely they saw you with Ryusaki and assumed you were in league with us. Committing to such a small threat is counter-productive unless it runs parallel to their goals. Lately, that appears to be eliminating the Protectorate. What did Ryusaki want done?”
“Some symbols,” Maggie replied.
“What symbols?” She-La asked, specifically.
Maggie nudged Russell. He dug through his bag for the two sets of photographed tattoos and handed them to She-La with the flashlight. She scrutinized them beneath the beam. Maggie was suddenly self-conscious; She-La was a pro scrutinizing a relatively simple piece of hers. The work itself was so embarrassingly simplistic it was hardly worthy of review.
She-La cursed in Chinese. Russell shot her a look, “Something wrong?”
“Yes. It is as we feared.” She examined them closer, “I recognize these tattoos.”
“Do you know their significance?” He asked expectantly.
“I do. It may also confirm why they want you dead—both of you.”
Russell squinted, “You can tell that from four photos?”
She-La handed over two of the photographs, “These two images are of Ryusaki's arms. He died with the ink still fresh. Fresh ink has a vivid coloring to it and the ointment's reflection is visible. With an experienced hand, these things are very noticeable. Inexperienced hands tend to make any ink degraded.” Maggie's face flushed, but She-La continued, “I recognize the other set because I did the work.”
Maggie and Russell's faces fell into interrogative stares, but She-La batted them away.
“This other man is Yoshi Miramoto, a close friend of Ryusaki's and also a Tokyo native. Ryusaki's visit required him to exchange information with Miramoto when Lu-Yen was gone for the night. My guess is Miramoto gave Ryusaki the information shortly before his death. Your work came next, and Ryusaki was later killed for the information.”
“And how do we fit in?” Maggie asked.
She-La's suppositions flowed, backed by an asserted confidence, “If Omega's true aim is to eliminate the Protectorate, the information Miramoto gave Ryusaki would have been high-priority. It contained details on safe-houses and contacts critical to the Order. If Ryusaki was under surveillance after Miramoto's death, Omega would have seen you with him almost directly following the meeting.”
She paused, leaned in closer so they might see the gravity in her face.
When she was certain they had, she continued, “Ryusaki and Miramoto were what we call “Keepers”, men who carry the secrets of an ancient language. The work you did was part of this language, said to be crucial to the weapon's operation. When Omega killed Ryusaki, they saw the fresh work. The connection with Miramoto's own markings, and their surveillance of your work, would have cemented your assumed importance. The possibility of a work of such importance being completed by someone unaffiliated with the Order—as was the case—was too negligible to allow a possible Protectorate agent to be left alive.”
Maggie's spine quivered, sickness swelled in her gut, “Bastards.”
She-La looked to Russell specifically, “Omega's assumptions would have led them to associate you with the Order when you two made contact so soon after both Keepers' deaths—we have been known to use police to hide our movements and the toll of the conflict. If that is the case, they likely believe you both hold the information Ryusaki and Miramoto were killed for.”
Russell was angry at the thought, “So this is what happens when these people assume things?”
A simple misunderstanding had sentenced them to death. Unfortunately, knowing now what they did, there was nothing to be done but continue forward. Russell doubted a strike-force under orders would see reason in their mistakes, especially now that they did know the truth.
She-La managed a frown, “In either case, Ryusaki was the final Keeper. There are only two alive at any time, usually separated by continents to keep they and the Order safe. With the state of things, it was necessary for them to meet, but now their information has been compromised. The Reverberant must be informed. He is the only other person with knowledge of the symbols, and the only one capable of assigning new Keepers. He must be told of what has transpired.”
“The what?”
“The Reverberant is the head of the Order, responsible for keeping the ancient legacy alive.”
Russell's intrigue grew with his irritation, “You still haven't explained what “legacy” means.”
“Remain patient. I will finish once we land.”
The pilot's voice came over the headset, “Strip's just up ahead, everyone buckle up.”
“We must move quickly,” She-La said, bracing herself as a vertical descent began. “It will not be long before the transport departs.”
“Transport?” Maggie asked. “Where are we going?”
“Nepal.”
12.
Protectorate Airstrip
October 1st
2:00 AM
Somewhere in the Mojave desert, Nevada
Maggie's exhausted mind swam. At first, it had seemed like a kind of strange joke. Unfortunately, standing before a table full of weapons, she was forced to accept it as reality.
Their helicopter had landed in a patch of desert beyond two lines of lights shifting white to red along a landing strip. The rest of the area was dark and empty, save two buildings parallel with the strip. A football-field of darkness separated them.
Rotors whipped dust at them as they'd climbed out. Then, the chopper lifted off and disappeared, the desert silent. She-La had led them to the right-most building and a table just outside it. The building was little more than a shack; assembled of wooden planks and barley the size of a tool-shed.
Even from the distance, the other building's structure was clearly cinder-block, large, dusted earthen-brown from desert winds.
Maggie's eyes fell to the metal folding-tables, lit by a Humvee's head-lights at their left. It cast rays from beneath a man's silhouette within. He stirred as She-La took a place at the table's far-side.
Maggie contemplated the looming silhouette of a massive cargo-plane in the distance. The behemoth was an outline of black in a deep abyss of night. Its side-profile sat to the right with a dutiful tranquility welcomed by the Maggie's chaotic thoughts.
Here she sto
od, in the middle of the Nevada desert, miles away from everyone and everything she cared for. Her tired body had taken to mild tremors from the frigid air. Hunger clawed at her. The issues were worsened by her near fifty-hours of sleep deprivation. The combination made it difficult to focus on She-La.
Beside Maggie, Russell stared cross-armed at a rifle he hadn't seen since his service. He swallowed in a rough throat, eyed the Colt M4 with his analytical mind wired in over-drive. He visually inspected its consistency as it threatened to cast him to a bygone military base. His head throbbed from every pin-drop of sound in the wake of the helicopter's departure.
The weapon erased all doubts of their plight from his mind. He forced himself to focus. Their reality wouldn't wait for his head. He needed to be prepared. They would have to fight, even if he was lost as to why.
She-La cleared her throat, “If you wish answers, I will provide what I can.”
Russell rallied his analytical mind, “Why fight over a weapon? What makes it so important?”
She-La shifted her weight, leaned on the table, “It is rumored to have been created for a sole-purpose; to judge, and possibly annihilate, Humanity. Simply, with Omega's record, it is not safe in their hands.”
Russell was in total disbelief, “It's impossible to annihilate an entire species, let alone with a single weapon.”
She-La countered, “If your weapon is as primitive as ours, yes.”
Russell squinted across the table, “What? You're saying it's more advanced than the most powerful nukes? That's impossible. Especially if it's been hidden for thousands of years.”
Maggie added, “Even then we have fallout shelters, contingencies—”
She-La interjected, “You both assume the weapon must be one of incredible, destructive power, yet fail to realize our greatest weaknesses stem from nature. In this case, our immune system.”
“What?”
“It's a bio-weapon?”
She-la's head made subtle movements, “To understand, you must first know what the Protectorate has been tasked to preserve and conceal since its inception; the Ha-Shan legacy.”
Maggie and Russell were speechless—partially from disbelief, partially to allow her to explain.
She grew deathly serious, “The Ha-Shan legacy is all that is left of a civilization and species that came long before Humanity. Their kind evolved first. It reached its apex millions of years ago. The language Ryusaki and Miramoto bore was theirs. It is this language that is inscribed on each Keeper as a symbol of their knowledge.”
She-La breathed. Maggie steadied herself against dizziness. She braced against the table with trembling hands.
Russell was flabbergasted, “You're kidding, right?”
She-La combated his derision with a grim look, “I can only tell you what I know; rumors, and what little the Reverberant has taught us. However incredible Omega has held these legends as truth enough to battle us for eons. They have killed untold numbers and now brought you into the fold.”
Her fantastical story continued, however worthy of the most logical ridicule. Russell crossed his arms and listened hard for any intentional deception.
“Millions of years ago the Ha-Shan lived in peace with nature. They survived off the land, evolved to incorporate it deeply into their lives—rather than destroy it as we seem intent on doing. They lived this way for millions of years until a new predator emerged that threatened their existence. The predator's instincts ran counter to their own, decimating their numbers as they fed off them.”
“Humans,” Maggie surmised. Acid rose to her throat, displaced by something untraceable.
She-La gave a formal nod, “The Ha-Shan possessed a great foresight. With it, they saw our species might someday dominate and destroy our world. As their extended evolution had placed them above us, they were able to study us and recognize our innate susceptibility to disease. With their numbers dwindling, they crafted an illness that could be used to save their race and encased it in a dispersal mechanism.”
“The weapon,” Russell conjectured.
She-La nodded, “An “Omega Device.” A weapon to bring about Humanity's end, extinction. As best we can estimate, in order for the weapon to carry out its task, it must globally disperse a contagion—one engineered to effect only humans and genetically programmed to incubate and reproduce at exponential rates. If true, our species would be gone before any immunity or vaccine is developed.”
Maggie leaned against the table, her disgust visible. Russell inquired further, “But they never used it. Why?”
She-La examined Maggie's state, but replied astutely, “Simply, we do not know. We believe their morality and compassion ultimately won-out, as evidenced by the Protectorate's existence.”
“You said the Protectorate was “tasked?”
She-La seemed to feel the Q-A had become belabored, but replied all the same, “So far as the Order can ascertain, Humanity's intellect became evident. While still primitive, it was apparent our evolution would herald great complexity. The Ha-Shan taught the smartest primitives a rudimentary form of their language. These complex images were simplified enough for our primitive ancestors to teach their offspring. Over time, those nomads then incorporated them into their burgeoning culture. Since then, they have given way to the Order and the legends have survived through oral tradition.”
Maggie managed to push herself back up, “So the tattoos—”
“Are a piece of the original message,” She-La finished.
Russell stayed her with a hand, “So, Omega wants the weapon—something that can annihilate Humanity, for themselves?”
“Yes,” She-La affirmed. “They may want to simply study it. Unfortunately allowing such brutes access is too dangerous. More importantly, tampering with it might activate some fail-safe trigger.”
Russell felt overwhelmed at that. That all human life could be extinguished simply by pressing a button was one thing; but that it might be just from looking at the proverbial button was altogether enraging.
“What's your plan for us then?” He asked finally.
She-La gestured at the Humvee. A man stepped out to take a place beside her. His brown hair and eyes were cast in shadow so that only his lanky, sinuous build was apparent.
She-La introduced him as Benjamin Morton, the strip's Quartermaster responsible for keeping the outpost's weapons and ammunition maintained and intact.
Maggie was still fighting to wrap her head around things, but Russell kept pace by putting all else on-hold. Maggie refused to believe his calm. He'd too easily allowed the revelations to pass without batting an eye. She wondered if he didn't believe them.
In truth, he'd reached a logical conclusion; it didn't matter if either of them believed She-La, Omega did, and now they wanted them dead. Maggie suddenly realized it too.
It prompted a mental clarity that focused her on the Quartermaster's next words, “You'll be outfitted with latest Mil-spec M4's. We'll make sure you can handle them, then pack you up in the C-130.”
Russell looked past the Quartermaster to the winged behemoth outlined against the dark sky. He'd been handling weapons longer than he cared to remember now. His test-firings had long ago dissolved into live-fire with combatants looking to remove his head if he hesitated. He remarked to that effect with a distant stare.
The C-130 was another testament to the severity of their situation. The massive aircraft could traverse continents and oceans, refuel mid-air, drop and transport enormous cargo, and most of all, show up on any radar system created. It was useful, but he doubted it would keep them from Omega for long.
Russell glanced between Morton and the plane, “Seems a little conspicuous.”
“It is the fastest transport available,” She-La admitted.
Maggie was already haggard by the thought, “What's the rush?”
“The greater Order is Nomadic,” the Quartermaster explained. “You'll be dispatched with our pilots to seek the Reverberant's temple—hopefully, before they leaves
Nepal.”
Concern ebbed over Maggie's brow, “You're not going with?”
“No, I will travel to Oakton to protect your friends.”
“You're going back to Oakton?” Russell asked.
“Yes. However unlikely it is, Omega may try to lure you out.”
“Lure me out?” Maggie asked biting her lip-ring in fear.
“They may attempt to kidnap your friends,” she said pointedly. “There are no guarantees they will be safe otherwise. The local police are unaware of Omega's capabilities and susceptible to payoffs and intimidation. Though your friends had no direct, prolonged contact with Ryusaki, it is best to be prepared.”
One of Russell's brows rose, “You think you can prevent something from happening?”
“I have battled them for many years.”
He was more sarcastic than curious, “How's that gone?”
She-La smiled, “I am alive, and they are half what they once were.”
“Good luck with that.”
“It may be you who needs it more.”
She nodded to the Quartermaster, whom lifted a rifle and spoke to Maggie, “Follow me.”
He led her past the Humvee and the empty stretch of desert to the cinder-block building. She glanced backward, “Where are we going?”
Morton reassured her with a look, “It's alright, you're safe. You're about to receive a crash course in weapons handling. I assume you have a sidearm?” Maggie slid the holstered TRP from the waist-band beneath her coat, handed it over. “Quality model, used one myself—though I prefer the original.”
Maggie shrugged, took the weapon back, “Russell gave it to me.”
“You've never fired it then,” he guessed. Maggie shook her head. He opened a door, ushered her in, “We'll change that.”
They entered a well-lit, wide corridor. The building ahead stretched a few hundred yards deep. Florescent lights were encased in metal cages on the ceiling and evenly spaced across it. Maggie knew a shooting range when she saw it.
A dozen, waist-high tables separated by concrete columns bore motorized rope-and-pulley systems extending to the far-wall. Beside the door, and running the width of the building, shelves of ammunition, magazines, and a plethora of different weapons formed an expansive arsenal.
