The Atlantis Trilogy Box Set- The Complete Series

by A. G. Riddle

  Kate surveyed the lower-left quadrant of the tapestry: a great wall of water, just behind a chariot on the sea, which carried the cup-bearing savior from the flood of fire.

  “The savior returns and tells his tribes that a great flood is coming, that they must prepare.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Kate said.

  “Yes. There is a flood myth in every religion, old and young, around the world. And the flood is a fact. Around twelve thousand years ago, the last ice age ended. Glaciers melted. The planet’s axis shifted. Sea levels rose almost four hundred feet over the entire time period, sometimes rising gradually, sometimes in destructive waves and tsunamis.”

  Kate studied the depiction—of cities falling to the wave of water, of throngs of people drowning, of rulers and the rich standing and smiling at the water, and at the very end, a small band of people, dressed in humble clothes, venturing inland, to the mountains. They carried a chest of some kind.

  Qian let her consider the tapestry for a long moment, then continued. “The people ignored the warning of the flood. Man had mastered the world, or so they thought. They were arrogant and decadent. They thumbed their noses at the coming disaster and continued with their wicked ways. Some say God is punishing man for killing his brothers and sisters. One tribe heeds the warning, builds an ark, and retreats from the sea, into the mountains. The flood comes and destroys the cities along the sea, leaving only the primitive villages inland and the scattered nomadic tribes. A rumor spreads that God is dead, that man is now the god of Earth. That the Earth belongs to them for them to do with as they please. But one tribe maintained the faith. They held to one belief alone: that man is flawed, man is not God, that to embrace humility is to be truly human.”

  “You were the tribe.”

  “Yes. We heeded the savior’s warning and did as he commanded. We carried the Ark to the highlands.”

  “And this tapestry was in the Ark?” Kate asked.

  “No. Not even I know what was in the Ark. But it must have been real; stories of it survive to this day. And the story is very powerful. It has an incredibly powerful draw for anyone who hears it. It is one of many stories that rise out of the human psyche. We see it as truth, just as we recognize the various versions of the creation myth. These stories have always existed and always will, inside our own minds.”

  “What happened to the tribe?”

  “They dedicated themselves to finding the truth of the tapestry, to understanding the antediluvian—the pre-flood—world, to discovering what happened. One group thought the answers lay in the human mind, in understanding our existence through reflection and self-examination. They became the mountain monks, the Immaru, the Light. I am the last of the Immaru. But some of the monks grew restless. They sought their answers in the world. Like us, they were a group of faith, at least at first. As time passed and they journeyed on, they slowly lost their religion, literally. They turned to a new hope for answers: science. They were tired of myths and allegories. They wanted proof. And they began to find it—but they paid a high price for it. Science lacks something very important that religion provides: a moral code. Survival of the fittest is a scientific fact, but it is a cruel ethic; the way of beasts, not a civilized society. Laws can only take us so far, and they must be based upon something—a shared moral code that rises from something. As that moral foundation recedes, so will society’s values.”

  “I don’t think a person has to be religious to be moral. I’m a scientist, and I’m not… terribly religious… but I’m, or I think I’m, a pretty moral person.”

  “You’re also much smarter and more empathetic than the vast majority of people. But they will catch up to you someday, and the world will live in peace, without the need for allegories or moral lessons. I fear that day is further away than anyone believes. I speak of the state of things today, of the masses, not the minority. But I shouldn’t be speaking of any of it. I’m preaching about subjects of interest to me, as old men often do, especially lonely ones. You’ve no doubt guessed the identity of the monks who split from the Immaru so long ago.”

  “The Immari.”

  Qian nodded. “We believe that around the time of the Greeks, the separatist monks changed their name to the Immari. Perhaps this was done to sound more Greek, so they might be accepted by the Greek scholars who were making so many breakthroughs in this emerging field of science. The true tragedy and the truth of how that faction changed forever is chronicled in the journal. That’s why you must read it.”

  “What about the rest of the tapestry—the other two floods?”

  “Those are events yet to come.”

  Kate studied the other half of the tapestry. The sea that had consumed the world in the Flood of Water turned from blue to a crimson sea of blood as it flowed into the lower-right quadrant of the tapestry. Above the sea of blood, a group of supermen were slaughtering lesser beings. The world was a wasteland; darkness covered the land and blood ran from every man, woman, and child into the crimson pool. The Flood of Blood. Above the battle, a hero fought a monster, killing it and rising into heaven, where he unleashes a Flood of Light, bathing the world and liberating it. Taken in whole, the tapestry moved from the blacks and grays of the Flood of Fire, to the blues and greens of the Flood of Water, to the reds and crimsons of the Flood of Blood, to the whites and yellows of the Flood of Light. It was beautiful. Captivating.

  Qian interrupted her concentration. “Now I must rest. And you must do your homework, Dr. Warner.”

  69

  Main Conference Room

  Clocktower HQ

  New Delhi, India

  Dorian held his hand up to stop the analyst. “What is a ‘Barnaby Prendergast Report’?”

  The thirty-something man looked confused. “It’s the report from Barnaby Prendergast.”

  Dorian glanced around the conference room at the assembled Clocktower and Immari Security personnel. The now-integrated staff were still adjusting to the formal Immari-Clocktower union, and it was slowing the meeting down as roles and jurisdictions were settled. “Can someone please tell me what Barnaby Prendergast is?”

  “Oh, that’s his name—Barnaby Prendergast,” the analyst said.

  “Seriously? Did we give him that name—actually, don’t tell me, I don’t care. He said what? Start over.”

  The analyst flipped a few stapled pages over. “Prendergast is one of about twenty staffers still on site.”

  “Was on site.” Dorian corrected.

  The analyst cocked his head. “Well technically he is, or his dead body is, on site.”

  “Jesus Christ, just give me the report.”

  The analyst swallowed. “Right, uh, before the drone strike, he—Prendergast—said an unidentified female, his words here, ‘accosted him outside his lab and coerced him into aiding her in what she claimed was a rescue of some children.’” The analyst flipped another page. “He goes on to say he ‘tried to stop her’ and that he ‘believed she was using a fake or stolen ID card.’ Also, here’s the kicker, he says she ran out after the attacks, quote, ‘covered in blood but unharmed,’ and that she ‘attacked him again, stopped him from rescuing workers,’ and then she ‘took a security guard’s gun, tried to shoot him,’ Prendergast that is, then got on the cargo train with a dying accomplice, who Prendergast claimed had been shot multiple times.”

  Dorian leaned back in the chair and stared at the bank of screens. Kate Warner had survived the Bell. How? Reed was likely dead; Dorian had practically turned the fool into a block of Swiss cheese.

  The man cleared his throat. “Sir, should we disregard? You think it’s bull, maybe the guy was playing for the spotlight?”

  “No, I don’t.” Dorian bit into one of his nails. “It’s too elaborate to be made up. Wait—why do you say ‘playing for the spotlight’?”

  “Prendergast made a call to the BBC right before the strike; that’s how we got the report. We were monitoring all the communications in and out of the facility since the… acciden
t. We have him on our list to discredit; his story threatens Immari’s earlier industrial accident press release. So—”

  “Okay, stop. Stop right there. One thing at a time. Let’s focus here.” Dorian swiveled his chair to face Dr. Chang, who sat in the corner, staring at the conference room’s cheap carpet. “Chang. Pay attention.”

  Dr. Chang sat up as if the teacher had called on him. The man had been frazzled and absent since the blast in China. “Yes. I’m here.”

  “For now you are, Doctor, but if you don’t figure out how Kate Warner survived the Bell, you won’t be.”

  Chang shrugged his shoulders. “I… can’t even begin to—”

  “You will begin to. How could she have survived?”

  Chang brought a closed hand to his face and cleared his throat. “Well, um, let’s see, she could have treated herself with whatever she gave the children. Maybe she tested it for safety.”

  Dorian nodded. “Interesting. Other possibilities?”

  “No. Well, there is the obvious—she could have already had immunity—the Atlantis Gene.”

  Dorian chewed his nail some more. That was very interesting. Very interesting. “Okay, that one sounds easy to test—”

  Chang shook his head. “My lab was destroyed, and we don’t even know where to start—”

  “Get a new lab.” Dorian turned to one of his staffers. “Find Dr. Chang a new lab.” He focused again on Chang. “I’m not a scientist, but I would start by sequencing her genome and checking for any irregularities.”

  Chang nodded. “Yes of course, that’s easy, but with the state of the site, we’re not likely to find any DNA—”

  Dorian threw his head back. “For God’s sake, think outside the box. She has a condo in Jakarta; surely you’re clever enough to find a hairbrush or a used tampon, Doctor.”

  Chang flushed. “Yes, that could work.”

  A female Clocktower analyst spoke up, “Some women flush their tampons—”

  Dorian closed his eyes and held his hands up. “Forget the tampon. There must be tons of Kate Warner’s DNA in Jakarta. Go find some. Or better yet, let’s find her. If she did escape, she’s got to be on one of the trains.” Dorian turned to Dmitry Kozlov, the Immari Security field commander who had left China with him.

  The soldier shook his head. “I just got the list. We checked it against the staff roster. She’s not on any of the trains. And neither is Reed. We’ve got a lot of injured and dead, several people with trauma wounds, but nobody with gunshot wounds.”

  “You can’t be serious. Search the trains again—”

  “It will delay Toba—” Dmitry said.

  “Do it.”

  The analyst with the Prendergast report piped up. “She could have jumped.”

  Dorian rubbed his temples. “She didn’t jump.”

  The analyst shook his head. “How do you know—”

  “Because she had Reed with her.”

  “She could have pushed him off.”

  “Could have but didn’t.”

  The analyst looked confused. “How do you know?”

  “Because she’s not as stupid as you apparently are. She’s five-eight, a hundred twenty pounds. Reed is over six feet and at least one-eighty. Warner couldn’t hike out of Tibet on her own, much less hauling one-hundred-eighty pounds of dead weight. And trust me, if Reed is alive, he can’t walk.”

  “She could have left him.”

  “She wouldn’t leave him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know her. Let’s wrap this up, come on, move out, people.” Dorian stood and waved his arms to usher people out of the crowded room.

  “What about the Barnaby Prendergast report?” the analyst said.

  “What about it?”

  “Should we contradict—”

  “Hell no. Confirm it. The media will run with it anyway, it has the word terrorist in it. And it’s the truth: a terrorist attacked our facility in China. It’s the best break we’ve had. Release the footage of Reed planting the bombs to corroborate it. Tell the press that the attack follows an earlier attack by the same people in Jakarta. Include video of Warner as well.” Dorian thought for a moment. This could work out well, maybe buy them some time and provide a cover story. “Let’s say we’re currently investigating whether Dr. Warner deployed a biological weapon at the facility, and we’re asking for a strict quarantine of the site.” Dorian waited, staring at the staff. “Okay, tick-tock people, let’s go.”

  He pointed at Dmitry. “You stay.”

  The tall soldier lumbered over to Dorian as the room cleared. “Someone took them off the train.”

  “Agree.” Dorian paced back to the table. “It has to be them.”

  “Impossible. We’ve searched those mountains non-stop since 9/11, they’re not there. They were all killed in ’38. Or they could be a myth. Maybe the Immaru never existed at all.”

  “You have a better idea?” Dorian said. When Dmitry didn’t respond, Dorian continued, “I want teams searching those mountains.”

  “I’m sorry sir, we don’t have the manpower. The Clocktower purge, plus the end of major hostilities in Afghanistan—our forces in the region were already minimal. Everyone we have local is focused on Toba. If you want teams, they have to be diverted.”

  “No. Toba is the priority. What about satellite surveillance? Can we track them, figure out where they are?”

  Dmitry shook his head. “We’ve got no eyes in the sky over western China, nobody does. That’s one of the reasons Immari Research selected that site—there’s nothing there and no reason to look. No cities—in fact there aren’t even many villages or roads. We can reposition satellites, but it will take time.”

  “Do that. And launch the rest of the drones in Afghanistan—”

  “How ma—”

  “All of them. Have them scour every inch of the plateau—focus on monasteries first. And reassign two men—we can spare them. Toba is important, but so is capturing Warner. She survived the Bell. We have to know why. Have those two men trace the route of every train that left, question villagers, anyone that may have seen anything. Apply pressure. I want her found.”

  70

  Immaru Monastery

  Tibet Autonomous Region

  David was still asleep when Kate returned to his room. She sat down at his feet, on the twin bed in the alcove and looked out the window for a while. The serenity of this place was like nothing she’d ever experienced. She glanced back at David. He looked almost as peaceful as the green valley and white-top mountains. Kate leaned against the alcove wall and stretched out her legs next to his.

  She opened the journal, and a letter fell out. The paper felt old, fragile, like Qian. The letters flowed in thick dark ink, and she could feel the indentations on the back of the page like braille. Kate began reading aloud, hoping David would hear and that the voice would comfort him.

  To the Immaru,

  I have become a servant to the faction you know as the Immari. I am ashamed of the things I have done, and I fear for the world—for the things I know they are planning. At this moment, in 1938, they seem unstoppable. I pray that I am wrong. In the event I am not, I’m sending you this accounting of events. I hope you can use it to prevent the Immari Armageddon.

  Patrick Pierce

  11-15-38

  April 15, 1917

  allied forces hospital

  gibraltar

  When they pulled me out of the tunnel on the Western Front and brought me to this field hospital a month ago, I thought I was saved. But this place has grown on me like a cancer, eating me from the inside out, silently at first, without my knowledge, then taking me by surprise, plunging me into a dark sickness I can’t escape.

  The hospital is almost quiet at this hour, and that’s when it’s most scary. The priests come every morning and every night, praying, taking confessions, and reading by candlelight. They’ve all gone now, as have most of the nurses and doctors.

  Outside my r
oom, I can hear them, out in the wide open ward with rows of beds. Men scream—most from pain, some from bad dreams; others cry, talk, and play cards in the moonlight and laugh as if half a dozen men won’t die before sunrise.

  They gave me a private room, put me here. I didn’t ask for it. But the door closes and blocks out the cries and the laughs, and I’m glad. I don’t like hearing either.

  I reach for the bottle of laudanum, drink till it runs down my chin, then drift into the night.

  The slap brings me back to life, and I see a jagged set of rotten teeth inside a wicked grin on an unshaven dirty face. “’E’s awake!”

  The putrid smell of alcohol and disease turns my head and stomach.

  Two other men drag me out of bed, and I scream in pain when my leg hits the ground. I writhe on the floor, fighting not to pass out as they laugh. I want to be awake when they kill me.