Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2)

by K Patrick Donoghue

“That’s not enough, and you know it!” Anlon pounded the ground. “No one will believe the story, believe Malinyah. They’ll want physical proof. An archaeological site. One that can’t be attached to some other culture.”

  Hovering above Anlon, Foucault sneered, “And you think that’s what your uncle wanted?”

  “I don’t know what Devlin wanted! He left us nothing but riddles,” Anlon rose up and confronted Foucault. “Look, it’s obvious you know something we don’t. It’d be a whole lot simpler for all of us if you just told us what you’re digging to find out.”

  “Careful, Dr. Cully,” Foucault warned. Anlon retreated a step but remained standing. Foucault said, “I think Devlin was assisting Muran, wittingly or unwittingly, to find a Tuliskaera.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Anlon. “You’re trying to tell me there’s a ten-thousand-year-old woman walking around? And my uncle was helping her?”

  Foucault nodded.

  “And you think she wants a Tuliskaera?” Anlon challenged.

  “I do not think, Dr. Cully, I know.”

  The edge in Foucault’s voice was defiant. His eyes burned, his face trembled. Anlon observed Foucault’s reaction and realized the man wasn’t joking. He really believed Muran was alive and was seeking a Tuliskaera. Anlon peered at the medallion swaying over Foucault’s chest and wondered, was it possible?

  The moment he asked the question, he realized his hypocrisy. Anlon thought of the reaction of the average person if told about Malinyah and her Sinethal, or if he showed the person a Breylofte and said it could lift a tractor trailer high in the sky.

  It was clear Foucault knew the Munuorians and their Stones well. He knew their language; he could wield the Dreylaeks; he knew of Malinyah. Why, then, was it so hard to believe Foucault’s assertion about Muran?

  Anlon asked, “Presuming you are right, and this Muran still lives, why would she want a Tuliskaera?”

  “She is running out of options. She needs to find one fast.”

  The skin on Anlon’s neck tingled. “What did you just say?”

  “Muran is desperate,” rephrased Foucault.

  Pebbles said, “You said her mind did not die. Is she on a Sinethal like Malinyah and Mereau? Is that what you mean?”

  “A clever deduction, Mademoiselle,” said Foucault. “But, no, I am certain she is free of her mind-keeper.”

  “Okay, you’re going to need to explain that,” Anlon said.

  “How much do you know of the Sinethal?” Foucault asked.

  “A helluva lot less than you, that’s for sure,” Anlon said. “I know it stores a person’s memories and a portion of their consciousness.”

  “Do you know how this storage was accomplished?”

  Anlon thought of his hippocampus theory and the role of cryptochromes as a facilitator. “Funny you should ask. I think I understand some of it. Somehow, they stimulated the brain to ‘upload’ memories onto the Stone. The somehow part is murky. Clearly, it was an electromagnetic exchange, but I don’t know how it was done.”

  “You would say, would you not, that it is much like how a computer shares data?” asked Foucault. “One storage device is connected to another. There is a mechanism which commands the first to pass information to the other.”

  “That’s how I see it.”

  “Then, what does that imply?”

  “That it’s freaky-deaky?” Anlon quipped. “Sorry, I’m a little punchy. It’s been a long day. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  Foucault said, “I have a flash drive, I put it into my laptop. I download a file to give to someone else. That person works on the file, saves it on the flash drive again and gives it back to me. What do I do with it?”

  Anlon considered Foucault’s description, then the implication hit him. “Holy crap! Are you saying the Sinethal can be downloaded back into the brain?”

  The stone-faced Foucault just stared back at Anlon.

  “What?” Pebbles jumped up and stood by Anlon.

  Foucault nodded. “I mean exactly that. Muran has done it many times over thousands of years.”

  Pebbles flashed a startled look at Anlon. “She can change bodies!“

  “Oui,” said Foucault. “It was forbidden by the Andaers, but that mattered not to Muran. She cared little that it meant erasing the mind of another. The first time, she did it out of spite. After that, it suited her needs.”

  “What do you mean, she did it out of spite?” Anlon asked.

  Foucault stared at Pebbles while he answered. “Surely, you know. She did it to hurt Malinyah. Muran killed Alynioria, Malinyah’s eldest daughter. She erased her mind and took her body.”

  Finca 6 Museum

  Palmar Norte, Costa Rica

  Margaret knelt down to return the phone to the backpack. While there, she withdrew the brochure and the knife. Sauntering across the field, she casually unfolded the map and slipped the knife into her palm.

  As she strolled in his direction, Margaret considered Navarro’s security detail. It was bold of him to bring so many men. Foucault’s instructions, delivered through Christian, had been clear: come alone. She had expected Navarro to ignore the demand, but seven men seemed like overkill.

  The closer Margaret crept, the faster her heart pounded. She closed her eyes and recalled the bleary-eyed vision of Navarro prancing away from the burning campsite. He had tossed her aside like a dying animal and left her to burn. When she opened her eyes, Margaret could see his smug outline under the shadow of the tree. He sat like the priss he was, cross-legged with hands in his lap. Rage surged in her veins.

  Seven feet away, the idea of casually moving behind him was long forgotten. She veered from the path and quickened her pace. With eyes glued on the ponytail dangling behind the back of the bench, she slid the knife forward in her hand. Two feet away and the fop still had taken no notice.

  However, the bodyguard on the porch looking in Navarro’s direction had. He screamed out to Navarro to look behind him as he bolted down the museum steps. Navarro, surprised by the shout, whipped his head in the direction of the bodyguard. It was a fatal mistake.

  Margaret grabbed hold of the ponytail and yanked it down mercilessly. The man cried aloud as his head snapped back. With vengeful speed, Margaret stroked across his neck, digging as deep as the knife would allow. His howl was cut short by a sickening escape of air from the gaping wound.

  Nothing she imagined was as sweet as the tug of the knife through his flesh. Even in the other hand gripping strands of his ponytail, Margaret felt his body shudder. Standing over the mortally wounded man, the one who had struck her down in the dark, she couldn’t resist the temptation. Wrenching his ponytail down farther, she sneered with delight as his wild-eyed face came into view. It was then she realized the dying man was not Klaus Navarro.

  Margaret was stupefied. Before she could regain her senses, the bodyguard stationed on the other side of the sphere tackled her to the ground. Seconds later, two more arrived. They wrested the knife from her grip and pinned her down.

  The rest was a haze to Margaret. A blink here and they were pushing her toward the museum building. A blink there and she saw guns aimed at the security guard. Her head lolled and the next thing greeting her eyes was the open door of a black SUV. They shoved her inside and slammed the door shut.

  She stirred again and the SUV was bouncing along the bumpy access road. As hard as she tried, Margaret could not focus. She tried to lift up and steady herself. The movement was met by a crashing blow to the back of her head. All went black.

  Indio Maiz, Nicaragua

  Pebbles stared blankly at Foucault and wobbled. She reached for Anlon to steady herself but missed. She pitched over and splashed into a small puddle. Crawling on all fours, she tried to stand while struggling to clear her mind. Foucault readied to clap his wrists together and shouted for her to sit. Anlon stood in front to shield her while Jennifer helped her up.

  Pebbles leaned against Anlon, closed her eyes and recalled
writhing on the cliff while Malinyah screamed. Pebbles howled and clutched at her stomach. From her mouth spewed Malinyah’s rage: “Deceiver! Murderer! Betrayer!”

  “Sit down, Mademoiselle!” Foucault commanded.

  “F—— you!” yelled Pebbles, tears streaming down her face.

  Anlon held up his hand toward Foucault. “Take it easy. She’s upset. She didn’t know. None of us did.”

  While Anlon consoled Pebbles, Cesar stood to join the others and cleared his throat. “How do you know this, Foucault? It is one thing to say Muran killed Malinyah’s daughter, it is another to say Muran erased her mind and took her body.”

  “Because I have seen Alynioria’s crypt, the final resting place of her body,” Foucault said. “It is hidden on the slopes of Concepción, on Ometepe. Muran took her to spite Malinyah after she was defeated in the revolt.”

  “But, how can you know it’s Alynioria? What proves Muran took her?” Cesar asked.

  “The crypt of which I speak has many skeletons in it, Señor Perez. All young women. There is only one who is tall, with strands of golden hair.

  “Tell me, have you ever wondered where the Aztecs and other Mesoamerican cultures arrived at the idea of human sacrifice?” Foucault asked. “Particularly, the sacrifice of young women? The academics will say they did it to appease the gods for good crops and other blessings. But, that’s not the question. The question isn’t why they did it, it is why they thought of doing it.”

  “I don’t follow,” Cesar said.

  Foucault paced in front of them. “Muran ruled much of what is now Central America for many centuries, long after her countrymen perished of diseases in the post-Munirvo world. She was viewed as a goddess for the powers she commanded, for her unnaturally long life and her ability to change bodies — to take a young woman offered by the native tribes she conquered, lead her into the volcano, and emerge in the sacrificed body. They called her the Painted Lady. She could paint herself into the body of another.

  “The culture that flourished on Ometepe and Zapatera — the people who made the statues — they have a long memory, as do many cultures around the world. We often miss the meaning of their legends and their works, applying our own ideas atop their art or stories.”

  “You’re suggesting their memories are of Muran,” Cesar said.

  “I’m not suggesting, Señor. I know it for certain. The headdresses, for example,” Foucault said. “The tribes on Ometepe imagined transforming themselves into eagles, jaguars and other animals. They believed the headdresses gave them the power to change from one thing to another. The headdresses were considered objects of power. Only great leaders were allowed to wear them. Now, where do you suppose these ideas came from?”

  Cesar shook his head.

  “A memory of the Taellin. The helmet used to transfer memories onto a Sinethal and vice versa. The fish head. They must have seen Muran use the Taellin. You see, the transfer cannot happen without assistance from at least one other person.”

  Foucault stopped pacing and leaned against a rock. As he slid down to sit, Anlon asked, “How was it done? Moving memories to the stone and back.”

  Foucault stared blankly at the Maerlif entrance. “Five pieces were required. A Taellin, Sinethal, Naetir, Sulataer…and a Tuliskaera.”

  “You said the Taellin was a helmet. Was it stone?” Anlon asked.

  “There is stone in it, but there are also diamonds,” Foucault said.

  Anlon pondered…The Taellin was a helmet made of stone and diamonds. Why diamonds? He closed his eyes and tried to picture the fish-head statue. There were no jewels depicted on it, just the fish symbol on the back. Ah, the fish symbol! It wasn’t a symbol, it was a Sulataer.

  He imagined the helmet placed on a person’s head. In their hands, they held a Sinethal with the Naetir snapped in place. The Sulataer slotted into the back of the helmet. An electromagnetic pulse…from the Tuliskaera?

  Yes, that made sense. A high-voltage jolt aimed at the gold coin. A pure gold coin. Pure gold isn’t the best electrical conductor among metals, Anlon mused, but it’s right up there.

  Then what? The helmet, made of stone — almost certainly magnetic stone like the others — surrounded the head and created a contained magnetic field. The Sulataer conveyed the electric pulse into the helmet, creating a hypermagnetic environment, but not a very focused one. Something had to tap the hippocampus.

  The diamonds, maybe? Were they inside the helmet? Yes, that might work. Diamonds used like styli. That would surely focus an electromagnetic pulse at the hippocampus. But damn, it would probably hurt. Anlon thought of the contorted face of the statue. “Remarkable,” he mumbled. Turning to Foucault, he asked, “The diamonds are inside the helmet, aren’t they? Stylus tips.”

  The dazed Foucault nodded. “There are thin diamond lines embedded in the stone that branch out from where the Sulataer is placed. The lines terminate into several tips that are positioned to target the central cortex.”

  “Incredible.” Anlon stood and again began to pace. He turned suddenly and asked, “Why gold? Silver’s a better conductor.”

  “Too intense,” Foucault said. “There is a certain frequency, if you will, that is required to stimulate the brain just so. Silver, even copper, is too much.”

  “And the Tuliskaera, that’s the key, isn’t it? A small electric charge wouldn’t work. Something was needed that could sustain a prolonged but controlled electromagnetic surge.”

  Foucault nodded. “The Tuliskaera, it is like your Cassiopeia, Dr. Cully. It takes life and it gives life.”

  During the exchange between Anlon and Foucault, Pebbles had quelled her emotions and now listened closely. “That’s what Muran needs it for! To change bodies again.” She paused and then said, “I can’t believe Malinyah didn’t tell me any of this.”

  “Do not be troubled, Mademoiselle,” Foucault said. “I think her silence had less to do with hiding something from you and more to do with the pain she felt at the loss of her daughter. As to Muran, switching bodies is not the only reason she needs a Tuliskaera, but it is the most pressing reason.”

  “What do you mean? What other reason is there?” Jennifer asked.

  In the distance, the sound of a helicopter approaching echoed through the treetops. Foucault looked skyward and then directed his attention to Jennifer. “Mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to help Dr. Cully bring the Tuliskaeras outside. And one Naetir. Quickly please, no theatrics.”

  “You’re taking them?” Pebbles asked.

  “Calme-toi, Mademoiselle.”

  Jennifer and Anlon entered the Maerlif as Foucault had requested. Once inside, Jennifer whispered, “What should we do?”

  “Do as he says,” Anlon whispered back. “I don’t think he intends to hurt us. He could have killed us already if he wanted. Let him take the damn things, I don’t care. We’ll live to fight another day.”

  While Anlon and Jennifer gathered the three Tuliskaeras and a Naetir, Henri landed the helicopter in the center of the clearing and silenced the engine.

  Foucault then instructed Henri to inspect the Maerlif to ensure no Tuliskaeras were left. When he reemerged, Henri confirmed no Tuliskaeras remained. He also reported that one of the cases was full of Sulataers. Foucault had Henri and the others remove the Sulataer case from the Maerlif and load it onto the helicopter, saying, “Recompense for my losses on Dominica.”

  With the helicopter loaded, Foucault stood before the group and held up a Tuliskaera. “The source of all our trouble. It was meant to be a stone cutter, but like all the Tyls, its polarity ebbs between positive and negative, reflecting the energy of the user. In the hands of Mereau and his captains, it helped rebuild the world after Munirvo, until disease took them, too.

  “In the hands of Muran, it destroyed what was left of Munuoria, and for centuries after afflicted all who crossed her path. It is beautiful and sleek. Its power, awesome and seductive. And it can never fall into her hands again!”

  Fou
cault slowly began to rub the Tuliskaera against the Naetir. As the Stones heated up, the snake on the Tuliskaera began to glow a dull orange. He increased the circling rhythm until the Stone made a hissing sound. The snake throbbed beneath his fingers and smoke rose from his hand. Pulling back the Naetir, he tapped the bottom of the Tuliskaera’s cone. A spark leapt from the cone’s tip.

  Foucault raised the Naetir and with a stabbing motion, slammed it against the glowing snake. The Tuliskaera sparked brightly and a loud crack echoed off the Maerlif wall. Foucault opened his hand to reveal the Tuliskaera had disintegrated into shards of glowing rock that fell to the ground. He repeated the exercise with the other two serpent-tooth Stones, leaving only a pile of pulsing embers as memories of their existence.

  The sun was low enough in the sky now that an orange glow coated the wall. Atop the hillside, the ceiba tree’s waxy bark glimmered a dark bronze, and the jungle canopy cast a long shadow across the clearing.

  “It is done,” he said, his hands bleeding and charred. “Henri, enjyia, s'il vous plaît.”

  Foucault turned his back on the group and walked to the open door of the helicopter with his hands outstretched before him. Confused looks passed between Anlon and the others as Foucault idly chatted with Henri while the pilot administered first aid, Munuorian-style. Anlon stepped forward and said, “What now?”

  Foucault looked up. “That is up to you, Dr. Cully. I have accomplished what I came to do. The Tuliskaeras are destroyed.”

  Anlon’s face turned a deep red. “That’s it? Why the hell did you attack us?”

  “It was vital to destroy the Tuliskaeras as quickly as possible. I could not risk the possibility of the Stones falling into Navarro’s or Muran’s hands.”

  Anlon was dissatisfied with the answer. “You still think we’re helping Muran.”

  “Non. I have learned enough from our conversations to believe you are not aligned with Muran. But, I fear your uncle may have been. I warn you, she will come looking for Malinyah’s Sinethal. She will seek Devlin’s map and look for more Tuliskaeras. Until she is dead, the Tyls will not be safe in your hands.”