by Dennis Fueyo
Issakum’s face came into focus. Webbed ears stuck out sideways partially covered with white hair. Not aging, thin hair but young and thick to its roots. “I serve the will of Apsu. I believe what Apsu tells me to.”
Sam’s breathing shallowed. “You called me master hunter, why? Do you know me?”
“We keep in touch with those along our borders.”
“I traveled from Wilmington. A little far from Savannah.”
“I don’t refer to our land borders. Please, rest. Information is coming.”
“Who is Apsu?”
“Your heart rate has elevated. Do not be frightened. We are no different from the children of the green pill, like your father. I see you outlined in infrared and ultraviolet wavelengths. I hear your thoughts, though my ability to read human minds degrades with time. We see things others cannot. Just like your father.”
“Stop placating me, Issakum. Tell me who Apsu is.”
Grey webbed ears folded back. The Atlantian rested hand to hip and examined Sam’s face. “Apsu is what the Emelia Stone calls a sentinel. Apsu guards the sea, watching over us and guiding our path. Apsu, who blesses our dominion and protects us, has given us the sea. No other sentinels dare to bridge our domain.”
Green blotches filled Sam’s vision. His head felt weightless and the muscles around his eyelids stung. “Are my friends ok?”
“For now, yes. Rise, please.”
Sam propped up on his elbows, squawked, and dropped back on the bed. The reset ball-and-socket joint sawed pain across his chest like a chainsaw.
A glistening hand settled back on his head. “Hold still a moment. We will help you.”
Four Atlantians attended to him. Carefully, gently, they supported his back, pushed forward and wedged large pillows under his lumbar propping him upright.
“I actually have multi-directional joints, you know. This should heal quickly. It is a genetic trait passed down from Dad. It will hurt a few hours, but not days, thankfully,” Sam demurred and flexed muscles around his eyes struggling to maintain clarity fixating on the Atlantian’s colorful clothing.
Their collared, blue robes draped to the floor. Gold patterns embossed the breast along a silver inlaid hem, each design unique to the Atlantian wearer.
In the center of Issakum’s forehead projected a small, studded sapphire. A smile never fading, Issakum lowered a yellow robe of similar design over Sam’s head. “There, don’t you look dashing?”
Sam inspected the gold-threaded inlays and sturdy hems. Rubbing his smarting shoulder, he asked, “You used to be human, then?”
“Once…let me tell you a story.”
Issakum lifted and sat next to him on the stone slab layered with soft blankets. Heat brushed Sam’s hands, radiated from Issakum’s grey, glistening skin.
“I would like to see my friends, Issakum.”
“It won’t take long. Once upon a time, the Atlantians were human. I had a human name, parents, friends, and lived in a nice home. Like everyone else, we fought the storms and struggled to survive the onslaught of floods. We persisted through arctic troughs, and nursed the diseased and mortally wounded. Five years ago, helicopters flew out from Raleigh and began delivering the Stone strain.”
“You are familiar with it, then? I only recently learned about it.”
“Oh, yes. The transition was fast, devastating, and vicious. Within months, our physical appearance and mental abilities twisted to what you see now. The transition was horrific. Thousands died. Yet we endured. Our resilience was not a result of these mutations. It came with this.”
Issakum drew from a pocket sleeve a flashlight capped in housing mimicking the conical lamps. Blue, ethereal flames encased in a black mat of fungus. “Without this fungus, we would not have survived.”
“That is beautiful. Incredible,” remarked Sam.
“It’s radioactive.”
Sam leaned away and grimaced.
“Ha!” Issakum slapped a knee. “I do love the look on a human’s face when I reveal the fact. Do not worry. We pump CC3 into the cavity and seal it using one-inch thick plastic casing. This species you find beautiful thrives off radiation. It mends genomic DNA strands as they break apart. In nature, it has a vibrant rust and wheat color. Contained, it turns matt black.”
“How does an organism thrive in radiation?”
“It uses pigments to convert energy into food. Like chlorophyll in a leaf, only the process is more similar to red algae, though some believe the pigments are not involved with the actual conversion. Pigments are lost during treatment, yet the fungus grows stronger and faster post-processing. We do not yet understand why. Its gift, when gamma rays snap the genomic phosphate backbone, is a special protein synthesized by the organism mending the phosphate bonds just as quickly.”
“This light is produced by the fungus synthesizing radiation?”
“Radiotrophic fungi do not produce light, not in natural or chemotrophic form. We coat the container with a salt compound to spark the flame. The salt corrodes its spores, emitting this bioluminescence. The perfect energy source.”
“But the plasma bursts fired on us tore our Mud Hopper to shreds. An HP109 can ram a small building and come out the other side unscathed. One impact from a plasma burst lifted it high above the ground, and another punctured the bladder lined with bulletproof armor. Anything less than an anti-tank gun cannot penetrate that.”
“Our weapons store the energy in a battery to release emissions in short bursts. If a single discharge drained the entire battery, the result would be a small nuclear explosion. Isn’t that something? We can fire about five hundred short, controlled bursts before the battery is drained.”
“Shit, man! Just one burst ripped off the side of an old two-story vacation house.” Sam paused and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “So that is what he fears,” he muttered.
“What was that?” Issakum lifted shoulders in curiosity, then drooped and said, “Oh, him. Not now, master hunter. We will not discuss him yet.”
Sam shifted and asked, “How does the fungus help you survive?”
Issakum chortled. “My, I can see why a sentinel seeks you out. You react to the strange using an open mind, excellent. The answer to your question completes the mystery of why the Carver Warden fears us.”
Succumbing to the basic human need trusting a stranger’s kindness, Sam asked, “Who is Carver Warden?” He rubbed his bruising shoulder and groomed his hair, and found himself struggling to detect nested intentions between Issakum’s words. Whether it was because he needed a hundred years' worth of sleep or Issakum spoke without deceit, he could not tell.
Issakum rubbed a knee and leaned backward. “Well, look at you, getting me to discuss him anyway. All right, you suspected why he fears us. It is for our energy and resilience.”
Patting Sam’s leg, Issakum continued, “The Stone strain carves away genomic sequences as radiation does. Thousands of us decayed under the strain’s gene-editing mechanics. Some started craving this organism.” Issakum held the flashlight’s head close to introspective eyes. “The fungus has a scent. Undetectable, until resting on one’s deathbed. Then, the smell becomes an odiferous fragrance. Vile, pungent, yet irresistible. Those who ate the fungus survived. We changed and overcame the Stone massacre of my people.”
“This is incredible, Issakum! No one beyond your borders knows about your strife, or how your people overcame it. But tell me, who is Carver Warden?” A new puzzle piece to mold, and he was too tired to form it.
“In time, the Sam Mason will understand.”
“Why not release prisoners of the Atlantians? Spread the word of your people’s resilience?”
“Unfortunately, it is not so simple. You see, we do not take prisoners.”
“Then you plan to execute me.” Sam went rigid. He knew this was not true, but the charged statement could bring him enough information to devise an escape plan.
Sam’s experience with Clark Stone, while soul-crushing under the rubble o
f deceit, taught him a few things. Telepaths sought projected thoughts. Somatic processing. They used the telegraphed observations as tethers, reaching down into the source of the neural network patch of memories and mining it for information.
Calculating as always, Sam experimented on Emelia using statements designed to thread her probing mind along a different path. The result, she would reach a separate memory block with data unrelated to an imminent threat. With Emelia, the game was benign, leading her into fond childhood memories he wanted to share anyway. When Issakum probed his statement of concern regarding execution, it uncovered a high school report on the Spanish Inquisition. Hidden away in another patch of nerves, Sam’s intent to rile up Issakum remained protected and sharp.
But Issakum waved a hand and stayed curiosity. “There is still much you do not understand. No one is executed here. Please, decouple your tired conceptions and meet Archbishop Uruk, our senior advisor. More information will come.”
Chapter 24
The four Atlantians guided Sam through a vaulted hallway. Torches gave off bioluminescent hues of lagoon blue and green, not flickering yellow and red flames. No lights cycled electricity.
Atlantians shuffled passed wearing robes like Issakum’s, stained in ochre red, mustard yellow, or forest green. Each acknowledged the other in silent affirmation.
“I have not seen a single female Atlantian, Issakum. Are you all male?”
“We are neither male nor female. We are one.”
“What about little ones? You know, Atlantian children?”
“Unfortunately, we are sterilized.”
“Sterilized?” Sam found the fibrous fact twisting his insides.
With all their talents and powers, the Atlantians had become an evolutionary dead end. A tradeoff, what Emelia Stone described when her aunt formulated the green pill. The sacrifice was unfair, an advanced species deserved the right to proliferate. He pitied them.
“Yes, sterilized. We endure. My name was Rosemary once. An adequate name, but not representative of who I truly am.”
“I am sorry your people suffer. The Wash is relentless and cruel in its distribution of sadness.”
“The Wash? Yes, I know this term. Accelerated global climate change. Apsu aids us in finding solutions. There are so many challenges. So many.” Issakum tilted closer to Sam and said, “I have seen the Antarctic, you know.”
“You have?” Sam’s brow flexed in disbelief.
Frescos covering dull grey stone, dimly lit by plasma discharges from the torches, blended in his fogged mind disorienting his basic level of comprehension. The entire structure was designed for beings who processed information using lateral lines coursing in their skin. For someone relying on eyesight, the juxtaposition of darkness and bright pastels stole his balance.
Issakum supported Sam’s elbow. “Please, let me help you.”
Sam stabilized, resting his head on Issakum’s epaulet, then pushed onward listening to fantastic travels only dreamed of by the most adventurous humans.
“I have seen the Larson C glacier calve,” Issakum beamed telling Sam, “and watched the Humboldt glacier crumble away in Greenland.” Issakum paused, looking up to stained glass windows built into the walls set below faded tile ochre and turquoise arabesques. “I felt the North Atlantic Gyre slow to a crawl and the Mediterranean Sea bulge as meltwater engorged above Earth’s equator.”
Sam looked to the windows and admired their artisanship. Above their mullions, the ceiling held rolling clouds; some clumped together and rotated producing auroras of blue, green and yellow, while larger masses fired off bolts of white or purple lightning.
“I don’t understand,” Sam said and shook his head like a dog drying fur.
“These ears may look fashionable”—Issakum flicked a lobe—“but they are also functional.”
“Your ears have reverted back to gills? Amazing!”
“Plus, we have many ships. Many resources. I have seen many things.”
The group pressed on through cavernous architecture. Each great hall seemed connected to the next; piecemeal rather than planned. Large, arched doorways lead to the next building on the first level, and halls required traversing a spiral stair to cross over on a skirted walkway. Each chamber appeared to have a different function. Statues erected in each held distinctly different artifacts chiseled wearing starkly contrasting robes. Some rooms housed walled bookshelves and others displayed archaic pottery and tools.
Ascending a wrought iron staircase, Issakum circled back to the topic of Atlantian gifts. “Nothing is free, as one would expect. My people lost our hearing due to having reverted Eustachian tubes. Please turn here past the serving table through the double door. This passage leads to our main hall. Help yourself to some water.”
“You can hear me speak, correct?”
“I can feel the vibrations of your words. No idea what your voice sounds like.” Issakum’s smile remained, never fading.
“You sense things. My dad has these lines on his forearms; they detect things as you do. I speculate you have them since you were infected by the Stone strain.”
“Yes, only ours runs the length of our spine. Your father, the Tom Mason, likely also carries a unique trait amplified by the green pill. We share the same basic traits—no skills or unique traits are amplified by the Stone strain.”
Issakum’s voice ceased to bounce off the stone walls upon entering the main hall. It was standing room only. Atlantians watched while crunching down on dried sea fare or sipping sour-smelling, fermented drinks. In its center rested a raised, polished soapstone platform. An old, mahogany throne set atop it held an older, dark grey-skinned Atlantian.
Emelia Stone, Tom Mason, Lou Frasier, and Juan Delgado stood before the old figure fidgeting fingers and shifting stances. All four draped in grey robes with silver embroidery; each robe’s woven pattern unique in design.
“Dad!” Sam raced to hug Tom in a solid embrace and then kissed Emelia as if long, lost lovers had returned from the ninth circle. He hugged Juan and patted Lou on the arm, then turned to face the pedestal.
To face Uruk.
A sudden clarity struck Sam. The disorientation brought on by the Atlantian architectural motifs melted away. Uruk’s stare triggered an ingrained sensation to fight or flee. Sam swallowed what spit remained in his mouth, took a deep breath, and relaxed his fluttering heart. No animal could mask being threatened, not even an Atlantian, and Sam could read Uruk’s body language like a landscape on patrol. Uruk was threatened by him.
Issakum spoke behind Sam, “Your eminence, I present the Sam Mason.”
The old, withered Atlantian stroked twisted whiskers down a pointed chin. “I am Uruk, archbishop of the Atlantians and keeper of the word of Apsu. You traveled through much danger to meet us. Wilmington lies in ruin, gangs rule the lands from Lumberton to Myrtle Beach, and Hurricane Ben stirred up every river from here to Virginia. Tell me, are we as you expected?”
“Nothing is as expected, your eminence,” Sam said, half-bowing. “Your veniremen made a good impression. Has there been a discussion before my arrival?”
Tom cleared his throat to speak, interrupted by the archbishop’s finger pointing upward.
“Veniremen?” Uruk swirled the finger in a circle, “I see… We waited for you to join us. Why are you here?”
Unease overtook Sam’s awe of the Atlantians. A fan of game theory, he knew when detectives separated and questioned two suspected thieves, the most likely statistical outcome was for them to accuse each other of the crime. The Prisoner’s Dilemma. He was not a thief and knew why Uruk projected him as one. Frustrating Sam into some type of confession for being guilty as an outsider was the game Uruk played. The prize—renewed respect by the Atlantians.
Sam squared his shoulders and prepared to play a different game. He pronounced, “We come seeking information.”
“The price for this information is high. You understand this, don’t you?”
Sam cocked an eyebrow an
d said, “Perhaps not.”
Time to play, he thought and prepared to fight. “If the great Archbishop Uruk, professor of the Atlantians, could explain to what price this is, I would appreciate the candor.”
“Oh, I have heard many things about you,” Uruk said, leering at him. “The great Sam Mason. Quite a legend.” Uruk’s cane clacked while pacing around the chair. “The hero of Rocky Point. Explorer of the deep—shark slayer. The master hunter. As you know, we do not take prisoners, master hunter.”
“Are we prisoners, sir?”
“You attacked our lands.”
“You uphold an unsavory reputation. Our actions got your attention.”
Uruk spoke to the crowded hall, “Trespassing is a crime, is it not? Therefore, you are prisoners.”
Sam found it interesting Uruk sought the crowd’s encouragement. Perhaps they acted as a seat belt securing an urge to leap away in this verbal game of Chicken. “I am also aware you will not torture or execute prisoners.”
“Yes,” Uruk snickered, “well, that is not entirely accurate. We do not seek to torture you for spite or information. However, the transformation is painful. Some do not survive its torment.”
“Transformation?” Sam tapped his leg and turned to Issakum. “That is why you release no one, you cannot have offspring so your society must grow by immigration?”
The tall Atlantian nodded, averting Sam’s eyes.
“You could have mentioned that earlier, Issakum,” said Sam.
“I answered your questions as best as I could,” Issakum said, losing strength in both voice and smile.
“Fair enough,” Sam said and returned his attention center stage. “Keep smiling, Issakum, wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Uruk drummed long, knobby fingers on an elbow. “Immigrants require assimilation. You will become Atlantians. Apsu requires all entering our domain to become one of us; the wise and all-powerful who guides us and protects us wishes it.”
And the game continued. Sam crossed his arms. “How do you know?”
His question sucked out a cacophony of gasps from scores of Atlantians in the main hall. Sam raised his hands in the air and faced the audience. “Did anyone else hear Apsu provide this edifying word? Did any one of you hear this from Apsu directly?”
