by Chris Fox
Something flashed by and he snagged it between two fingers, pausing to examine the memory. It showed a female shifting. The whelp wasn’t alone. Why hadn’t he spotted the female? Had she already mastered the shadows? Ahiga sifted more memories. Liz, that was her name. Blair, that of the whelp. They were running, hard and fast like prey before the hunt. Just like prey, running would mean their destruction unless he somehow intervened.
Where were they going? Ahiga sifted again, this time latching onto a snippet of conversation. Acapulco, a city to the north. They planned to travel by ship. Very well, he could do the same. He would catch them in Acapulco. The whelp would return to the Mother no matter the cost.
Who are you? a voice thundered. The memories scattered, leaving Ahiga standing on an obsidian slab stretching to the horizon. Above him loomed the host he’d invaded. The whelp’s eyes glittered with righteous rage, and he stood ready despite his ignorance. Even the whelp’s instincts might be dangerous in the confines of his own mind. He held all the advantages here.
I am Ahiga. It means one who fights, he explained, sketching a bow. Respect was the only thing that might salvage things. Please accept my sincere apologies for touching your mind without permission. The need is dire enough that I have broken one of our greatest taboos. You must come to me, Blair. You have set great events in motion and time grows short. The Mother must be awakened.
You’re talking about the woman in the pyramid, aren’t you? he asked, stance softening just a little.
Yes, and she can only be awakened by one who shares a link with the Ark. A link you forged when you touched the Mother’s hand, Ahiga explained, reaching for words Blair might grasp. He sank into a cross-legged position and gestured for Blair to do the same. Please, there is much you need to know. I cannot maintain this link long. Sit. Join me.
Even if I wanted to wake her, I can’t, Blair explained, ignoring the proffered spot. She’s surrounded by soldiers. Going back would get me killed.
It will be dangerous, but you do not grasp the severity of the situation, Ahiga replied, anger bubbling up. He struggled to keep it from his voice, with limited success. If we do not wake the Mother, the world is doomed. Countless unblooded will fall to the enemy, each victim increasing their strength. If you continue to flee, this fate is inevitable. Can you live with that, whelp? It will be your fault.
My fault? Blair thundered. His beast must have sunk deep roots for him to be able to summon so much rage this soon after his bonding. You’ve turned me into a monster. I’ve slaughtered women. Children. Not an hour ago, Liz killed a man whose only crime was helping a couple of strangers. I don’t know what you did, but I’m going to find a way to undo it. Tell me, if I help you wake this Mother, can she cure me?
Cure? Are you mad? Of course not, Ahiga replied. He rose gracefully to his feet. There was no reaching the whelp.
Then I want nothing to do with you, the whelp thundered. A sudden gale sprang up, whipping at Ahiga with incredibly fury. It picked him up, hurling him from the whelp’s mind.
32
Surprise Guests
Jordan shook his head, marveling at the three-story structure squatting at the base of the pyramid’s exterior. It hadn’t existed the previous morning. An army of black-uniformed Mohn employees had used a gigantic 3D printer to construct pieces. Like toddlers with Legos, they then assembled their field headquarters. They’d even found time to erect a small array of satellite dishes atop the roof. The dishes were aimed at the angry black clouds blanketing the sky. A storm was coming. How appropriate.
“Sir,” one of two gate guards said. Both snapped to attention as Jordan ducked under the doorway and into Ops. It was far more organized than the pavilion had been, with techs hurrying between machines. They were analyzing all the data gathered thus far. They’d learned nothing significant from what he could tell.
Jordan wove through rows of tables, angling for the one furthest from the door. Sheila hunched over a desk, open manila folders scattered everywhere. He picked up a photo from the one closest to him. It was some of the vivid hieroglyphs discovered in the main chamber. “This is Professor Smith’s work. Have you had any luck with his notes?”
“Some,” Sheila drawled in her peculiar yet endearing way. “I don’t have a true translation since we lack their alphabet, but the fact that they used pictograms is helpful. Blair laid the groundwork for a few dozen symbols, and I’ve expanded on that. I’ve focused mostly on the inner chamber, and I don’t like what I’m learning. I’m starting to suspect why this place was built, but I’m not confident enough to share the research with the team. I need more data.”
“What does your gut tell you?” he asked. Science was great, but it was intuition that had kept him alive.
“That we’ve stumbled into something we don’t understand,” she said, spinning her chair around to face him. She straightened her glasses. “This place is massive. It’s clear from the sarcophagus chamber that this place is much bigger than we initially guessed. We have no idea how deep underground it goes. Building something like this would take the concerted effort of nations to duplicate today, assuming we could even do it.” Her face paled. “I’ve also realized something, and it scares me. We dated the pyramid by the sediment it was buried in, but the truth is we have no idea how long it was buried. This thing’s true age could be much older than the thirteen-thousand-year-old sediment layer.”
“How much older?” he asked, unsure why she was alarmed. To him old was old. What did a few millennia matter, give or take?
“I don’t know. What I do know is that they clearly intended for it to awaken at a specific date and time. The question is why. What was significant about that date?” she asked, though he sensed the question was rhetorical. Obviously she had a theory. Sheila plowed on. “You have to have heard all that garbage about 2012 being the end of the world. What a lot of people don’t know is why that year matters so much. It marks the end of the long count in the Mayan calendar. According to their mythology, it marked the end of the old world and the beginning of the new, and they weren’t the only ones to leap to that conclusion.”
Pieces clicked together in Jordan’s head. It wasn’t accidental that Mohn had sent them to an empty ravine just moments before the pyramid had appeared. Somehow his employers had known to expect it. That suggested they knew something about Sheila’s mysterious date.
“Have you ever heard that old song, ‘The Age of Aquarius’?” she asked, humming the name of the song to a very familiar melody. Jordan’s mother had loved the musical Hair, so he’d heard the song often, growing up.
“Yeah, I know it,” he said, stroking the stubble he hadn’t had time to deal with. “What does a bad song from the ‘60s have to do with this ancient culture?”
“The Age of Aquarius is supposed to begin soon, or to have already begun. Scholars hotly debate when we’ll enter it. It’s part of something called the Galactic Procession, divided into thirteen parts. Each corresponds to a Zodiac sign,” she explained, bouncing in her chair excitedly. “Each sign lasts about two thousand years, which means we complete a galactic rotation once every twenty-six thousand years. The Mayans knew that. So did the Greeks. So did a lot of ancient cultures. What if that knowledge trickled down from this ancient culture? What if the pyramid came back at this time for a reason? It could have been programmed, for lack of a better term, to return when the new age began.”
“It clearly had a trigger of some sort, but why come back now? What exactly happens when we enter a new age? And why leave a trap that turns people into werewolves?” Jordan asked, leaning against her desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “There are dozens of sightings already. From Mexico to Argentina. There was even an attack in Texas at a clinic. The media had a field day with that one.”
Sheila paled at his last words, avoiding his gaze. She seemed to collect herself after a moment.
“I have a theory about why the werewolves were created,” Sheila said softly. She looked shaken. �
�Blair’s notes mention some sort of ancient enemy. What if the werewolves were engineered to fight something?”
“Like what?” he replied, chilled at the possibility of an enemy that required such a ferocious creation.
“I don’t know. Blair was still working with that part, and I haven’t had a lot of luck. But the answer is in there somewhere,” she said, brow furrowing. That simple gesture said more about her level of frustration than cursing would. “I wish I had some help. There’s just too much ground to cover. I wish Blair was here. Or even Steve.”
“What if I could get you that help?” he asked. It was a gamble the Director might not like, but if it gave them answers, it would be worth it.
“Then I’d say get it. I don’t know that you’re going to find someone as good as Blair though,” she replied, turning back to the files on her desk.
“Sheila, come with me,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. She was already engrossed in her work again.
“Hmm? Where are we going?” she asked, finally looking up.
“I have something to show you. I could get in a lot of trouble for this, but I think it might provide the answers you need,” he said, voice low so none of the surrounding techs could hear. “Come on. Follow me.”
He offered a hand and helped her to her feet. The pair threaded back through the desks, unnoticed by the small army of drone-like techs. They had been assigned unrealistic workloads that would consume their attention entirely. Jordan and Sheila reached the exit without being noticed. The guards snapped to attention but said nothing as they passed.
“Where are we going?” Sheila hissed, darting a nervous glance back at the guards. “I’m not supposed to leave without authorization.”
“Are you willing to take a risk?” he asked, slowing his pace to give her time to think.
“Yes. I’m not getting anywhere, so if you have anything that might help, I want it. I’ll take the risk.” She delivered the words with a tight nod.
“Good. We’re heading into the stockade,” he said, steering her toward the squat black building. It lacked windows and had one shiny metallic door. “They’ll let me in, and I doubt they’ll ask about you. If they do, you’re here to examine the prisoners, all right?”
“Prisoners?” she asked, brow furrowing again as she considered his words. The mannerism made her resemble an owl. She snapped her fingers in sudden understanding. “You caught one of them. We have a live specimen, don’t we?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” he replied, striding boldly up to the pair of guards at attention outside the stockade. These were more alert, assessing his threat level even though they recognized him, as their training demanded. He stopped before the pair. “I’m accessing the prisoners in cell six. I expect to be inside for no more than twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” one guard barked, words clipped as tightly as the man’s shaved head. “Per regulations, all visitors must be logged. Please sign this.” He offered a clipboard, which Jordan signed after a cursory examination. He handed it to Sheila, who added her signature. That would be damning evidence later.
“You’re clear, sir,” the soldier said, taking a step back and opening the door with a sharp hiss. He gestured inside.
Jordan plunged forward, shoulders squared with every bit of the authority he could muster. Sheila followed behind, clearly nervous. He hoped they’d chalk that up to the idea of examining werewolves. The door snapped shut behind them, sealing itself with a series of clicks. Inside lay a single long corridor that stretched the length of the building. It was lined with doors at ten-foot intervals, each set with a two-way mirror to allow the captors to observe their prisoners without their knowledge.
He strode boldly down the hall, noting Sheila’s gaze as it swept between the cells they passed. All were empty, save for the last one at the end of the hall. That’s where Jordan finally stopped, gesturing at the mirror to allow his companion to study the occupants. Sheila adjusted her glasses as she peered into the featureless cell. Two figures sat on the padded floor. They were at opposite ends of the room, clearly trying to stay as far from one another as possible.
“Is that? Jordan, it can’t be. What am I seeing?” Sheila asked, her weight sagging against him as shock overcame her.
“Exactly what you think you see. That’s Bridget. And Steve,” he explained, supporting her. Both the occupants wore plain white hospital gowns, but their faces were unmistakable. She had to recognize them. “They rose the morning after the initial attack. Steve was easy enough to take down, but Bridget took out three of my men before she could be contained. Our initial findings suggest females are larger and a great deal more violent than males, though we have no idea why.”
“I…Why are you showing me this?” Sheila asked, finally supporting her own weight. She was still watching the prisoners.
“You said you needed help. This is it. They can help you solve the language problem, to find out what we’re dealing with,” he said, leaning over to push the red button next to the door before she could protest. “Steve, I’m here with Sheila. She has a request she’d like to make.”
At the sound of Jordan’s voice, Steve leapt to his feet so swiftly Sheila stumbled back from the door. He was a different man than he had been at the initial dig site. More confident, calm, and self-possessed. He emanated strength. Bridget didn’t react at all, just huddled in the corner with her head pressed against her knees.
“Hello, Jordan,” he said, tone that of a dinner party host welcoming his guests. He took a step closer to the window. “Hello, Sheila. Are you trying to open the Mother’s sarcophagus? If so, you’re out of luck. It’s genetically locked to the person who bonded the Ark. No Blair, no Mother.”
“Why would we want to wake up whoever’s in there?” Jordan countered. “Thus far, the people who built this place have managed to unleash a plague that could wipe out our civilization unless we find a way to stop it. Do you really think waking up the woman who might have caused it is a good idea?”
“More importantly,” Sheila said, breaking in before Steve could reply, “who is the Mother, and how do you know anything about her? Or that Blair is the one who can open her sarcophagus? What the hell is a genetic lock?”
“She told me,” he said, predatory grin spreading. It took a lot to rattle Jordan, but this guy did it. “She touched my mind. She’s still asleep, but even now her will is so powerful that it bleeds out and touches everyone around her. Have you had dreams lately, Sheila? I know you have…”
“Commander Jordan, this is Ops. We have a situation. Are you on the line?” the radio at Jordan’s side blared, breaking off all conversation. He snatched it from his belt and thumbed the receiver.
“This is Jordan. Go ahead,” he replied, thumbing the red button to kill the feed into the cell.
“We just intercepted a local police call in a small town near the Peruvian coast. A woman claims two foreigners turned up on her doorstep in the middle of the night. One turned into a monster and killed her husband,” the voice explained. It was a balding tech named Sandoval.
“How is this attack any different than the dozens of others?” Jordan asked, irritation leaking into his voice. He eyed Steve through the mirror. He was certain the man, even in a sealed cell, knew he and Sheila were still there.
“Sir, they described the two people. One of them is Subject Alpha.”
33
The Boat
Blair stared down at the white-tipped waves, hands braced on the ship’s chrome railing. Thick spray washed over him, smelling of salt and brine. It felt wonderful. It tasted of freedom. He inhaled deeply, smiling up at the moon’s thickening crescent. There was movement behind him.
“I’m sorry.” Liz’s voice was soft enough that he might have missed it if not for his augmented hearing. “About the other day, when we woke up. I mean, how I reacted.”
Blair turned to face her, reply lost. He couldn’t help but stare. The moonlight polished her ey
es to brilliant sapphires and painted her river of bronze hair into platinum. She was a wholly different person than he’d met what felt a lifetime ago but was, in reality, a handful of days. The change was not just physical, though she’d changed dramatically in that way too. Soft curves had transformed into the toned muscles of a lifelong athlete, just as his own body had transformed.
The changes went deeper though. The determination and borderline hostility in her gaze had softened, hinting at a vulnerability he doubted she’d ever willingly show him, or anyone for that matter. Though he’d only known her briefly, he had the sense that she prided herself on being self-sufficient. She’d have to be to travel South America as a lone foreign woman. That took a mix of courage and savvy.
“For pelting me in the face with a rock?” Blair said, flashing a grin. He leaned back against the railing, exalting in the spray as another wave crashed against the bow of the freighter. “Can’t really blame you for that, given that you woke up naked next to a man you didn’t really know.”
The moonlight hid her blush, if there was one. She momentarily averted her gaze before replying. “Still, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You’re just as much a victim of this whole thing as I am.”
“Don’t I know it,” Blair said, snorting as she moved to the railing next to him.
Silence stretched as she stared out over the waves, wind playing with her hair in a way that made his hands twitch. He wondered what it felt like. Blair glanced up to the higher deck, but other than the bearded captain steering the boat they were completely alone. He was out of earshot, giving them as much privacy as they could really expect.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she said, glancing at him as she spoke. She brushed away a lock of hair that had blown into her face, “about what we’ve become and how it happened. About this pyramid and why it might have come back now. Have you ever wondered about all the myths about werewolves and elves and vampires? I think there’s more truth in them than we ever could have guessed. What if our legends are half-remembered stories?”