The Deathless Quadrilogy

by Chris Fox

  Ptah paled, setting his cup on the table with more force than he’d probably intended. Its sticky contents sloshed over the side, adding to the layer of grime on the pitted stone. He gave Irakesh a sidelong glance. “Ra? I refuse to grant her that title. What could Sekhmet possibly want from me? I have no power. No influence. No one will grant me a place in an Ark.”

  “Ra may,” Irakesh corrected, horrified by the man’s use of his mother's true name. Such usage was forbidden, punishable with an excruciating death. He gestured to the thrall standing behind Ptah. The woman scurried over with a second chalice, squeezing a tiny spigot placed in her wrist. The wooden cup filled with her warm blood, potent with the alcohol that she’d imbibed. It was the fastest and most enjoyable way for a deathless to get drunk, something it appeared Ptah knew intimately. “If you aid me, there could be a place for you in the Ark of the Cradle.”

  “So Sekhmet dangles the carrot then,” Ptah snorted, eyeing him suspiciously, as expected. Ra controlled the Ark and would make the final selections. Those she favored would live to see another age of the world thirteen millennia from now. A full half of the longest count. Those she didn’t would wither and die when the sun went through its change, denying them its life-sustaining energy. That momentous event was nearly upon them.

  “She’d add me to her pantheon then?” Ptah asked, a glimmer of hope flitting across his features before he brutally repressed it. “Not without a high blood price, I’d wager. What does she wish of me?”

  “You are a man of little influence, Ptah. We all know that,” Irakesh said, a slight smile slipping into place. He might be enjoying this just a little too much. “What you do have is an incredible talent for shaping helixes. We owe much to your discoveries. Ra asks that you shape mine in a very specific way. You were one of those responsible for the discovery of the Ark of the Redwood, were you not?”

  “It was my hand that shaped that Ark’s access key, yes. I did it at Isis’s direction, but I hold no loyalty to her. I am neutral in this eternal squabble,” Ptah said, eyes growing dangerous. Like a rat who’d been cornered.

  “Peace, Ptah. I’m not accusing you of anything,” Irakesh said, holding up his hands in a gesture of friendship. He savored a sip of blood before continuing. “I care nothing for your loyalties. Only for your ability to shape.”

  “What is it you desire? Speak plainly, boy. I’ve no patience left for games,” the man growled, picking up his cup and downing the contents in one defiant swallow. He stood higher than Irakesh, but that was overshadowed by Irakesh’s matron. Everyone feared Ra. Even Isis.

  “I need to fool the access key to the Ark of the Redwood. It must believe me of Isis’s bestial get,” Irakesh explained, then took a small sip of his own beverage. It was warm and tangy, not up to his usual standards. Hardly surprising in this forgotten corner of the world.

  “You what?” Ptah asked, slack-jawed. Then he began a dry wheezing laugh. It went on for long moments before he calmed enough to continue. “Boy, you are wasting my time. Even if I could do the shaping, there’s no way you’ll ever lay hands on that access key. It’s protected by Isis herself, deep within her stronghold on the jungle continent.”

  “How I lay hands on the key is my business. Can you do what I ask?” Irakesh demanded, leaning over the table and resting his hand on the hilt of his na-kopesh. Ptah’s flat smile seemed more amused than threatened.

  “I taught Sobek to become one with the crocodile. Gave Anubis the blood of the jackal. Of course I can shape your helixes. It’s a trivial matter,” Ptah allowed, throwing back his cloak to expose broadly muscled shoulders. The physique surprised Irakesh. It seemed that he had some pride remaining. His gaze became calculating, though still fogged by drink. “If I do this, I want more than some vague assurance about a place in the Ark of the Cradle. Tell me your plan and if it amuses me, I may do as you ask.”

  “That’s a dangerous question, Ptah. A deathless could be concerned that you intend to sell this information to Isis,” Irakesh said, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. He doubted that he’d need it, but one could never be sure. Even Ptah might attack rather than be taken for interrogation. Irakesh was one of the finest swordsmen in the world, but who knew what hidden powers Ptah might possess?

  “There’s no time left for that,” Ptah scoffed, slamming his empty chalice down with a metallic clink. “I want to know, because if Isis catches you, she’ll know that I did the shaping that let you take the key. What do you think will happen to me then? Not very forgiving, that one.”

  “If you’re in the Ark with Ra? Nothing. She’ll protect you,” Irakesh answered smoothly. The man’s concern seemed legitimate, but something about it rang false. He’d probably been working with Isis for centuries, quietly passing secrets and betraying his own kind. “Very well, I’ll share the plan. Assuming you can do the shaping right here. Do your work and you’ll have the entire plan, my word as a deathless.”

  Ptah studied him carefully, then gave a tight nod. No deathless with a shred of honor would break their word. Besides, Ptah must know that Irakesh could haul him before Ra, if needed. That would be unpleasant for them both.

  “Very well, give me your palm,” Ptah demanded, extending a leathery hand with his palm facing up. Irakesh obliged, laying his palm against Ptah’s. It was clammy, a decidedly undeathless-like trait. “Hold still. There will be pain.”

  Fire flooded up through Irakesh’s hand, spilling into his arm as it raced through his entire body. It was agony, the sort that could crush a lesser mind. Fortunately, Irakesh had endured far worse. His mother had seen to that. For him this was a pleasant diversion, a reminder of his own power in the face of pain. He allowed the waves of energy to course through him, gritting his teeth but refusing to cry out.

  The entire process lasted perhaps a dozen heartbeats. By the end, a sheen of sweat had broken out on Ptah’s face. If he were still capable of breathing, the man would have been panting.

  “It is done. The key will accept you as one of Isis's get,” he said, releasing Irakesh’s hand and leaning heavily against the table. It was an impressive feat, showing a glimmer of the power that the man had once possessed.

  “Very well, you have done as asked. I will live up to my end of our bargain,” Irakesh said. He was ambitious and willing to cut corners on his rise to power, but even he wouldn’t break his oath. Without his word, man was no better than beast. “I am going to slipsail to the jungle continent and sneak into the Mother’s Ark. I have already arranged for an ‘accident’ to cause significant damage, so she’ll be occupied with repairs when I enter. I’m quite skilled at shadow dancing, as you’re well aware.”

  “Ha,” Ptah snorted, waving at the thrall to refill his cup. “It won’t save you. That will get you inside and if you’re lucky she won’t notice you using one of her rejuvenators. But what of waking? When the longest count ends and the Ark returns to the world, you’ll have to not only sneak past Isis to steal the key, but then escape and flee across two continents before you can use it.”

  “The rejuvenator will wake me one week after Isis’s slumber ends,” Irakesh explained, voice pitched low so not even the thrall hovering over Ptah could hear. Many dismissed thralls, but Irakesh knew that they had ears. He’d purchased the services of many. “By that time, she will have assumed that her Ark is safe. She will emerge and begin consolidating her holdings. I will wait for her to leave, then simply steal the key and run. She might be able to catch me, but if her Ark is damaged, she won’t be able to leave it. She’ll have no choice but to stay and defend, while I claim the Ark of the Redwood.”

  “A bold plan. One that might even work,” Ptah allowed. He downed the contents of the fresh cup, rising from his stool as he set the empty cup on the table. He swayed like a man newly at sea. “I’ve lived up to my end of our little bargain. See that you do the same. I want a place among Sekhmet’s pantheon.”

  “You’re lying,” Irakesh said, rising smoothly to his feet and drawi
ng his na-kopesh. The curved blade caught the sun glinting through the high windows. “You have no intention of joining Ra. You’re off to report to your real master. To tell Isis of my plan.”

  If he was correct, Ptah would try to kill him, confirming his suspicions. If he was not, then Ptah would protest his innocence loudly and longly. Either way he needed to die. He was no longer of any use and if he found out that Irakesh was acting on his own, he’d warn Ra. That would end badly for Irakesh.

  Ptah wrenched a bronze dagger from its belt sheath, aiming a clumsy strike at Irakesh’s heart. Irakesh flowed backwards, casually allowing the blade’s point to touch his tunic. Then he lunged, ramming his blade through Ptah’s chest in a parody of the same strike the man had just attempted. It was the ultimate insult. Ptah’s chest began to smoke and smolder as the blade did its work, bright pulses of sickly green essence flowing up the blade and into Irakesh.

  The once-great god glared hatefully at Irakesh as his second life faded. “Isis will stop you.”

  “Not so,” Irakesh said, shoving Ptah’s smoking body heavily to the ground. He wiped his na-kopesh on the rumpled cloak, though Sunsteel never needed cleaning. “I will steal the key. The Ark of the Redwood is mine and you’re the one who gave it to me, Ptah.”

  1

  Wake Up

  Jordan awoke screaming into the frigid morning, a harsh series of ragged cries. The phantom pain of his arms being torn off was still very real, though a quick glance showed that both were intact. He scrambled to his feet, whirling as he tried to understand where he was and what had just happened.

  The last thing that he remembered was dying in the Ark. He'd been torn apart by the Mother, an ancient being that was for all intents and purposes a god. She was the progenitor of the werewolves, and his entire mission had been to curtail their spread. They murdered innocent people, who rose and murdered more people in turn. Yet he'd failed utterly to stop them, and Professor Smith had led his companions into the Ark and successfully woken the Mother.

  He looked down at himself. Jordan was covered in blood, most of it dried into thick, flaky patches. He was also naked, and it was damned cold. A quick glance around showed that he was at the base of one of the Ark's sloped sides. The pyramid towered above him, stabbing into the sky like a too-smooth mountain. The place was deathly silent, and other than the cry of a wheeling hawk, the wind was his only companion.

  Not your only companion, Ka-Dun. I am here.

  Jordan whirled again, reaching for the pistol no longer belted at his side. "Who the fuck are you?"

  The words were strange. They were inside his mind somehow.

  I am your beast, Ka-Dun. I serve as guide and protector. Turn towards the Ark's mirrored finish. Study your reflection there and I will show you the truth of things.

  Jordan knew he wasn't going mad, though he wished he were. He was alive when he should be dead. He was naked and covered in blood. He had no memory of coming to this place, because he'd died within the Ark. All of that painted a very disconcerting picture.

  He did as the beast asked, turning to face the pyramid. As the voice had said, he could make out his reflection in the dark stone. He looked like hell, close-cropped blond hair now matted with dirt. His entire body was a mass of dust and blood.

  Watch, Ka-Dun, the voice said.

  Jordan felt something stir within him, a tingling energy akin to static electricity. It flowed down his body, beginning in his chest and moving outwards through his limbs. The tingling grew hotter, becoming a torrent of very painful fire. Then the change began. It wasn't the agony that really bothered him; it was the knowledge of what he was seeing.

  Bones popped and limbs elongated, even as blond fur sprouted from every part of his body. His back arched, body contorting at the mercy of the change. A lupine muzzle burst from his face, his teeth lengthening as it did so. He grew taller, now nearly eight feet as fur covered the last of him.

  The reflection staring back at him was unmistakable. He'd become the enemy. Jordan was a god-damned werewolf. Part of him was thrilled at still being alive, but most of him was horrified. In a way he'd sold his soul, had become the very thing he'd sworn to fight. For what? And what could he possibly do about it?

  Prepare yourself, Ka-Dun. It begins.

  Jordan wasn't sure what the voice meant, but he felt something all around him. A gathering energy like the moment before a lightning strike. Then tendrils of fire veined across the sky, lighting the valley as if it were noon. He didn't know what it was, but he could feel that energy. Draw strength from it. Part of him sensed that whatever it was would forever change the world.

  It is the great change, Ka-Dun. The sun-sign that shows that we have entered the next age. Your powers will increase, and you will need them. For in the wake of this cleansing fire, the ancient enemy will rise again.

  2

  The End of the World

  Director Phillips ignored the whispers rustling through the knots of technicians as he stepped off the elevator onto the lowest public level of Mohn Corp.’s Syracuse installation. They found excuses to scurry off on whatever business they were supposed to be about, taking great care to avoid his gaze. He abided his side of the social contract, ignoring them as he would ants. Was it wrong that he’d grown used to doing that, used to thinking of himself as the Director instead of just Mark? He wore the title like a mask, a very powerful mask.

  He passed under the high ceilings with their halogen lights, by the impersonal concrete walls and the watchful eyes of security cameras. None of the Kevlar-clad security guards challenged him as he passed through checkpoints, though policy said they should. They too avoided his gaze. In a way it was as if he didn’t exist, a ghost surrounded in this tomb of an installation. Until he chose to be noticed.

  A precise seven minutes after exiting the elevator he finally arrived at Ops, a fishbowl of a room flanked by wall-sized windows on three sides. Banks of monitors lined stations within, each manned by a white-garbed tech monitoring a stream of information that he’d deemed critical. The room’s far side was dominated by a monitor larger than the aquarium he’d visited in Monterey the previous summer. It was dark now, waiting for his arrival to spring to life.

  “Get me feeds on the twelve primaries,” the Director barked before the glass doors had even finished sliding open. Dozens of heads swiveled briefly in his direction, then dropped back to their respective tasks as he strode boldly between the yellow strips marking the pathway to the pit.

  They looked haggard and more than a little terrified, and he couldn't blame them. Their world was about to end, and they were no doubt wrestling with a mixture of fear and guilt. Here they were in the only secure facility left in the world, the one place where technology would survive the sun's fiery wrath. If any of his personnel had family outside this place they'd almost certainly never see them again.

  The people would be fine, so far as they knew, but the CME would devastate the world's power grid. There would be no internet, no cable. No food being transported in daily. No modern conveniences. That would lead to a very scared, very aggressive populace and every one of his people knew they were exempted from that chaos. They'd be safe while the rest of the world tore itself apart.

  By the time he’d descended the three steps and entered the spacious ring at the foot of the massive wall display a dozen feeds had already sprung to life. He barely noticed as an Asian woman slipped a tablet into his hand. It was the control interface not only for the display, but for the entire complex. Using the simple device he could find data, issue commands or even shut down power. The biometric sensor was keyed to his thumb, of course.

  He took a moment to survey each of the twelve feeds, a brief twinge of satisfaction rising as the low hum of conversation resumed behind him. His command crew were the best at what they did, far too professional to allow a superior’s arrival to intimidate them for long. They had jobs to do and every one of them knew failure could cost countless lives. Most probably took solace in
the work, focusing on it rather than on what they were about to witness.

  “What am I seeing on number six?” he barked, tapping the feed on the tablet and swiping to the data screen. “These metrics are outside tolerance. Get it locked down. Seconds count, people.”

  Eleven of the twelve satellites were in the final phases of lockdown, the feeds showing enormous clam-like shells that were slowly covering their vital components. Those components would be cooked instantly if exposed to the fury the sun was about to unleash on their world. Number six, on the other hand, sat perfectly still. Its feed was still being received, but the protective casing remained retracted.

  “Sir,” one of the techs piped up, a sandy-haired kid who looked as though he should be serving french fries. “Number six has a damaged servo. Time to repair is just under two hours.”

  “Noted,” Mark shot back, turning his attention back to the tablet.

  He pinched the IRIS feed, dragging it open to cover the entire screen. The deep-space satellite belonged to NASA and had been designed to study the sun. It had been deployed a bare handful of months before, a timely addition to their data-gathering abilities. Gasps sounded behind him as some of the technicians saw the feed he’d pulled onto the main screen. He couldn’t blame them, even if they were supposed to be professionals. No one had ever seen anything like this, at least no one in the last thirteen thousand years.

  A fiery wave blanketed space, hurling towards the camera with incredible speed. It drowned out the sun behind it, a glob of plasma that undulated and pulsed as it approached. The image provided no real context, but Mark knew that the coronal mass ejection was many times the size of the earth. That made it far larger than anything in recorded history, and he prayed that their projections of the catastrophic damage it would wreak to the earth's power grid were wrong.