by A. G. Riddle
She heard footsteps in the darkness. Hands lifted the dead body up and off of her, and threw it aside.
Helmet lights shone down. Through the open visor, she saw Adams, stone-faced, searching her for wounds. Rodriguez appeared over Adams’s shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Peyton said, panting, shivering. “My mom.”
Rodriguez moved over to Lin and knelt beside her. “She’s alive.”
Peyton felt the tension drain out of her. In its place, she realized how cold she was.
“How many?” Adams asked, his head moving back and forth, scanning the passageway, his gun held at the ready.
How many what? Peyton couldn’t seem to process the question, as if the cold was freezing her mind.
Adams glanced down. “Enemy combatants.” He paused. “How many troops do they have, Doctor Shaw?”
“We just saw these three.”
“Did they reference others? Provide other information?”
Peyton shook her head.
Adams moved over to Rodriguez. “Let’s evac.”
The two SEALs gathered the suits and women in their arms and made a hasty retreat.
Drifting through the halls in Adams’s arms, Peyton suddenly felt so exhausted. The adrenaline was gone, weariness left in its place. Her mother was alive. And she was safe.
Peyton opened her eyes. She was trapped. Tied up, her arms pinned to her sides, her entire body wrapped tightly, only a slit left for her mouth and nose. She was blindfolded, too; only a faint glow of light was visible through the cloth over her eyes.
“Hey.”
Her voice was a ragged whisper, her mouth and throat like sandpaper. She tried to swallow.
“Hey.”
Movement. A click.
A hand removed the cover from her eyes. The light blinded her.
“Oh, sorry.” Nigel’s voice. “How’re you feeling?”
“Terrible,” she muttered. Her chest ached. She felt drained.
“Do you…”
“Water.”
“Oh, right.”
He returned with a canteen, tipped it, and Peyton chugged. The cool water filled her mouth, then ran over and down the side of her face.
“Sorry, sorry.”
Peyton still couldn’t move her arms. “Untie me, Nigel.”
He looked confused. “You’re not—oh. Right. The commandos rolled you and your mom up in blankets, like burritos, to warm you up.” He set the light down and slipped out of sight. “Hang on.”
Seconds later, Peyton was free and sitting up.
Lin lay beside her, sleeping. Peyton hated to wake her, but she had to examine her for internal bleeding.
“Can you help me unwrap her? I want to check her injuries. She took a beating back there.”
“Adams and I already examined her.”
“And neither of you are physicians.”
Nigel helped her unwrap Lin, who stirred but didn’t wake. Peyton wondered if she had a concussion.
Bruises and red marks ringed her neck. Peyton checked her head for bumps or swelling. No signs of a subdural hematoma. Pulse was normal. She pulled her mother’s shirt up and scanned for bruises and broken ribs. None. The skin was pale and pasty.
It also told a story. Two long scars and three short ones crisscrossed Lin Shaw’s abdomen. A puckered wound—the remnant of a gunshot—lay on her right side. Lin had always worn one-piece bathing suits and had never revealed her midsection, even at home. Now Peyton knew why.
Nigel glanced from Lin to Peyton. “What?”
Peyton pulled the shirt down. “She’s okay. Just tired.”
There was still so much she didn’t know about her mother. And the more she learned, the more questions she had.
Adams and Rodriguez returned an hour later. They were hungry, as were Peyton and Nigel. Lin was still asleep, so they ate in silence, waiting for Lin to awaken. She didn’t so much as stir. Peyton was starting to worry. Finally the older woman’s breathing increased and she opened her bloodshot eyes.
At the sight of Peyton, a flicker of a smile crossed her lips—an unusual show of emotion for the older woman. Just as quickly, it was gone, like a light flipped off.
“Status?” her voice was hoarse.
Peyton held the canteen to her mother’s lips while Adams gave a concise report. They had found the Citium submersible and checked it for booby traps. Adams had studied the controls and was confident he could operate it.
Lin sat up, her arms shaking. Peyton handed her an MRE, and Lin ate with an unsteady hand, chewing robotically. “Bring the map,” she said when the tray was half gone.
She studied the diagram of the sub and pointed at a compartment two decks above them. “Supplies here.”
“Supplies?” Adams asked.
“Expedition gear.” She took another bite.
Adams marked the compartment. “So we’re going to the surface?”
“Only chance.”
Nigel threw his hands up. “Only chance of what? Freezing? Getting bombed?”
“Rescue,” Lin said.
“She’s right,” Adams said. “If a rescue plane flies over, or a drone, they’ll have no clue we’re down here.”
“And if the Citium finds us first?”
“She never said we were all going to the surface,” Adams said. “Rodriguez and I will take shifts manning the surface.”
“No,” Lin said. “We stick together. The submersible could break down.”
Nigel rolled his eyes. “They’ll kill—”
“They won’t, Dr. Greene.” The strength had returned to Lin’s voice. “They won’t know who’s in the tents—us or their people. We’ll strip the uniforms off their men. Adams and Rodriguez will wear them, and they can treat us as prisoners if our adversaries arrive.”
Nigel was unconvinced. “Why not just take the submersible out? They launched from somewhere. We keep going until we clear the ice, then surface and call for help.”
Lin raised an eyebrow. “And starve to death while we wait? The submersible can only carry so much of our rations. It’s a dead end.” She studied the map. “The food stores are in the mess deck.”
“That food’s been down here thirty years. Most will be spoiled,” Adams said.
“It will have been frozen, and not much of it was perishable, even in the Beagle’s day.” Lin folded up the map, silently closing the matter. “Let’s get started.”
Peyton, Lin, and Nigel stayed below, recuperating, while the two Navy SEALs retrieved the expedition gear and food, took it to the surface, and set up camp. Only when everything was ready did they all leave the Beagle behind.
Peyton had dreaded what she would see on the surface—and it was as bad as she feared. The Arktika was gone. There was a hole in the ice where it had been, a watery graveyard where the charred remnants of lifeboats floated, grave markers of the Arktika’s crew and scientists. And beyond the tents and expedition gear from the Beagle, the ice was barren as far as she could see.
She took a moment to inspect the equipment and the two tents. Everything was old but functional, and space heaters had already warmed the tents. Peyton wouldn’t exactly be comfortable inside, but she would also be in no danger of losing her fingers and toes. The SEALs had spread LED lights around the camp, forming circles like a bull’s-eye. Peyton hoped the rescuers would see it.
She looked to the sky. The Aurora was gone, as if the violence and death had driven the spirit away.
Inside their tent, she and her mother ate by the light of an LED bar. They had food for a few weeks, and batteries for the heaters to last a little longer. There was no solar power to recharge them. If help didn’t come by then, they’d have to make a hard choice. If the Citium arrived sooner, there would be nowhere to run.
On the bridge of the Invisible Sun, Captain Mikhailov listened as her communications officer tried the radio again.
“Ice Harvest, this is Invisible Sun. Do you read?”
Nothing.
Her first officer leaned over. �
��Could’ve gotten caught in the crossfire.”
“Doubtful. They knew the strike was coming.” To the radio tech, she said, “Satellite status?”
“Flyover in seventy-five minutes.”
“They could have gotten jammed up in the Beagle,” the first officer said. “You want to launch the other DSV?”
“Yes. And the helo. Just in case they made it to the surface and their radio is out.”
Or if they had been killed. There would be a price to pay for that.
Chapter 16
The next time Yuri arrived, Desmond was ready. As usual, he was sitting at the long table by the library’s window. But this time he had prepared seven hardcover books. Each lay open in front of him, turned to pages featuring artists’ illustrations of prehistoric humans and columns of text showing the details of scientific studies.
Yuri gazed at the books. “I take it you found the answer?”
“We’re the Borg.”
Yuri’s eyebrows knitted together.
“The Borg.” Desmond paused, waiting for recognition that never came. “From Star Trek: The Next Generation? You, know, ‘We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.’”
“I’m not familiar.”
“Right.” I should have known. “Anyway. We assimilated or killed the other human species.”
A small smile crossed Yuri’s lips. “Go on.”
“These are research notes from the Beagle. They found archaic bones—Neanderthals in Europe, remnants of another human species in the Denisova cave in Siberia, and bones from floresiensis on an Indonesian island. They sequenced the samples. And found something extremely surprising.”
Desmond waited, but Yuri said nothing.
“Overlap,” Des continued. “DNA from each of these three species is present in modern humans. As our ancestors spread across the world, they wiped out their competition, but that wasn’t all: they interbred, too. Europeans share up to 2.8 percent of their DNA with Neanderthals. Chinese, only 0.1 percent. In the islands of the South Pacific, like Papua New Guinea, current inhabitants share up to 2.74 percent of their genomes with Neanderthals. Plus, these islanders have between 1 and 6 percent Denisovan DNA. The researchers on the Beagle also theorized that the Aboriginal Australians interbred with another human species, though they haven’t found any remains of that other species yet.”
“Good,” Yuri said. “It’s very good work. And the other half of the mystery?”
Desmond shook his head. “I assumed it was because humans can’t interbreed with any of the other primates.”
“That’s true, but there’s a more important reason the chimps, gorillas, and bonobos are still alive.”
Desmond exhaled. He had hoped his research phase was finished.
“There’s a larger picture here, Desmond. One that will change your entire understanding of the human race.”
“Can’t wait.”
“You’re getting frustrated.”
“Yes.”
“Patience.”
“Has never worked for me. Look, I came here because I thought you could help me. I wasn’t looking for this…bizarre one-person grad school.”
“This is your path.”
Desmond stared at the older man. “Well, I need to know that it’s going to lead where I want to go. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. For all I know, this is all some sick joke you’re playing on me.”
“I don’t joke, Desmond.”
Desmond sat silently.
“You want to know where this road leads?” Yuri stood. “Follow me.” He walked out of the library, not bothering to look back to see if Desmond was following.
They donned their winter coats and got on the elevator. As the doors closed, Desmond nodded at Jennifer, who smiled, a hungry expression that communicated much more. On the street, Yuri led Desmond through the crowded sidewalks of downtown San Francisco. It seemed like everyone in the city was either rushing home from work or out buying last-minute Christmas presents.
They stopped outside a high-end restaurant with wide plate glass windows that looked out onto the street. Snow was beginning to fall. The streetlamps and headlights reflected off the flurries, making them look almost phosphorescent.
“I know what you want, Desmond.”
Yuri shifted his gaze from Desmond to the people passing them, then to the restaurant window. White linens covered the tables. Real candles burned inside glass vases. The back wall was lined with half-circle booths, most with wine buckets on silver stands, beads of water forming from the ice inside.
Desmond stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on a table in the middle of the restaurant. Peyton sat there, a half-empty glass of white wine in front of her, a picked-over piece of fish on her plate, and a placid, almost somber expression on her face. Her dark brown hair looked almost exactly the way it had the day he had driven away.
Peyton’s mother sat to her left, and her sister, Madison, and Madison’s husband both sat across from her. Peyton had no date. Wore no ring.
Desmond felt a thrill run through him. Then a pang of guilt.
Yuri’s soft voice almost startled him.
“You want to know that all of this leads back to her.”
Desmond couldn’t find the words to respond.
“You want to know that you’ll be together when this is over.”
Desmond turned to face the older man. He had never even said Peyton’s name to Yuri. “What is this?” he asked.
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
“That we do our research too, Desmond. Proof that I know exactly what you want. Who you are. What you’re capable of. And who you’re here for.” Yuri paused. “She’s waiting for you. But time is running out. You have to dedicate yourself.”
“You’re manipulating me.”
“Yes, but for the right reason. You have a role to play.”
“What’s your role?”
“People. I know what they’ll do.”
“Oh yeah? What am I going to do?”
Yuri broke eye contact, and his voice was barely audible over the din of people around them. “You’ll shake your head, go back to the library, and turn it upside down looking for the answers. You’ll find them, and you’ll know the truth. We are humanity’s only hope. And yours.”
Conner listened as the National Guard troops tried the handle on each door to the van.
“Locked,” the soldier said. “Looks abandoned.”
“Fox Company,” a woman’s voice said over his radio. “We’ve got another abandoned van here. Also locked.”
Another voice came on the line. “Check the wheel wells and under the tires for keys. If you find them, bring the vehicles back. We could use them for supplies. If not, disable them.”
Conner turned his head, whispered. “Time, Doctor?”
“I don’t—”
“Guess.”
“A few more minutes.”
They didn’t have a few more minutes. If their vehicles were disabled, they would have to get others, and if the troops searching the area were disabling all abandoned vehicles…
Conner activated his comm. “Team two, I need a diversion. Now.”
He listened, heard nothing.
A voice outside, on the radio. “Bravo Company. Shots fired near Sand Hill and Saga Way. We’re investigating. Request backup.”
Boots pounded the pavement. Humvees cranked, tires squealed.
Conner waited.
A few minutes later, the platoon leader from Conner’s fourth vehicle whispered over the comm. “We’re surrounded by hostiles. They’re trying to open the van. Orders?”
“Team three,” Conner said. “Create another diversion. Quickly. Something louder this time.”
In moments, he heard the boom of an explosion. He waited, then: “Two, sit rep?”
“They left a small platoon. Nothing we can’t handle. Should we retake the vehicle and move?”
“Negative. Hold position.”
/> Conner lay there, waiting. They couldn’t play this game much longer. Fight or run.
“Sir,” the doctor whispered. “Brain waves are back to normal.”
“You’re sure?” Conner wouldn’t risk his brother’s life. He’d sacrifice his own first.
“Positive. The memory is finished.”
Conner sat up, turned on the satellite phone, and opened the Labyrinth Reality app. When the Citium had disabled the internet worldwide, they had taken great care to isolate the server powering this app. If it were to go down, so would their entire plan.
A prompt asked him how he would like to enter the Labyrinth: as the hero or the Minotaur. As he had before, he tapped hero, and another dialog appeared:
Searching for Entrance…
A few seconds later, it read:
1 Entrance Located.
Conner tapped the screen, and the map appeared. It was centered on an address nearby, in Menlo Park, on Windsor Drive—a short residential street that ran between Santa Cruz Avenue and Middle Avenue, near Stanford.
He activated his comm. “All units, we’ve got a new location. We’re moving out. Major Goins, coordinate efforts to liberate our units that are pinned down.”
The comm line erupted in chatter. The mercenaries in Conner’s van returned. Operatives from the fourth van set a third diversion, this one much larger: a fire in an office building off Monte Rosa Drive. Conner had to resist an urge to admonish them for choosing to set a fire. He could not show weakness—and the fire was the right diversion.
As the van pulled back onto Sand Hill Road, he saw the first plumes of smoke go up. His mouth went dry.
He tried to focus. The location. It seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
He drew out his phone and texted the address to Yuri.
Do you know this address?
A second later, Yuri’s response flashed on his screen:
Yes. It was Lin Shaw’s home address.
Chapter 17
Peyton awoke to what sounded like popcorn in the microwave. It was rhythmic, the pops evenly spaced, and growing louder. As awareness took hold, she realized what it was: a helicopter’s rotors.