Temple

by Matthew Reilly

  “What?”

  “The orders those subs had were very simple. Should the Soviet Union in any way defeat the United States in any sudden or unforeseen engagement, those boomers had orders to launch a rain of nuclear missiles not just on Soviet targets, but on every major city on the European and U.S. main-lands.”

  “What?!”

  “The Choltitz Plan, Professor Race. If we can’t have it, no one can.”

  “But this is on a global scale . . .” Race said in disbelief.

  “That’s right. That’s exactly right. And therein lies the reason for the creation of the Supernova. The United States is the most dominant nation on this earth. Should any nation seek to alter that situation, we will inform them of our possession of a workable Supernova. If they take further steps and a conflict ensues and the United States is beaten—or worse, crippled—then we will detonate the device.”

  Race felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

  Was this for real? Was this policy? If America could not control the world, it would destroy it?

  “How can you build something like that?”

  “Professor Race, what if China decided to wage war against the United States? What if they wont Would you have the American people under the rule of a Chinese regime?”

  “But you’d rather die?”

  “Yes.”

  “And take the rest of the world with you,” Race said. “You guys must be the sorest losers of all time.”

  “Be that as it may,” Nash said, changing his tone, “the law of unintended consequences has taken its effect on this situation. News of the creation of a device with the potential to destroy the planet has brought other parties out of the woodwork, parties who would see such a weapon as a powerful bargaining chip in their own crusades.”

  “What kind of parties?”

  “Certain terrorist groups. People who if they got their hands on a workable Supernova would hold the world to ransom.”

  “Right,” Race said, “and now your Supernova’s been stolen, probably by terrorists.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You opened Pandora’s box, didn’t you, Doctor Nash?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid we did. And that’s why it is imperative that we get hold of that idol before anyone else does.”

  With that, Nash and Copeland left Race alone with the manuscript once again.

  Race took a moment to gather his thoughts. His mind was swirling. Supernovas. Global destruction. Terrorist groups. He found it difficult to concentrate.

  He shook it all away, forced himself to focus, found his place in the manuscript again—the part where Renco and Alberto Santiago had just blasted their way out of the besieged city of Cuzco.

  Then Race took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses and entered the world of the Incas once again.

  SECOND READING

  We raced through the night, Renco, Bassario and myself, spurring our horses on, making them gallop faster than they had ever done so before. For behind us, close behind us, were the Spaniards—Hernando and his legion of mounted troops, galloping across the countryside, hunting us like dogs.

  After departing through the northern gates of the Cuzco valley we veered right, heading to the northeast. We came to the Urubamba River—the same river that had held Renco’s prison hulk—and crossed it not far from the town of Pisac.

  And thus began our journey, our desperate escape through the wilderness.

  I will not trouble you, dear reader, with every trifling incident of our arduous journey, for it went for many days and the incidents that took place during it were far too numerous. Rather, I shall mention only those occurrences which are pertinent to my grander tale.

  We were headed for a village named Vilcafor—so Renco informed me—of which his uncle was the chieftain. This village was to be found in the foothills of the great mountains far to the north, at the point where those mountains met the great rainforest to the east.

  Apparently, Vilcafor was a secret citadel town—heavily fortified and well defended—that was maintained by the Incan nobility for use in times of crisis. Its location was a carefully guarded secret, and it could be found only by following a series of stone totems placed at certain intervals in the rainforest, and then only when one knew the code to find the totems. But to get to the rainforest, first we had to traverse the mountains.

  And so we entered the mountains—the stupendous rocky monoliths that dominate New Spain. It cannot be overstated just how magnificent the mountains of this country are. Their steep rocky bluffs and high pointed summits—capped with snow all year round—can be seen for hundreds of miles, even from the dense rainforests of the lowlands.

  After a few days of travel, we discarded our horses, preferring to navigate the delicate mountain trails on foot. Carefully, we walked along slippery narrow paths cut into the sides of steep mountain gorges. Gingerly, we crossed long sagging rope bridges suspended high above raging mountain rivers.

  And all the while, echoing through the maze of narrow gorges behind us, were the shouts and marching footsteps of the Spaniards.

  We came to several Incan villages, situated in the navels of the splendid mountain valleys. Each village was named after its chieftain—Rumac, Sipo and Huanco.

  At these villages we were supplied with food, guides and llamas. The generosity of these people was incredible. It was as if every single villager knew of Renco and his mission and they could not have moved faster to help us. When we had time, Renco would show them the black stone idol and they would all bow before it and fall silent.

  But we rarely had such time.

  The Spaniards pursued us doggedly.

  On one occasion, as we left the town of Ocuyu—a village situated at the base of a wide mountain valley—no sooner had we surmounted the crest of the nearest hill than I heard the reports of heavy musket fire from behind us. I turned to gaze back down the valley.

  What I saw filled me with horror.

  I saw Hernando and his troops—a whole gigantic column of at least one hundred men—marching on foot at the far end of the valley. Mounted troops flanked the enormous body of foot soldiers, riding ahead of them into the town that we had only just left, firing their muskets at the unarmed Incans.

  Later, Hernando would divide his hundred-man legion into three thirty-man divisions. Then he staggered their marching times, so that while one division marched, the other two rested. The rested divisions would then march later, overtaking the first group in their turn, and the cycle would continue. The result was a constantly moving mass of men, a mass that was always moving forward, always closing in on us.

  And all this while Renco, Bassario and myself stumbled ever forward, struggling through the rocky wilderness, fighting fatigue every moment of the way.

  Of one thing I was certain: the Spaniards would catch us. The only question was when.

  Yet still we toiled on.

  Now at one point on our journey—and I must say, at a time when my countrymen were so close behind us that we could hear their voices echoing off the canyons to our rear—we stopped at a village named Colco, which is situated on the banks of a mountain river known as the Paucartambo.

  It was in this town that I obtained a clue as to why Renco had brought the criminal Bassario along on our journey.

  For in the village of Colco there is a quarry. Now, as I have said before, these Indians are masterful stonemasons. All of their buildings are constructed of the most finely cut stones, some of which can be as tall as six men and weigh more than a hundred tons. Such stones are harvested in the massive quarries of towns like Colco.

  After speaking quickly with the town’s chieftain, Renco was escorted to the quarry—a monumental hole that had been dug into the side of a mountain. He returned a short while later with a goat-skin sack in his hand. The sides of the sack bulged with sharp, rocky corners. Renco handed the sack to Bassario and we rode on.

  I did not know what was in that sack, but on the nights when we stopp
ed to rest, Bassario would slink away to a corner of the camp and light his own fire. Then he would sit cross-legged and work over the sack with his back to Renco and myself.

  After eleven days of this most brutal travel, we emerged from the mountains and beheld a most momentous sight, a vista like none I have ever witnessed.

  We saw the rainforest spread out before us, a seamless carpet of green stretching out to the distant horizon. The only breaks in the carpet were the tablelands—the wide, flat step-like formations in the landscape that marked the gradual transition from rugged mountain range to verdant river basin—and the wide bands of brown that snaked their way through the dense jungle, the mighty rivers of the rainforest.

  And so we plunged into the jungle.

  It was like Hell on earth.

  For days we traveled through the eternal shade of the rainforest. It was wet and it was damp and Lord, how it was dangerous. Obscenely fat snakes hung from the trees, small rodents scurried about under our feet, and on one night—I was certain of it—I saw the veiled outline of a panther, a shadow superimposed on the darkness, slinking silently on padded paws across a nearby branch.

  And then, of course, there were the rivers, in which there lurked the greatest danger of all.

  Alligators.

  Their craggy triangular heads alone were enough to make a man’s blood turn to ice, and their bodies, black and heavy and armored, were at least six paces in length. Their eyes always watched us—unblinking, reptilian, repulsive.

  We traveled down the rivers on reed canoes donated to us by the river villages of Paxu, Tupra and Roya—boats which seemed pathetically small when compared to the inordinately large reptiles in the water all around us—and we climbed down the steep cliffs of the tablelands with the aid of skilled Incan guides.

  In the evenings, by the light of the fire, Renco would instruct me in his language, Quechua. In return, I would teach him the finer points of swordsmanship with the two glistening Spanish sabers we had pilfered on our way out of Cuzco.

  While Renco and I fenced, if he wasn’t toiling away in some corner of the camp, Bassario would often practice his archery. Apparently, before he was imprisoned (for what I knew not), Bassario had been one of the finest archers in all of the Incan empire. I believed it. One evening I saw him throw a rainforest fruit high into the air and pierce it with an arrow a moment later, such was his skill.

  After a time, however, it became apparent to us that the harsh terrain of the rainforest had slowed our pursuers somewhat. The sounds of Hernando and his men hacking at the branches of the forest behind us grew progressively more faint. Indeed, at one time I thought that perhaps Hernando had given up on his pursuit.

  But no. Every day, runners from the various villages we had passed through would catch us up and inform us of the sacking of their town. Hernando and his men were still coming.

  And so we toiled on.

  And then one day, not long after we had left the village of Roya, at a time when I was walking at the head of our expedition, I pushed aside a large branch and found myself staring into the eyes of a snarling catlike creature.

  I fell backward with a shout, dropping with a loud splat in the mud.

  The next thing I heard was Bassario chuckling softly.

  I looked up and saw that I had revealed a large stone totem of some sort. The snarling cat that I had seen was nothing but a stone carving of a great, catlike creature. But the carving was covered in a veil of trickling water, giving the unwary traveler—me—the impression that it was well and truly alive.

  As I looked at it more closely, however, I noticed that the stone carving on the totem was not dissimilar to that of the idol that was the cause of our frenetic journey. It was a jaguar of some kind, possessed of large feline fangs, snarling—no, roaring—at the incautious explorer who happened to stumble upon it.

  I have wondered more than once at these Incans’ fascination with the great cats.

  They idolize these creatures, treat them as gods. In fact, warriors who show feline coordination in their movements are most revered in their armies—it is seen as a great skill to be able to land on one’s feet and pounce immediately back into the fray. Such a warrior is said to be possessed of the jinga.

  Why, the very evening before I stumbled so embarrassingly upon the stone totem, Renco had been telling me that the most feared creature in their mythology is a great black cat known as the titi in Agmara, or the rapa in Quechua. Apparently, this creature is as black as the night and almost as tall as a man even when standing on all four legs. And it kills with unparalleled ferocity. Indeed, Renco said, it is that most feared variety of wild animal—the kind that kills for no other reason than for the pleasure of killing.

  “Well done, Brother Alberto,” said Renco as I lay in the mud, staring up at the totem. “You’ve found the first of the totems that will lead us to Vilcafor.”

  “How will they lead us there?” I inquired as I rose to my feet.

  Said Renco, “There is a code, known only to the most senior of Incan nobles—”

  “But if he tells you, he’ll have to kill you,” Bassario interjected with a rude grin.

  Renco smiled indulgently at Bassario. “True,” said he. “But in the event that I should die, I shall need someone to continue my mission. And to do that, that someone will have to know the code to the totems.” Renco turned to face me. “I was hoping that you would be willing to bear that responsibility, Alberto.”

  “Me?” said I, swallowing.

  “Yes, you,” said Renco. “Alberto, I see the qualities of a hero in you, even if you do not. You possess honor and courage in far greater quantities than the average soul. I would have no hesitation in entrusting my people’s fate to you should the worst befall me, if you would allow it.”

  I bowed my head and nodded, acceding to his wish.

  “Good,” Renco smiled. “You, on the other hand,” he said, grinning wryly at Bassario, “would give me considerable hesitation. Now go stand over there.”

  Once Bassario had moved to stand some paces away from us, Renco leaned close to me and indicated the stone carving of the rapa in front of us. “The code is simple: follow the rapa’s tail.”

  “Follow the rapa’s tail . . .” said I, looking at the totem. Sure enough, out of the back of the carving extended a thin snaking feline tail, pointing to the north.

  “But” Renco suddenly held up his finger, “not every totem is to be followed in this way. It is this rule that only the most senior nobles know. Indeed, I was only told of it by the high priestess of the Coricancha when we arrived there to get the idol.”

  “What is the rule, then?” I inquired.

  “After the first totem every second totem is to be distrusted. In those cases, one is to follow the totem in the direction of the Mark of the Sun.”

  “The Mark of the Sun?”

  “A mark not unlike this one,” Renco said, indicating the small triangular birthmark below his left eye, the dark brown blemish of skin that looked like an inverted mountain.

  “At every second totem after the first one,” he said, “we are not to follow the rapa’s tail, but rather to go in the direction of the Mark of the Sun.”

  “What will happen if one continues to follow the rapa’s tail?” I inquired. “Won’t our enemies ultimately realize that they are traveling in the wrong direction when they find no more totems?”

  Renco smiled at me. “Oh, no, Alberto. There are more totems to be found, even if one goes in the wrong direction. But they only lead the bamboozled adventurer farther and farther away from the citadel.”

  And so we followed the totems through the rainforest.

  They were spaced at varying intervals—some were but a few hundred paces from their predecessors, others were some miles overland—so we had to be careful that we traveled in direct lines. Often we were aided by the river system, since at times the totems had been carefully placed along the riverbanks.

  Following the totems, we travel
ed in a northerly direction, crossing the wide rainforest basin until we came to a new tableland that led up to the mountains.

  This tableland stretched from the north to the south for as far as the eye could see—a giant jungle-covered plateau—a single step that Our Lord had built to aid him in stepping up from the rainforest to the mountain foothills. It was dotted with waterfalls all along its length. It was a truly magnificent sight.

  We climbed the tableland’s clifflike eastern face, hauling with us our reed canoes and paddles. It was then that we came to a final totem which directed us upriver, toward the gigantic snow-capped mountains that loomed above the rainforest.

  We rowed against the gentle current of the river in the pouring afternoon rain. After a while, however, the rain stopped and in the mist that followed it the jungle took on an eerie quality. The world fell oddly silent and, strangely, the sounds of the rainforest abruptly vanished.

  No birds chirped. No rodents rustled in the underbrush.

  I felt a rush of dread flood through my body.

  Something was not right here.

  Renco and Bassario must have felt it, too, for they paddled more slowly now, dipping their oars silently into the glassy surface of the water, as if not daring to break the unnatural silence.

  And then we rounded a bend in the river and suddenly we saw a town on the riverbank, nestled up against the base of the enormous mountain range. An imposing stone structure stood proudly in the center of a cluster of small huts, while a wide moatlike ditch surrounded the entire enclave.

  The citadel of Vilcafor.

  But none of us had much care for the great citadel. Nor did we take much notice of the village around it that lay in smoldering ruins.

  No. We only had eyes for the bodies, the scores of bodies that lay crumpled on the main street of the town, covered in blood.

  SECOND MACHINATION