by James Axler
So, much as he would like to detail teams of Nightcrawlers to simply take out the problem at source, he had to play a waiting game. And there was nothing worse than that when you were a man accustomed to flexing the fist and obtaining immediate results.
There was little doubt in his mind that the current reports spelled danger: a danger that could grow if not checked. The problem was how he did this without upsetting the delicate balance he had established between his domain and the satellite of Memphis.
He felt the need to speak of this: yet, to who? The name and rank of Odyssey, all that it entailed, was handed down, and with it came an absolute power that meant absolute isolation. To discuss a course of action was to show weakness, and that could never be done. Yet he still desired to mull over his course of action. The only way to do this was to find a subordinate and talk at—rather than to—him. It meant that being the supreme commander and leader of the chosen people was a lonely place. Yet he had been raised for this end, and knew what to expect.
Sometimes, that knowledge didn’t make it any easier.
The reports were written in black ink on a red woven paper edged in white. They were prepared by the agents he had placed within the ville of Memphis, who posed as dissidents, but used their position to monitor events within the ville and report back via rendezvous with Nightcrawlers. It was a simple system, aided by the incompetence of the Memphis sec. Should they gain a degree of skill in their task, then he would be forced to consider another course of action. That, however, had looked far from likely.
Until now…
He glanced at the hieroglyphs that covered the red surface. They told him a story that made him ill at ease. Strangers rarely made it this far past the desolation that curbed their territory. Strangers who wished to stay for a while were rarer still. Rarest of all were those who appeared to have knowledge and combat skill.
Up until now, he had remained calm. Now the cold fury that had been building within him erupted into a white heat of passion. Snarling, he took the reports and ripped them up, throwing the pieces to the far corners of the room. Some of them landed in the earthenware pot, which made some kind of sense to him.
Breathing heavily, he forced himself to calm down. He couldn’t be seen to exude any kind of emotion other than a serene reassurance that all was going to plan. That, too, was part of his training. Except that things weren’t: the new vessel for the journey was behind schedule. The phases of the moon and stars would soon come into alignment once more, and if this time the travelers didn’t return to retrieve those left behind, then it would not happen in his lifetime. The next alignment was many seasons away.
From history, from his own childhood—the last time there had been an alignment and the travelers hadn’t come—he knew that for a phase to pass with no action resulted in unrest, and a testing time for the incumbent Odyssey. The problem with the prophecy—the thing that the people didn’t understand—was that the travelers hadn’t specified a date for their return, only an alignment that would be in the night skies. This wasn’t the fault of the leader. All any man with the name Odyssey could do was prepare a vessel for transport and hope that now was the time. But the disappointment and frustration of the people was vented on the leader.
It was inevitable… But didn’t they realize that the leader felt that frustration, too? And now there was this obscure threat, coming at a time when he should be preparing for the final push toward the time of alignment.
Odyssey looked around him, at the walls of his inner sanctum. The only light was cast by flickering lamps and torches mounted on the stone walls, as he was in the center of the building, with no windows, and corridors and anterooms surrounding him on all four sides. Each room, each corridor, sealed by a lock that could only be opened by those who knew the combination. Part of him wondered if this was to keep the people out or to keep him caged in. No matter.
The walls were hung with tapestries in red, black and white. In pictographs, they depicted the history of Atlantis, from the earliest days when the island continent had flourished, through the sinking of the original lands and its rebirth in this location. Hardwood chairs, a simple table covered in papers and the remnants of a meal, and a long chaise covered in white cushions were the only furniture, with additional decoration supplied only by the stunted tree and a few weak plants in smaller pots. Sculptures of old Greek gods filled one corner, but they weren’t decoration: a shrine to those who had come before the revelation from space, who were no longer godheads but were still revered as prophets.
The room was twenty feet high, forty wide, yet it seemed like a casket, burying him within it at this moment. The cool air that circulated from ducts built into the structure of the temple now seemed dank and rancid, as though he were breathing in his own despair.
Enough of these thoughts that rattled around in his head without reaching any kind of resolution! To think only made them louder, resounding inside his skull until they blotted out the capacity to think. He had to voice them, and in so doing find some resolution of action.
Leaving the fragments scattered across the floor, he strode to the doorway and twisted the red, white and black combination lock until it released the door. As he left, the guard stationed outside snapped to attention.
‘Where is Xerxes?’ Odyssey snapped.
‘Master, he will be on vessel site, master. It is inspection time,’ the guard stammered nervously, having accurately judged his leader’s black mood.
‘He’d better be,’ Odyssey muttered savagely before walking away and leaving the guard relieved that he hadn’t been arbitrarily punished. It wasn’t far from the bounds of possibility that Odyssey would have had him killed merely because he was in a bad mood.
Releasing himself from the self-imposed prison of his inner sanctum, hitting the combinations and scowling at guards as he passed, Odyssey silently exited the building and came out onto the streets of Atlantis. To his rear, a flank of guards fell silently and unobtrusively into place.
Once beyond the thick stone walls, the noise became overwhelming. Atlantis was a carefully ordered society, with the rule of law imposed by Crawlers who trained as sec guards from birth. Everyone was selected for their tasks from birth, decided for them on heredity. Most followed in the footsteps of their parents, while some were specially selected from outstanding parents to progress to the next social level. The decision was always made by the leader, and for successive generations he had to keep a close watch on the development of his people.
Guards followed guards, masons followed masons, bakers followed bakers. It was a rigidly maintained social order, and for the most part the people were happy with it. This was, of course, because they knew nothing different. However, very few had ever questioned. Most accepted that to be ready for the day when they—or their descendants—would finally take the journey to a better place, they had to fulfil their allotted tasks.
Which was why the day was filled with the clamor of activity. People went about their everyday tasks with a renewed vigor as the days of alignment approached. There was work to be done, and they were happy to do it in the build up to the joyous time.
The streets of Atlantis were clean, the buildings painted white, red and black. Most had been erected just before the nukecaust, and any damage that had been incurred during the time of skydark had long since been repaired in a manner to make it seem as though it had never occurred. The designs were classical in structure, with fluted columns supporting porticoes over paved walkways. Square and rectangular buildings of clean line and little outward decoration lined the streets, which were themselves precisely divided into blocks of rectangular or square design.
The streets were populated by men and women in robes, all of whom seemed happy enough, but none of whom stayed still long enough to stop and talk beyond a few brief greetings or matters of business. There was always too much work to be done, and not enough time; furthermore, as Odyssey passed, a darkly brooding presence, those citizens nearest to him
fell silent and parted swiftly to cleave a clear path for him.
His destination was obvious. There was only one site within the city that was under construction. As the population rose with each generation, so a larger vessel, taller and wider, was needed for the journey. The original temple, built at the same time as the rest of the city, had long since been made obsolete, torn down and rebuilt larger with succeeding generations. It was a constant battle against time, from generation to succeeding generation, to prepare the new vessel in time for the time of alignment.
Which was why the temple construction site was where he would find Xerxes, his sec chief and the only man he could talk to. They had an understanding, forever unspoken, that Odyssey’s thoughts bounced against the sec chief would be open to a liberal interpretation. It went against all the conventions of Atlantis, but Odyssey had an implicit trust in his sec chief and in his ability to know his job better than anyone.
Xerxes was on the seventh level of scaffolding that surrounded the outside of the construction. The shell of the building had been erected, all that remained on the outer workings were the decorations and the placing of the roof. The interior was still being constructed, although all load-bearing walls were in place. Still there were chambers allocated to professions to be walled off, and doors fitted, according to required capacity.
Odyssey was glad to catch his sec chief before he attended to the close inspection of the inside. On the outer work, there was less to do, and his inspection was more routine. As sec chief, he had to insure that the work was carried out well, and that the workers didn’t slack in any way. Security was about prevention of problems as much as killing those who transgressed. It was a view that Xerxes had brought to his job that had been alien to his predecessors. Yet Odyssey had given him his head, as it had yielded results in the shape of greater productivity.
The downside to catching him on the outside inspection was having to climb seven levels of scaffolding. This was still three below the roof level, for the new temple towered above the surrounding buildings, which were only four storys at most. Three below, but still high enough for a man with an uneasiness about heights. An uneasiness that Odyssey had to keep disguised. He had been taught from an early age that a leader should never show fear, for it was a sign of weakness.
Taking a deep breath, he scaled the scaffolding until he was level with his sec chief.
‘Odyssey, master. What brings you out to see me when I am about my humble tasks?’ Xerxes asked with deference.
‘I have received word from our people in Memphis, and I wish to tell you of it and of my plans. Somewhere where we will not be overheard,’ Odyssey replied. While the notion that there were Atlantis spies in Memphis was something that was kept from the majority of the people, there was little chance of their being overheard this far up. It would, however, get him inside and away from the edge of scaffold and sky, which loomed too large for comfort.
Xerxes indicated that the leader follow him through the nearest portal, which gave onto an open plan room, currently being marked for division by masons. As they entered, a stranger would have assumed that Xerxes, with his tall, thin frame, long aristocratic nose and thick head of curls, was the natural leader. Certainly there was authority in the way he dismissed the masons and indicated that the guards stay outside on the scaffold. By contrast, Odyssey shuffled in his wake, shorter and stockier, his dark brown hair thinning at the crown, bent over by his worries and concerns.
The room was large, but the manner of construction meant that the sound was dampened within, rather than magnified and echoed, as would have been expected.
‘So, master, you have had word?’ Xerxes said softly, halting in the center of the room.
Odyssey nodded. ‘Your Nightcrawlers were correct. There are strangers in Memphis, and they do seem to have arrived on foot. This is most strange, as I can but wonder how they managed to journey so far without transport of some kind. However, there is little point in such speculation. They are here, and that is all there is to it.’
‘But from your tone, master, I can deduce that they are no normal interlopers.’
‘Whether anyone who could arrive at this point on foot—or would wish to—could be described as “normal” is an interesting question,’ Odyssey replied sharply. ‘The fact that they are here should be neither by nor by. Yet there are things about them that are of the utmost concern. They number six, and my reports say that they seem to know much of the faiths that underpin our society. They have been spied upon while in private discussion and two of them—an old man and a black woman—seem to have a knowledge that could either be useful or dangerous.’
‘Dependent upon whether they are for or against us?’
Odyssey nodded. ‘Exactly. I would like to know more of them. And of the party, which numbers six, there is one other of interest—the rest are mere drones. There is a woman who speaks of calling upon the powers of the earth to assist her in times of great need.’
‘A practitioner of occult arts?’ Xerxes mused.
‘It could very well be. I would like to learn more of her—if she truly has ways of tapping the hidden powers on the outside of this dimension, then her secrets would please the travelers when they return.’
‘You wish that I organize her capture?’
‘That would be satisfactory. Furthermore, I need the old man and the black woman. I want to know from whence their knowledge springs. If they are dangerous. If there is anything they can tell us that would add to our own understanding. It is possible that they may have arrived at this time as messengers, we are so close to alignment.’
‘So you would wish me to arrange their capture without harming them?’ Xerxes pressed.
Odyssey paused, then shook his head. ‘I said only that they may be messengers. They are equally likely to be an enemy. We should take no chances. The prime objective is to get them away from Memphis. If they prove too much of a problem, then it will be safer to kill them.’
Chapter Twelve
Affinity hadn’t seen any of his new friends since the first evening. Not until Doc had taken him to one side and questioned him about the nature of the beliefs held by the people of Memphis and Atlantis. Although the young man had been glad to answer him, and found something in the old man with which he could feel a kind of kinship, there was something about Doc’s manner that made him uneasy. It wasn’t a thing that he could easily pin down, less a concrete cause than a nebulous feeling of unease, as though behind the easy manner of Tanner there lay something dark that was waiting for the chance to surface.
This feeling of unease grew within him and the next day he sought out Cyran. The tall, willowy wife of the ville leader had known Affinity before his escape, and they shared a common bond. Both had been born to families that had rank within the rigid hierarchy of Atlantis, and both had led life of comparative luxury before opting to risk an escape to freedom. There were those in Memphis who couldn’t understand why they should give up such privilege for the hardships of living in Memphis.
Had those who had risked their lives for freedom done so only because they were at the bottom of the chain? If they had been born into a life of privilege, would they have stayed? Affinity doubted that. Memphis was a small enough ville for most to know the others. There were none he could think of who would have preferred to stay beneath the oppression of Odyssey, even with comparative comforts. But some perhaps doubted their own motivations more than Affinity, and he was aware of a residual wariness among some of the others.
Cyran, once Lemur had made her his wife, was even more open to these suspicions, and the two had spoken of that often. It was a small community, and those who had escaped from privilege were smaller still in number. It was natural to seek support. And in so doing, Affinity felt that he could share his concerns with her.
He went to her building after finishing in the mason’s shop. His lack of guile and fighting ability in allowing himself to be captured by the companions had led to his being ej
ected from the sec force by Mark. There was a rapid turnover of sec men coming and going, as only a core small in numbers showed themselves to be even partially able. To be ejected was no shame as such, but nonetheless he still felt a twinge of regret as he entered the building, which also housed those bodies that ran the ville—the sec and Lemur’s council—as well as being the dwelling for the leader and his spouse.
Cyran was painting when Affinity was shown into her chambers by a sec guard. There were always three on watch over Lemur and Cyran, and although she was used to their presence, Affinity found it a little disturbing. He was none too sure if he felt at ease to speak freely.
Cyran left her painting and greeted Affinity. His response was stilted and nervous, making it obvious that he was preoccupied.
‘What concerns you so that you lose all familiarity in my presence?’ she asked, leading him to a long table and seating him before pouring wine for them.
‘There are many things,’ he began after a pause, then, shaking his head, ‘No, not many. Two, specifically. First, I feel uneasy at speaking on matters that demand confidentiality when there are ears around us. Second, the matter on which I wish to speak is one that is, perhaps, delicate to broach.’
She chewed on her lip thoughtfully before answering. ‘For the first matter of your concern, I can only say that the men who guard Lemur and myself know their duty. They are not to report on, or talk of, anything they may see or hear within this building lest it be contrary to the greater good. I have never been aware of anything that has been said that shouldn’t have been.’