Brooklyn Knight

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  BROOKLYN KNIGHT

  BROOKLYN

  KNIGHT

  C. J. HENDERSON

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK · NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BROOKLYN KNIGHT

  Copyright © 2009 by C. J. Henderson

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  [http://www.tor-forge.com] www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Henderson, C. J.

  Brooklyn Knight / C. J. Henderson.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

  ISBN 978-0-7653-2083-4

  1. Museum curators—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction.

  3. Talismans—Fiction. 4. Four elements (Philosophy)—Fiction.

  5. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.E48244B76 2010

  813’.54—dc22

  2009036275

  First Edition: January 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  There are editors who take their jobs seriously, who can find every tiny typo you make, helping to keep you from looking like the jerk you are.

  There are editors who know your moods, who like a good friend, or caring relative, work with you and for you and around you, realizing when it’s time to allow you your creative angst, and when it’s time to hit you on the snout with a rolled-up newspaper.

  There are editors who watch for opportunities perfectly crafted for you. Who go out of their way to mold you into more than just a good writer. Who work ceaselessly in the background to make you better than you are.

  And then …

  There are those editors who do all these things, and more, and make it look easy.

  This book is dedicated to one such wondrous being.

  His name was Brian M. Thomsen

  And he was my friend.

  Submit to fate of your own free will.

  —Marcus Aurelius

  Perfect courage is to do without witnesses what one would be capable of doing with the world looking on.

  —François, Duc de La Rochefoucauld

  BROOKLYN KNIGHT

  AN EXCERPT FROM:

  Ruminations on the Past

  A Study of the Myths, Legends, and Oral Tradition

  Surrounding the Euphrates River Valley

  Compiled by Professor Niles Wentworth Standard

  Published by Priceton & Waterbury, 1876

  Even at a significant distance, such as from any of the four major hills surrounding the city, the most casual observation would reveal an overall appearance not like that of any other habitation to be found throughout the known world. There was good reason for this. Indeed, the place appeared as far more than all others for one simple, undeniable reason—it was more.

  Far more.

  The name of this unique metropolis was Memak’tori, and in its day and age it was the finest sanctuary ever fashioned by the hands of men. Any traveler reaching one of those four major hillocks in between which it was nestled had more than sufficient cause to pause and marvel. For, even at that initial distance of several miles, no matter their level of worldliness, or from wherever said journeyman might hail, they were certain to be amazed.

  Memak’tori was an enormous and heavily populated center, one so far advanced beyond the simple grouped farms and other budding communities one could find in any of the other far-flung corners of the world men had reached that visitors to it were stunned by their first glimpse of its grandeur—they could not help themselves. To gaze upon vast Memak’tori for the first time was to stand in wonder.

  The city stood in the center of a lush and rolling river valley, a well-nurtured, continually green oasis in an otherwise arid landscape. Once merely an agricultural center, the advent of merchant shipping caused it to become a center of commerce. As the decades passed and the wealth created by their fortunate location began to pile up all about them, the people of Memak’tori started to build in earnest. They constructed their city with a cunning and ingenuity unheard of elsewhere, some of its buildings arching upward into the sky to the staggering total of three, sometimes even four stories.

  Far more impressive, however, was the fashion in which the metropolis’ great stone towers jutted higher still, seemingly grasping at the passing clouds. The city’s pennants flew above them at such unbelievable heights that men who had not seen them for themselves, who only heard tales of their awe-inspiring proportions, would often scoff in disbelief, branding those who persisted in telling of such miracles as fools or liars. Indeed, in the end, fabled Memak’tori was simply one of those places that had to be seen to be believed.

  There was no denying that something had come together in that temperate corner of the world which had not yet spread to any other land. What combination of circumstances led to its existence none could say with certainty, nor were such things overly worried about in those far-gone days.

  Men simply knew that if adventure, knowledge, or sophistication was that for which their heart yearned, Memak’tori was where it could be found.

  For whatever reason Fate chose to bring these blessings together thus, this grand and sparkling city was the site that would mark mankind’s first grand thrust upward out of barbarism and savagery. Memak’tori was far more than simply a gathering place for human beings—all other lands knew these.

  Its greatness resided in something beyond it merely possessing a convenient location for merchants and farmers to interact—these also could be found in plenty elsewhere throughout the known world.

  No, what made this one place so different from all others was that it had a purpose beyond the mundane. Memak’tori was the first active center of human knowledge ever created. Its streets were not so much different from those of other cities, but those who walked them were.

  The people of Memak’tori knew they had been placed among the human race’s elite members. Some believed they were blessed by the gods. Others thought the waters in that area gifted individuals with insights denied others. One school of thought had it that the position of the city, sitting as it did just so beneath certain of the night stars, created its favorable prosperity. The idea of what made their society the foremost one in the world was hotly debated in many a tavern and temple—and just as many of those structures stood outside the great city’s boundaries as did within them.

  There came a certain time, however—suddenly and without warning—when a returning traveler reaching one of the fabled metropolis’ surrounding hilltops would spy something different about it. Nothing overt, or immediately noticeable, to be certain. Nothing the physical senses could pinpoint with assurance. No, it was more in the way of a mood, a feeling that the atmosphere around Memak’tori had somehow changed. As they approached its massive gates, they would then note a shocking lack of security, of even activity.

  That was only the beginning.

  Passing through the oddly unguarded portal—trepidation their unavoidable guiding emotion—those outsiders coming to the city at that point in its history would discover the streets strangely deserted, window curtains hanging askance, doorways filled with growing piles of encroaching dust and sand. They would find tables set for a meal, plates positioned properly, fruit and bread rotten and crumbling upon them. Mugs would be found next to the plates, their contents long since evaporated.

  Most who came
to Memak’tori after that time dared not tarry. No people to be found within its limits—no animals, seemingly not even insects—it was too much for them to comprehend. Some braver souls would penetrate deeper into its bowels, of course, looking for prizes to carry off. These were often handsomely rewarded for the citizens of Memak’tori might have disappeared, but they did not take their possessions with them. Like their meals, they left behind their gold and precious stones, their maps and tools, their cloth and clothes, beds and brooms—everything.

  Not all such adventurers profited, however. Few did so, in fact. For most of the looters who dared pass through the city’s silent gates, their fate was to never be seen again. Those who went searching for them might find a recognizable staff or cloak, but of those for whom they searched there would be no further trace. Indeed, most of those who went searching never returned to report their findings, either.

  Such events cannot continue to occur for very long, though, before the news of them begins to spread. As word of Memak’tori’s unexplainable fate became common knowledge—a tale confirmed by the mysterious disappearance of several of the more famous thieves who bragged they would be the one to finally loot the great ghost city—word spread across the land. Terrified words spoken in fearful whispers.

  And thus Memak’tori was labeled officially as a damned place, denounced in the temples, cursed in the streets. Its people, it was assumed, certainly must have offended the gods in some manner. Many felt it was its populace’s shameful hubris, their wretchedly different ideas, which had brought down such a terrible fate upon their heads.

  It was not long before peoples far and wide began demanding that no such recklessly dangerous notions be imported to their own home states. Memak’tori, one day the shining light of hope for the future of humanity, became on the next a pariah to all men. Roadways leading to it were blocked, marked with signs leaving no doubt that nothing but tragedy awaited ahead.

  Feared and mistrusted, the place was given a wide berth by all who heard the horrifying tales whispered about it. And, as years turned into decades and the centuries passed, the weather wore away its towers, piling the sand higher and higher, filling its halls, covering its roofs. And thus, a thousand years before such sites as Heraklion or Tartessos were erected, Memak’tori passed into the realm of legend. By the time Greece and Rome were in their glory, it was barely a memory.

  Sadly, though, that would change. Millennia after its strange and curious passing, fabled Memak’tori would be rediscovered, its rooftops cleared of their layers of sand and detritus, its streets swept and opened to the world once more. Interest in the remarkable city would suddenly be renewed, on a far greater scale than ever had been reached when men first walked its streets and marveled at its glory.

  And, as one might suspect, all of this, of course, was nothing more than an invitation to the disaster which had once removed the world’s greatest civilization to return—this time to consume all of humanity.

  PROLOGUE

  “Listen to me, my good woman, this conversation is costing me per minute more than your weekly salary. If you do not mind, I would appreciate it greatly if you did not further waste any of my resources with your excuses.”

  The speaker was not by nature an unpleasant man.

  Indeed, he was trying his best to keep from becoming one. He was also, however, famously known as being quite an excitable person.

  Of course, given the reason for his phone call, anyone in his position would be understandably just as excited. Most would probably be just as unpleasant, as well, if not more so.

  “So, knowing this, if you could, just find him, without any more delays, and put him on the phone—would you, please?”

  Standing in the sands of a long-dried riverbed, a spot thousands of miles from his home, waiting to be connected to the one person who could change his mounting anticipation and eager hunger into unparalleled joy, the caller sighed as the secretary on the other end of their call promised once more to “see what I can do.” With an audible sigh, one incapable of masking his growing fury, the man agreed, then began waiting once more, swallowing his burning frustration as best he could.

  The beating sun ravaged his tall, thin body, stealing every spare drop of moisture it could wring from him. Despite the lightness of his wardrobe—white cotton shirt and socks, shorts cut just above the knees—the heat tore at him. Sweat leaked from his smooth forehead, dampening his close-cropped hair, stinging his brown eyes, dripping from his slightly hooked nose. Standing helplessly in the dry, arid breeze, the man found his body twitching, the muscles in his legs jumping, causing his feet to alternately tap the ground unconsciously, as if he were auditioning for the lead in The Fred Astaire Story.

  And each passing second only rattled the caller further, making him more aware of his surroundings, and of those sharing them with him. Every ticking moment dragged the man away from his hoped-for dreams, turning him back toward reality, toward remembering, toward facing the horrible possibility that he might not be able to accomplish what he needed to through the person he was trying to reach.

  This must work; it has to …

  Of course, he knew, he was being foolish. His panic was unreasonable. Nothing more than nerves—foolishness. There was no actual reason for him to worry. He merely had to calm himself, stop worrying about the expense involved in his call, and wait. The person he was seeking would have no difficulty in delivering unto him that which he so desperately wished to acquire. That person would be happy to do so. And then considerations as vulgar as mere money would become meaningless to him.

  But, he despaired, unable to stop himself, what if I am letting desire blind me? What if he cannot do so? Or … what if he will not? Worse, even if he has no problem with releasing it unto me … after all, he most likely will want nothing more than to grant me complete access to it, but … the museum, they all have their bureaucracy, their red tape, the swirling nightmare of procedure—

  What if there is nothing he can do? What if someone else purchased exclusive research rights? And then, the unthinkable: What if it is no longer within the museum?

  This frightening notion made the breath freeze within his lungs. Despite the sweltering, draining heat of the desert, the tall, thin man felt a terrible chill at the all too real possibility his fears had uncovered. Museums, research centers, universities, they all engaged in such practices anymore as a matter of routine. Ever since the late 1940s especially, the infighting, the resource bundling, favorite-son packaging—all of it nothing more than blatant excuses to tie up access to valuable data for years, decades!

  “Oh my God,” the man muttered, his fears gnawing through the last of the restraints his common sense had been able to provide him. Realizing how the one simple thing he needed might possibly be kept from him, he began to mutter a plaintive mantra: “Oh dear God, dear God in Heaven, oh dear God …”

  The tangle of conflicting thoughts, rushing joy tumbling across a dozen different paranoid reasons for expecting said joy to evaporate made the caller’s ever-mounting tensions grow exponentially. Unable to help himself, the man tried to force himself simply to breathe regularly as his mind continued to ricochet from one extreme to the other until finally his tapping and twitches were in danger of sending him completely out of control.

  “Oh, dear God, dear God in Heaven …”

  Mopping at the sweat pouring down his temples and the back of his neck with his handkerchief, he squeezed out the deeply stained rag, then began again. For a moment, the small torrent surprised him, distracting him from his worries. Having worked in desert settings for so many years, he could not understand from where so much moisture was coming.

  Such a mild diversion could not capture his attention for long, however, and it was but a matter of seconds before his frightened nerves began him mumbling once more.

  “Oh, dear God …”

  Attempting to get hold of his runaway fears, to compel himself back to a calmer state, the wildly perspiring man br
oke off his frenzied mantra and closed his eyes. After forcing himself to simply stare into the darkness behind his eyelids for a moment, he then opened his eyes once more. As he purposely turned his head slowly, working at taking in all around him, a voice from the back of the caller’s mind whispered to him, reminding him of how much he had already accomplished.

  You will not fail in this, it whispered to him warmly. Comfortingly. You will not …

  And indeed, all about him, practically as far as the eye could see, stood solid proof backing up all of its whispered words. In every direction the once barren desert was alive with a steady activity, activity for which he was entirely responsible, that he alone had created through his singular vision and efforts. Workers numbering in the hundreds labored at a score of tasks—clearing heaping mounds of dirt and sand, screening recently loosened clumps of soil, relentlessly searching for miscellaneous bits of the past. Tools, cups, pots, furnishings, musical instruments—even the smallest fragments of the same—anything that had survived, anything that could be found, was treated as what it was: a treasure of incalculable worth.

  You cannot fail… .

  And beyond the laborers lured from every local city, town, and village, as well as the prisoners delivered unto the caller by the local government, a legion of students from around the world labored as well, all of them a part of the caller’s great project. The soothing words whispered by the back of his mind diverted his attention away from his near-crippling fears, focusing it instead once more upon his inspiring accomplishments.

  You must not fail… .

  He had gone against the collected wisdom of all the greatest experts in the field. His ideas had been condemned by every major Assyriologist, and most of the minor ones as well. Their words held considerable weight with Syria’s Directorate General of Antiquities and Museums, but he had offered them more than words. He had poured the passion of his theories into his proposal, had presented his facts and the assumptions build upon those facts with a frenzied belief that one by one had seized the hearts and minds of every government official in his way.