Descendant

by Sean Ellis

  While they waited for the flight to Los Angeles to start boarding, Mira managed to catch up on the news. The world was still in shock from the tense stand-off with Chinese, the focus was already shifting to the interfaith summit that was due to begin in less than twenty-four hours.

  “That’s where he’s going,” she told Kiong. “He’s going to do something with the Trinity at the summit.”

  The blind woman said nothing. Mira made a mental note to get a phrasebook or maybe an electronic translator before leaving the airport, but she sensed that Kiong already knew where Collier was headed.

  I wonder if she knows what he’s going to do when he gets there?

  If Kiong did know, the means to communicate that knowledge to Mira remained beyond her ability.

  64.

  Washington D.C.

  Booker barely recognized the nation’s capital. The streets he had walked just a week ago were now eerily deserted, as if the city had been abandoned. It had not of course, but Booker was informed that a general curfew was in effect, and that everyone who was not already at the National Mall had been ordered to remain at home. No one would be allowed into the downtown area without permission. The effect however was of an urban landscape where humans had ceased to exist. The only evidence that the city was still inhabited took the form of roving military patrols and police checkpoints, none of whom moved to interfere with the convoy that transported them from Joint Airbase Andrews to the center of power.

  The situation changed dramatically when they reached their destination. The National Mall was a sea of barely restrained chaos. Military helicopters swarmed like mosquitos overhead, enforcing a strict ‘no-fly’ zone, and likely providing aerial surveillance and a close air support platform if the need arose. A row of AH-64 “Apache” helicopter gunships were parked in a cordoned-off area of the lawn, reinforcements ready to take to the sky at a moment’s notice if things got really bad. Beyond that, every inch of open ground, from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol, along with several blocks of the surrounding surface streets, sprouted a dizzying mosaic of tents, canopies, blankets and lawn chairs. Crammed into the spaces in between were hundreds of thousands—maybe even millions—of people who had made the pilgrimage and flooded onto the Mall ahead of the order to shut down the city. The air was stifling with the concentration of humans, all radiating body heat and breathing the same air. People were milling about, waiting for something to happen. Some were conversing, a few were arguing, but most appeared to be praying. At the center, ringing the towering spire of the Washington Monument, dozens of large white festival tents had been arranged with considerably more forethought.

  That’s where it’s going to happen, Booker thought. And I have no idea how to stop it.

  He had risked a single call to the number Atlas had given him, and the conversation had been brief and cryptic. The man on the other end had identified himself as Wallace Vaught, one of Atlas’ senior aides. Booker dared not say too much, not with Collier so close, but Vaught quickly grasped his need.

  “We’ll take care of it,” he had said. “Be ready.”

  Booker had no idea what to expect, but as the throng parted before the slow moving train of vehicles bearing Collier, Atlas and himself toward the center, the prospect of any outside help began to evaporate.

  If I can get him alone, maybe we can slip away, blend in with the crowd.

  As plans went, it was piss poor, but there didn’t seem to be any better alternatives.

  The vehicles stopped near the festival tents and Collier got out first. “My presence is required elsewhere,” he said with an almost haughty air.

  He’s totally bought into this Messiah crap, Booker thought. He jerked a thumb at Atlas. “What do you want me to do with him?”

  Collier seemed confused by the question, as if he had forgotten about Atlas. “Find a secure place and hold him there. His role in this will soon become apparent.” Then, he was gone, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

  Booker felt a glimmer of optimism. He stood a much better chance of spiriting Atlas away with Collier out of the picture, but he wondered what Collier had meant with the last bit. Does he even know why he brought Atlas along?

  The possibility that Collier might not know only reinforced Booker’s resolve. Collier was being played; the Trinity was calling the shots, and the much-vaunted emissary was clueless about the real endgame.

  Booker brusquely pulled Atlas from the van, but then loosened his gag and ordered one of the airmen to cut the zip-ties from the prisoner’s wrists.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” asked the airman whose phone he’d borrowed.

  He nodded his head in the direction of the assembled masses. “You want to drag him in front of the world hog-tied like a common criminal?”

  He remembered a line the president had used. “Think about the optics on that. Don’t worry. He won’t try anything.” He gave Atlas a rough shake. “You hear me? Behave yourself.”

  Atlas worked his jaw silently and began massaging his wrists as soon as the plastic straps were removed. He nodded. Message received.

  Booker turned to the airman again. “How ‘bout a couple of you guys go find us a place to settle in. Somewhere out of the way.”

  Two of the Security Force team headed out, but that still left Booker with four of their number to deal with. He pointed to a narrow gap between two tents. “Let’s go that way.” Then he clapped a hand on Atlas’ shoulder. “Watch your step. Wouldn’t want you to trip halfway through.”

  “Of course not,” murmured Atlas, too softly for the airmen to hear.

  Booker started a silent countdown. Ten…nine…eight….

  When Atlas took his dive, he would strike. He figured he could probably take two of them down before they knew what was happening. The rest would be a little trickier, but he didn’t need to completely incapacitate them; a few seconds of lead time would be enough, as long as Atlas could keep up.

  Four…three….

  He tensed his muscles, preparing to uncoil like a striking viper, but then something stopped him. The air directly ahead was roiling, like a mass of convection waves. He blinked, his countdown momentarily forgotten, but the distortion was still there.

  Atlas abruptly pitched forward and Booker was snapped back to reality. He spun around, preparing to strike at the airmen, but even as he drew back for a punch, he saw his target go completely rigid. Several loud pops—the distinctive sound made by electric stun-guns—crackled in the narrow gap between the tents, and a moment later, all four airmen lay motionless on the ground. The air above each one swirled like the aura at the onset of a migraine, but these auras were distinctly man-shaped.

  A voice sounded from out of thin air. “Quick. Put this on.”

  A small black assault bag seemed to materialize in front of him. Booker was too stunned to do anything but stare at the apparition, but Atlas jumped to his feet and hastened forward to seize the pack. He tore it open and passed Booker a bundle of gray cloth.

  “Adaptive camouflage suits,” Atlas said. “Basically a flexible video screen that you wear. Miniature cameras scan the surrounding environment and project it through the fabric. The next best thing to being invisible. Hurry.”

  Booker’s brain did a somersault. Adaptive camouflage? Who has that kind of shit? But then he remembered the attack on the National Laboratory at Los Alamos. Atlas had sent mercenaries equipped with cutting edge gear: liquid body armor, biometric self-destruct devices, and perhaps weirdest of all, adaptive camouflage suits that rendered the men virtually invisible.

  Vaught had come through after all, sending Lightning Force to the rescue.

  The suits looked and felt like Spandex body-stockings, the sort of thing used for Halloween skeleton costumes, but the fabric slipped easily over shoes and clothes. Atlas had his on in a matter of seconds, and Booker hastened to catch up. There was a small plastic device where a belt buckle might have been situated, and as soon as his suit was completely on, Atlas touche
d a button on the device. There was a shimmer of static, and Atlas was gone, replaced by a roiling silhouette that almost perfectly blended in with the white tent behind him. Booker finished donning his own suit and pressed the activation button.

  The fabric grew uncomfortably tight around him, as if the electrical current now surging through the garment had caused its constituent molecules to shrink, but that was a small price to pay for what he now beheld—or rather, what he did not.

  I’m invisible. This is totally sci-fi.

  The suit did not make him completely transparent; anyone looking his way would see the same distortion he had originally noticed. But the human capacity for denial was an amazing thing; people saw what they expected to see, and subconsciously ignored anything that was out of the ordinary.

  “Come on,” Atlas hissed.

  Booker searched for the source of the voice and spotted the distorted forms of Atlas and the Lightning Force mercenaries—he couldn’t tell any of them apart. The shimmering aura was most readily visible on the ground, where evidently the cameras could not process the grass underfoot, so he focused on their footsteps and headed back the way they’d come.

  The retreating group headed into the make-shift tent city, where Booker had to struggle to maintain a visual fix on the rest of the group. After a minute or two of running, he lost sight of them completely.

  They ditched me, he thought, and then his conscience weighed in. Of course they did. They don’t care about you. You’re disposable.

  Then he felt a hand grip his arm and yank him toward a swatch of faded green nylon.

  “In here,” hissed a disembodied voice.

  He stumbled past the flap opening and into the shade of what appeared to be an empty tent. An invisible hand zipped the flap closed, and then three gray-shrouded figures materialized in front of him.

  Booker could only stare in disbelief as the camouflage garments came off, revealing two men with the hard edge of former Spec Ops shooters, and the man he had just helped rescue, Marquand Atlas.

  “We don’t have much time,” Atlas said. “When those soldiers come to, they’ll sound the alarm, and I don’t know if adaptive camouflage is going to hide us from your friend Collier.”

  It took Booker a moment to realize that Atlas’ words were directed at him. “Okay. So what’s the plan?”

  “Plan?” Atlas gave a short, mirthless chuckle. “Maybe you haven’t been paying attention, but I’ve spent the last two days tied-up and gagged.”

  Booker refused to be put off. “You know more about the Trinity and what it can do than anyone alive, so that makes you the expert.”

  “It may not be that simple.” Atlas appeared uncharacteristically agitated. “You see, my judgment is somewhat suspect. I am…connected…to the Trinity, just as Collier is.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Any plan that I might make could very well make the situation worse.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Atlas shook his head, but after a moment’s consideration said, “I can tell you what I think he has planned. That may give us an advantage.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Wise Father has a plan. I don’t know what it is, but you can believe that it isn’t to create heaven on earth. Think about what he’s done so far. One of the first things he did was arrange the massacre of the Ascendant Ones. Why?”

  “They were a threat.”

  “Exactly. And judging by what Collier said back at Lemuria, they still are.”

  “You mean Mira?”

  “And those like her. Or those who may develop powers they aren’t aware of. There could be millions of them. Inasmuch as we are all descended from common ancestors, it may be that everyone on earth has some potential.”

  “And Collier has to shut that down.”

  Atlas shook his head. “Not this time. This time, I believe the Wise Father wants nothing less than total eradication.”

  Booker thought about how Collier had simply vaporized Xu. “Can he do that?”

  Atlas seemed unsure of the answer. “I believe he intends to try. And I believe this Faith Summit has something to do with what he’s planning.”

  Booker needed only chew that over for a few seconds before he saw a shocking possibility. “You say that we might all have a little of this power in us. If millions of people were all praying together, all concentrating on the same thing at the same moment….” He trailed off, unsure of whether to finish what sounded so preposterous in his own ears, but Atlas began nodding emphatically.

  “It’s diabolical. Everyone here at the gathering, all the people watching on live TV all over the world, all mentally focused on what’s happening here. Even in the time of Agartha, this would not have been possible.”

  “So how do we stop him? Disrupt the conference? Get the government to shut it down?”

  “It’s too late for that. No, the Trinity is the key. There will be a massive discharge of energy when the third piece is joined. That is the critical moment. We must prevent him from restoring it.”

  “How? He’s invincible with that thing.”

  “Not invincible,” Atlas assured him. “But what we need to focus on is the Trinity itself. Mira Raiden has shown us that it can be destroyed.”

  “So we just have to get close enough to toss a grenade at it.” Booker’s fingers brushed against the plastic control module on the camouflage suit, wondering if it would hide them from Collier’s eyes.

  “Our best chance may be at the very moment that he begins the joining,” Atlas continued.

  “That’s cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”

  “He will be distracted, at his most vulnerable.”

  Something about that word, ‘vulnerable’ made it all seem real to Booker. For the first time since he’d made his decision to take a stand against Collier, he found himself believing that they might actually succeed. And if they did, what then? Would he be like Mira, branded a traitor and a turncoat by the government he was sworn to defend? Would he be hunted by angry mobs of true believers who knew only that he had somehow interfered with the divine revelation they had been waiting for all their lives?

  Doesn’t matter, he decided. It has to be done, and if I don’t do it, who will?

  65.

  Mira guessed that about five hundred yards separated her from the goal. Over the course of the past two days, she had traveled thousands of miles, chasing the clock, desperate to reach Washington before Collier could execute his final solution against herself and everyone else on earth with even a trace of DNA linking them to the Ascendant Ones.

  The journey reminded her of Zeno’s paradox of motion; the closer she got to her destination, the harder it became to keep moving forward. It had taken about thirty hours for her and Kiong to travel nearly ten thousand miles, from New Zealand to Ronald Reagan Washington International Airport in Arlington, Virginia, and nearly four hours to reach the capital district, less than three linear miles from the airport. Now, with less than a third of a mile to go, their forward progress had been reduced to a snail’s pace. Worse, they didn’t have hours. If Collier kept to his schedule, the Faith Summit would be starting in less than fifteen minutes.

  The airport had been a harbinger of the pandemonium that awaited them on the National Mall. Flights were still arriving on schedule, each plane packed with people urgently trying to reach Washington in time for the summit, but there was nowhere for them to go. All the roads leading to the nation’s capital had been completely shut down. No one was being allowed in. That was where their momentum had begun to falter.

  Mira guided Kiong around the throng and out to the pick-up lane where thousands of recently arrived passengers waited for cabs and busses that weren’t coming. Fifteen minutes of pushing and jostling brought them to the outer edge of the crowd, but with no means of motorized transport to take them across the river, they had no choice but to walk. They made their way to the George Washington Memorial Parkway—“parkway” was an apt de
scription for the endless line of idle cars that stretched as far as the eye could see—and joined a procession of people who had similarly decided to hoof it. It was like a scene from a post-apocalyptic film, a river of humanity abandoning technology and making a desperate pilgrimage to the shining city on the horizon. They were all stopped cold in their tracks however at a police checkpoint blocking the onramp to the Rochambeau Memorial Bridge. Not even pedestrian traffic was being permitted into the city.

  Kiong had hid them from the police, but it was beyond her ability to hide them from the hundreds of watchful eyes massed behind them. As they slipped past the bands of concertina wire blocking the road, Mira could hear angry voices demanding to know why the police were letting them through. She felt sorry for the officers who had no idea why the crowd was getting so agitated, and urged Kiong to pick up the pace lest the situation devolve into a riot.

  From the deserted bridge deck, she had no trouble orienting on their ultimate destination which stood out in stark relief against the blue of the afternoon sky, the five hundred and fifty foot tall marble and granite obelisk that honored the first President of the United States and the man for whom the city was named: the Washington Monument.

  When she had learned that the National Mall was to be the site of the Faith Summit, she had immediately understood Collier’s underlying motive. The obelisk’s pyramid-shape would be the perfect focusing tool to amplify the Trinity’s power and broadcast his message of destruction around the world. Fortunately, it would also meant that she and Kiong would not have to go looking for him. The only uncertainty was whether they could reach him in time. Worn out, with a sea of humanity between them and the goal, uncertainty was giving way to desperation.

  She turned to Kiong. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a trick for getting us through that?”

  Kiong was no more able to comprehend her now than when they had first set out to discover Lemuria. In fact, she seemed to have been physically diminished by the journey, as if the effort of both walking and using her psychic abilities had drained her reserves of energy. She looked frail, as if her body was slowly devouring itself, nevertheless, she straightened at the sound of Mira’s voice. Her face twisted into a mask of concentration, and then, like some miracle from the Bible, people began moving out of the way, squeezing themselves against each other, as if to avoid some unseen hazardous juggernaut that was rolling through their midst.