Koa put his back to the frigid wind, threw one last glance at his colleague, then pressed the key.
On the embedded monitor, within a skeletonized image of a large cube, patterns began to form. The red, green and blue mottled mess, much like a thermal map, flashed up on the screen and slowly but surely worked its way from top to bottom within the cube. As the radar penetrated further, the computer interpreted the results and, on another monitor, produced a rough, luminous blue image of anything that wasn’t ice.
Minutes passed as the GPR worked its magic.
A frown began to form in Koa’s brow. He glanced at Allison. She had her head cocked to one side, her nose scrunched up in confusion. Koa turned his attention back to the image. “Uh, Allison, that look like an impact crater to you?”
“Nope,” she replied.
“You’re making fun of me, right? You set this up,” Koa asked, a nervous chuckle in his throat.
“The hell I did,” Allison fired back. “Are you seeing this, too?” She ran her finger along screen, tracking a perfectly straight line.
Koa turned to his friend, mind racing. “Run it again. And a third time. I have to radio this in.”
Location: Potomac River, Washington, USA
Svetlana stormed down the white-walled corridor adorned with oil paintings from some forgotten era toward the command center. Ribka was already resting in one of the nine bathrooms of this enormous secluded New Age mansion, sat on the Potomac river—only nine kilometers from the kill zone—hiding in plain sight. Her mind raced, rifling through twelve months of recon. She had inspected every inch of the Lincoln memorial, discovered every way in which a breeze could blow through the trees and the concrete. Accounted for humidity and temperature.
Still, she had missed. Because of him. Who was he?
It wasn’t that he was Stratum. Going up against others bonded to Huahuqui was part of the mission. Executing any one of them wouldn’t have been a problem. It couldn’t have been his chiseled good looks and rugged chin-length hair, either. Such things had no effect on her hormones. Individuals did not matter, only the Phalanx. Her family. One mind. One mission. Yet, it was undeniable. When she’d seen him in her scope, standing next to the President of the United States, something in her stirred. Like a distant memory, buried long ago but forged in steel so strong it would not break. The consequences would be severe. Something was wrong with Svetlana. She was broken. And in the Phalanx, broken things were fixed. Mother would see to it.
Svetlana pushed through the large wooden double doors into the ballroom. The space was alive with her Phalanx cell running to and fro, tearing the room to pieces. Computers, monitors, interactive boards, satellite equipment— everything was being dismantled and destroyed beyond recognition.
“What the hell was that?” The burning blue-eyed stare of her Phalanx brother bored holes into Svetlana.
“Back off, Nyalku,” she fired back. “You weren’t there.”
“You’re damn right. Because if I had, she’d be dead.” Nyalku raged up to Svetlana, stopping inches from her—using his full six-foot two height to tower over her mere five and half feet.
A swift knee to his balls doubled him over. Svetlana followed it with a sharp elbow strike to his temple that sent him sprawling to the cold floor. She drew back to kick him square in the stomach but was grabbed by several of her Phalanx brothers and sisters.
Svetlana shook herself free. “Get off me.”
“We don’t have time for this, ‘Lana,” Natascha said through clenched teeth. “We need to clear out and make it to the backup location as soon as possible. You two can beat each other to death later.”
“He’ll be the dead one,” Svetlana snapped back.
“Whatever, look, Mother wants to talk to you. We haven’t dismantled the Confessional yet. You got ten minutes. Make it fast.”
The Confessional. The nickname her splinter had given the small converted cloakroom just off the ballroom. Shielded from interference and surveillance, there was only one secure communication channel in. And the only time it was ever used was when their Mother called. And if Mother called, someone was in line for punishment. More often than not, that someone was Svetlana.
She stepped inside and closed the door with a thunk click. The fluorescent lights flickered on revealing orange walls lined with material that resembled giant egg cartons, designed to absorb sound waves, and a single monitor with an embedded microphone.
The screen winked to life. On it was the cold face of Mother, hard and angular, framed by a severe greying blond bob. About her neck hung the inverted cross she always wore. Victoria McKenzie was not a woman with whom to trifle. Still, Svetlana couldn’t show weakness.
“What happened, daughter?” Victoria asked.
“I missed,” Svetlana replied without missing a beat.
“Evidently,” Victoria replied, her tone sharp. “The question is, why?”
“I don’t know, Mother. There was someone there. A man with a Huahuqui. He... um... I ...”
“A man?” Victoria raised an eyebrow. “What man could make you miss a shot? You do not miss, Svetlana. You never miss.”
Svetlana shook her head in shame. “I know. I don’t understand it myself. I felt his aura. I felt him inside my head. He must be a strong one. His face was not on the list. They must have dropped him in last minute.”
Victoria stared out from the monitor, as if contemplating the idea they’d missed something in the recon. “You need to come home.”
“I’m fine. I can take a second shot. I won’t miss.”
“You’re not fine. The jet is already waiting. You come home. Now. The assassination window has passed.”
“But ...”
“Not another word,” Victoria shook with the words, her eyes afire.
“Yes, Mother.”
The monitor clicked off and Svetlana was left bathing in the harsh fluorescent light. Why hadn’t she told Mother that she thought she recognized him? Or that he seemed to recognize her? That was probably a mistake she would pay for later.
CHAPTER TWO
Location: The White House, Washington D.C., USA
Lucy made another lap of the Resolute desk in the Oval office. She stared at the scuffed carpet laid less than a year ago. If she wasn’t careful, it would be worn out by tomorrow. She took a seat, rested her elbows on the desk, and pulled at her face.
Today had been a disaster.
Nearly two decades ago, she’d managed to set up Alpha Base allowing the Huahuqui and the children to live in relative peace. For nearly ten of those years she’d put her own political ambitions on hold—her desire for the Presidency—to focus entirely on the Antarctic Accords. This multi-national agreement provided protection for Huahuqui, but more importantly gave the best minds in the world time to find irrefutable proof that the Huahuqui were sentient and that their bond to the children was a mutually beneficial symbiosis.
It had drawn every valid scientist and contrasting nut job from the cracks of the known world. Alpha Base, governed by a body sanctioned by the United Nations, had received countless proposals for research on the Huahuqui – everything from behavioral observation to requests to euthanize some of the creatures to understand their biology.
And then, of course, there were the non-scientists.
A large faction of people of faith did not take well to the idea of the Huahuqui, or what they represented. Protests from hardline Christian and Islamic groups still popped up like violent brush fires, spreading quickly, and often required to be extinguished through use of military intervention. A decision taken by her predecessor—one she had put off revising despite her own moral struggle with it. At the other end of the scale, there were those who had abandoned their original faith, if they had one at all, in favor of deifying the Huahuqui. The largest group was headed by a rich and quite eccentric internet mogul by the name of Heston. He had used his wealth to create physical places of worship all over the world, and pseudo-science to stitch anc
ient texts into a single bible. The groups called themselves the Sixth Sun. Ironic given their reference to Mayan mythology would suggest the Fifth Sun had ended. It hadn’t, and it wouldn’t. Not on Lucy’s watch.
Perhaps most painful was the constant stream of families attempting to make it to Antarctica in hopes of a cure for a loved one. News of the Huahuqui’s extraordinary healing powers had spread quickly. For a mother whose child had incurable cancer, braving the icy seas was worth it. With tourist trips to the frozen continent now banned, families tried illegal journeys. Most died. Those who made it were simply deported back to their home country. It was so commonplace now, it barely made news.
Today’s incident however, was news.
Instead of a day of celebration finally recognizing that humans must share this planet with an equal but different species, a bloodbath was broadcast live for the world to see. Leaders of three major powers cut down on television. Only Lucy had survived. Thanks to Kelly Graham Junior. She needed to thank him in person, at least at some point. The young man was smart and brave; the living embodiment of his father. And just as rash. Word was, he’d gone after the shooter alone.
The shooter.
Who the hell had the resources for an operation like that? It would be easy to chase down leads on the religious zealots, or perhaps extreme members of Tunbridge’s cult who believed the Huahuqui deserved to be above humans. But, of course, Lucy knew the answer. She’d been waiting for them to show themselves. The Nine Veils.
“Madam President?”
Lucy looked through her fingers to see her Secretary of State hovering in the doorway. “Joshua, please come in.”
He hesitated before slipping into the room and closed the door behind. “I have messages from Russia, China, France, the UK... not to mention the NSA, CIA, Alpha Base, Freya Teller, Jonathan Teller ...”
Lucy sighed and leaned back into her chair. “I get the picture.”
“You need to start talking. Have a formal response. I’ll send in Amanda.”
“No,” Lucy snapped. “No speech writers, no prepared press fluff today. The public will feel it. World leaders will feel it. It has to come from me.”
Joshua tightened his lips. “Amanda won’t like that.”
“When has Amanda ever liked what I say?”
“She is the Press Secretary,” Joshua replied. “With the country’s best interests at heart, I might add.”
“I know. It’s why I hired her. She’s a sounding board and a good one. But, her stance and my stance on how to approach the Stratum issue differ.” Lucy shook her head. “No, I’ll deal with this.”
Joshua nodded, but didn’t leave.
“Is there something else?”
“At each site, well except ours, there was something left behind. A puzzle box.”
Instantly, Lucy was transported back 17 years. Watching on the monitor as the American and Japanese strike teams stormed what they believed to be the Nine Veils nerve center. Instead they found her friend Steve Chang twisted beyond recognition and nailed to a tree. And in the tree, a Japanese puzzle box.
It took a long time for that box to be investigated, studied, and eventually opened for fear of what might happen if it were forced—perhaps releasing a toxin, another virus, or some unknown kind of bomb. It was none of those things. It was simply a scroll with Aymaran text: the future is behind us. Simply put, the world’s governments were arrogant enough to think they knew what the future would hold. The Nine Veils disagreed. Now, there were new puzzle boxes. God only knew what they contained and how long it would take to find out—and what new nugget of terrifying wisdom they may bestow.
Location: Andrews Airforce Base, Washington DC, USA
KJ sat in the modified G800; an aircraft designed solely for trips between Alpha Base in Antarctica and key cities around the globe. There were several of these craft, outfitted for increased humidity—for the Huahuqui—and could transport a dozen pairs of symbiotes. There had been many protestors to the expense of these jets at the taxpayers cost, but traveling with everyday Joes just wasn’t feasible. At least for now.
The jets engines roared, thrusting the sleek vessel down the runway and into the air, but KJ paid no attention; his mind was awash with the events of the morning. Had that really been Svetlana after all this time? What had the Nine Veils done to her? Was she a super assassin now? He was sure he saw the nine tattoo on her neck, and he knew what that meant. She’d go ka-boom any time her bosses chose. Just like the night Minya died on the Marion Dufresne II. Dropped into the freezing ocean by his mother—to save him. Minya... KJ hadn’t thought of her in a long time but the memory immediately led to her son, Nikolaj. He would oppose KJ’s plan for sure.
Following the death of Minya, the two boys had grown up under the same roof as brothers. Nikolaj and his Huahuqui, Chernoukh, were the golden duo. Always studious and helpful, trying to impress KJ’s mom and Jonathan. Those two were every Alpha Base scientist’s pet pair, helping to understand the biology behind the bond. Jonathan seemed to take special delight in their achievements.
KJ on the other hand didn’t give a shit about any of that. It wasn’t about science or numbers or theories—KJ could do all that in his sleep—it was about feeling. His own bond with K’awin was the strongest of any of the Stratum, and he did it without sticking his nose deep in some scientist’s ass crack. It just was. And because of that, KJ had still inched Nikolaj out of the Washington ceremony at the last minute. Nikolaj had jibed that the only reason KJ got the spot was because of his father, Kelly; that Lucy felt some sort of responsibility to honor the memory of the man. KJ had punched him for that remark. Kelly Graham was a hero. A real man who thought on his feet, said what he meant, and followed through on his promises—no matter what anyone else believed.
KJ shook his head. “Whatever,” he said, under his breath. It didn’t matter. With or without Nikolaj, he would gather his closest friends in the Stratum, find Svetlana, save her, and defeat the Nine Veils in the process. Because that was the right thing to do. Because it’s what his father would have done.
“KJ, you okay?”
KJ looked up to the concerned gaze of Catherine, her orange locks tousled around her perfect face. Even though she was in her early forties, her porcelain skin still seemed flawless.
“Yeah, just thinking,” KJ replied.
“Uh huh. So, you got a plan when we arrive in Antarctica?”
“Of course. I’ll gather up any Stratum who’ll follow me and find that shooter.”
“You know there’s entire government agencies looking now, right?” Catherine gave a knowing smile.
“C’mon, Cat. You know me better than that. And since when do you turn down an adventure?”
“Hey,” she replied, raising her hands. “I’m all for a story. And if what you tell me is true, about who this could be, then if anyone can find her it’s you. Have you told your mother you think it’s Svetlana?”
KJ hadn’t told anyone, not the president, not his mother. Not even his fellow Stratum, yet; he didn’t want to risk telepathic conversation with this. After feeling Svetlana in his mind, it was now damn worrying that the Nine Veils could have been listening to him and his brethren conversing all these years. Proximity seemed to be key, but that wasn’t a given. Something still itched at his brain, even at this distance.
“Not yet. Not ‘til I’m sure,” KJ said.
“She’s gonna have an aneurism.”
KJ laughed. “What else is new?”
“She’ll blame me, you know.”
He shook his head. “I won’t let her.”
“I’m not sure that’s your choice.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said with a wink and patted K’awin who lay asleep at his side.
“Don’t you dare do the mind thing, KJ. Last time, I ended up with no shirt.”
KJ broke out into a belly laugh. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was just proving a point.”
Catherine narrowed her eyes and pursed
her lips. “You’re not bloody sorry.”
KJ loved that Irish accent. “No.” He laughed. “I’m not.”
Location: unknown
From the pinnacle of his stone temple, the Doyen admired the richly green, shallow-sloped, rice terraces decorated with pink peach and white pear blossom. A few quaint, abandoned, mushroom-shaped houses dotted the walkways. Hundreds of pools reflected the sea of colors and clouds in the sky. Originally farmed by locals, they were as beautiful as they were useful to his army of Huahuqui who now bathed in them.
In contrast to the warm view, a cold wind bit at his face. He gently placed a hand on the head of the Huahuqui at his side. The Doyen had claimed this large female specimen, with a mauve diamond patch on her forehead, as his own and named her Neith after the Egyptian goddess of war and of hunting—one of the most ancient deities and associated with the great flood. It seemed fitting.
He sucked in a sharp breath. The air was crisp and clean, not a single sound to be heard. But, this would not last. Soon, there would be chaos. Noise and bloodshed. The spilling of blood had never made him comfortable. It was a necessity. And as often as possible he had ensured someone else’s hands had been stained, be it Aum Shinrikyo, the Green and Red Society, or some other pawn in this grand game of chess. However, in recent times, Victoria had advised direct war using the army of Russian orphans he had acquired, most notably to seize the children and Huahuqui in Antarctica nearly twenty years ago. He had to admit, it was effective. Yet, his forbears would likely turn in their grave.
For more than six thousand years his cult had orchestrated every major shift in the path of humanity. Operating in the shadows, whispering in the ears of the advisors to the advisors of the most powerful men on Earth. In antiquity, royal bloodlines ruled the world, and royal bloodlines were produced from the inbreeding of cretins. None more so than the Pharaohs of Egypt. Marrying their siblings to produce mindless offspring who were given the throne as mere children. They did not really rule, but were manipulated by even more moronic priests who worshipped the sun god Ra. These spiritual men had forgotten the teachings of the Knowledge Bringers—the Huahuqui—who were murdered eons earlier. But his predecessors had not forgotten. They desired to continue to shape the future of mankind in the ways of science. And so, the cult of Apep was born.
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