Children of the Fifth Sun

by Gareth Worthington

  Location: Hong Kong, China

  The Shan Chu walked to the window and stared at his reflection. The darkness of the night sky transformed the tall glass of the high-rise office window into a full-length mirror, though the colored lights of the Hong Kong skyline obscured his image. He stared into his own cold, black, narrow eyes, formulating his next move.

  He turned on his heel to face the two men who stood on the other side of the large oak desk. Their nervous demeanor, shuffling awkwardly on the spot, belied the confidence their crisp designer suits would otherwise convey. Neither one raised his head, each instead choosing to keep his gaze fixed on the floor.

  The man by the window stepped around the desk, stopping when he was within arm’s length of the closer of the two men. In one smooth motion, he pulled a meat cleaver from a concealed holster at the back of his suit jacket and sliced twice. The first cut separated the man’s left ear from his head. Blood poured from the open wound. The second slice, anticipating the man’s reflexive response of clutching at the gory orifice, severed his left hand at the wrist. The man screamed and dropped to the floor. Blood pooled around him. His companion shook and shivered violently but didn’t move from his position.

  “It seems to me,” began the Shan Chu, “you do not understand my instruction in our mother tongue. Perhaps if I speak in the ugly, basic American language, you will comprehend. Maybe with one ear, you will learn to concentrate on my instructions better.” His voice was deep and menacing. His accent, while of an East Asian persuasion, was not easily associated with any one country.

  He cleaned the customized blade with a silk cloth he had drawn from his jacket pocket. The thick blood smeared across the smooth metal and pooled within the ornate dragon etched along its length. He focused his concentration on meticulously mopping up any remaining fluid from the engraving while talking to the sniveling men. “You failed to obtain the creature at Paradise Ranch. Then, when you did capture it, somehow the American amateurs were able to reclaim it from you—from within one of our own submarines.” He kept his voice level, never looking back at them. “Even when I organized the release of the virus in California, tying up their resources and politicians, you were unable to find this band of misfits or the creature. Only when I learned of their arrival in Siberia did we have another chance to take it from them. But again, my gift was squandered. Your buffoons managed not only to get themselves killed but also to kill the creature and destroy the orb.” He fixed an icy stare on the men. “I needed them both. We have no choice now. Our control of the People’s Army has been lost. I will travel to America and make contact with the 14K there. Wan Kuok-Lóng is the Dragon Head in Chicago.”

  The unscathed subordinate dared to raise his eyes. “But,” he began nervously, “the 14K in particular is difficult to control.” He stuttered and then stopped talking, regretting his outburst.

  The Shan Chu stepped over the bloodied man lying on the floor and pressed the cold sharp steel of his machete under the other’s sweaty chin. “Are you questioning me, Ping?”

  “No, no, of course not, Shan Chu.” Fear danced on the glassy surface of the man’s eyes.

  “Good.” He lowered the blade, leaving a shallow gash in Ping’s chin. “Speak with Wan Kuok-Lóng’s Straw Sandal. Tell him I will come soon. We must regain what is rightfully ours. Now go. And take Bao-Zhi with you.”

  Ping, frightened and sweating profusely, nodded and grabbed his crying friend and heaved him across the carpet. As he exited through the large double doors, he didn’t turn his back to his superior.

  Left alone in his office, the Shan Chu placed his machete on the table, straightened his dark, one-buttoned suit and slicked back his long, black hair. Elegantly, he strode across the room and opened the intricately-carved double doors of a large rosewood cabinet. Inside was a small black screen. He pressed his right thumb against it. The glass flickered into life, displaying nine electric blue Chinese symbols. He tapped several of them and stood back. From within the cabinet, there was a faint click followed by a hiss as the false back slid downward. An iridescent blue light lit the Shan Chu’s face, casting strange and unearthly shadows across it.

  This time, we will be successful.

  Location: Lima, Peru, South America

  Swirling patterns of color penetrated the darkness. The smoky trails were bright and comforting at first but became intense and dark all too soon. Crimsons, burnt oranges, and deep purples replaced the yellows, blues, and greens. A deep-seated feeling of menace spread through him as the vision shifted.

  The swirls became geometric shapes that moved in unison with malevolent intelligence and definite direction toward him. They twisted from two-dimensional to three-dimensional structures that seemed to fall away into a darkness that sucked him in, yanking on his insides as if he were riding a rollercoaster. He swallowed his fear and fought back the nausea. I will not be afraid.

  In an instant, the shapes melded together, the color draining from them until only a white mass sat in the darkness. The shape rose and fell like the chest of a sleeping child. As he focused harder on the gelatinous form, he observed the beginnings of limbs and a head. Slowly, the shape dribbled into its final morphology.

  K’in, the man-sized salamander-like creature padded in slow motion toward him, his red fan of gills bobbing with his gait. Bright blue eyes shone from the middle of his face. The sight of the animal pushed any last remnants of fear from his heart.

  Other forms, humans and K’in-like creatures, emerged from the darkness. Walking slowly and calmly toward him, their hands were outstretched, wanting—needing—to make contact with him. He held out one arm in reciprocation. A feeling of complete release washed over him.

  Kelly’s stomach convulsed, forcing the vision from his mind and a watery liquid from his insides. He leaned over and vomited all over the wet patch of mud on which he sat. He folded his arms across his midriff and nursed his aching gut while swirling saliva around his mouth to extinguish the acrid taste. He fell on his side and rested his head in the warm dirt. The rain, now more of a light speckle, wet his face.

  “Hello, Mr. Graham.” The strong Russian accent, with its epiglottal h sound, was familiar.

  Kelly pried his eyes open and looked up. Against the painfully bright, white sky was the dark silhouette of Minya. Her sodden red hair stuck to her head, and her hazel eyes threw a cold, judgmental stare. He couldn’t quite figure her out. She cared enough about her appearance to dye her hair and wear some makeup, but that was where her femininity seemed to end.

  “Ayahuasca tea?” she asked.

  Kelly nodded. “Yes, Ayahuasca tea.”

  The visionary brew comprised the vine of Banisteriopsis caapi and the leaves of shrubs from the genus Psychotria. It was a foul-tasting concoction that had been used for millennia by the people of Peru for its divinatory and healing purposes. It also always made Kelly throw up.

  “The shaman seems to have a better constitution than you.” Minya waved a hand at the old man who sat opposite Kelly, cross-legged on the ground.

  Kelly groaned. “He’s had a lot more practice.”

  The shaman, dressed in a brightly-colored poncho and equally gaudy wool cap with earflaps, squinted quizzically at Kelly.

  Grunting, Kelly lifted his face from the muck and translated Minya’s comments into his best Quechua. He then flopped head-first back into the mud.

  The old man laughed out loud, his leathery brown skin creasing into a thousand folds with a huge smile, before clambering to his feet. He shuffled across to Kelly and patted him on the head. “He has not found his Huaca,” the old man said.

  “His what?” Minya asked.

  But the man did not reply and simply meandered off into the forest.

  Kelly closed his eyes and groaned again, rubbing his aching stomach. It brought Minya’s attention back to the grousing man at her feet.

  “Man, you are like big child. You realize the tea contains high dose of DMT?”

  Kelly nodded. H
e was well aware of this fact. Every batch of tea was different and contained different concentrations of DMT. Each time he drank it, the visions were more or less intense. But each time, it was like an escape—like he had been lifted as he had when he had been connected to K’in.

  Despite Kelly’s efforts to become engrossed in various community projects in the little village—building schools and helping the residents fish—he had never felt settled, never felt truly calm. Since his separation from K’in, there had been a chasm in his chest—bigger than after the loss of Izel, Carmen, and even his best friend, Chris. It was something beyond love and beyond friendship. All he knew was the Ayahuasca tea was the only way he escaped the emptiness. And his relationship with it was beginning to border on dependence.

  “I have never consumed the tea myself. You are okay?”

  “Sure, I’m fine,” Kelly lied. “I throw up every time. You get used to it.”

  “You do not seem to get used to it, Mr. Graham.”

  He opened one eye to view her. That calculating stare hadn’t diminished. She was analyzing him. “Perhaps you’re right. By the way, thanks for coming to the funeral.”

  “Alejandro was a friend. You know, he wrote to me many times in last year.”

  “Yeah, to me, too.”

  “He mentioned you.”

  “Oh, really? What’d he say?” Kelly forced a chuckle. “Actually, scratch that. I don’t think I wanna know.”

  Minya smiled weakly. “Not all bad.”

  “So, back to Russia for you?”

  “Siberia. But no. I need to go to U.S.A.”

  “Oh?”

  “Da. And so do you.”

  “Hey, look, I like you and all but hitting on me at a funeral? You Russians are quick off the mark.”

  Minya stared at him, her face deadpan. “Siberian. And I do not hit on you, Mr. Graham.” This time she purposefully emphasized the h. “I had phone call. It was for you.”

  “What?”

  “It was the U.S. Secretary of State.”

  “The Secretary of State? What’d he want?”

  “She said she needs your help and perhaps even mine. She said it was quite urgent. Something to do with Ms. Nilsson.”

  Kelly sank into his thoughts. It had been a year since he’d seen Freya. Was she alright? “Sure, right. Did she say what happened? Is Freya okay?”

  “I do not know. I am not Secretary, Mr. Graham.” Again, Minya’s response was unemotional and matter-of-fact. “There is truck waiting for us in town. It will take us to airport.”

  His stomach fluttered at the thought of seeing Freya again, a feeling that turned to nausea at the thought of her possible demise. He nodded and hauled himself off the ground with an overly loud groan. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Da, Charasho.”

  “Christ,” he said, flicking the hair from his face yet again. “You got any scissors on you?”

  Location: Vladivostok, Siberia

  Polkovnik Sasha Vetrov paced the damp room, occasionally stopping to pick up a piece of garbage, examine it, and put it down. His highly-polished black boots sparkled in the dim overhead lights while his olive-green, heavy wool uniform blended into the surrounding moss-covered walls. A light-green, peaked cap was tucked under his left arm, expertly held in place even while he completed his inspection of various objects.

  He raised his head and scanned the room with narrowed eyes. The atmosphere was strange—even for him. The Stalinesque parquet flooring, oak-paneled walls, and gilded door handles were no longer grand. Instead, they just served as a reminder that Russia’s glory was very much behind her.

  The Polkovnik picked up one of the wooden chairs that had been laid on its side and took a seat, staring at the projection screen that had once been a map of Primorye. He wasn’t even studying it, just lost in his own thoughts.

  He and his associates had followed the story of the clone closely, albeit watching from a distance. The Chinese and American governments had squabbled like children over the creation—a great power and the last of the ancient civilization. Russia’s Federation Council and State Duma had been quite clear on the issue—let the West and the East decimate each other.

  But their war had spilled into his homeland. So now he was involved. And his instructions were non-negotiable: collaboration was the key. Fighting the Americans and Chinese simultaneously wasn’t an option. His government had chosen a side, and he was bound by command and honor to stand by this alliance—no matter how much he hated it.

  The Polkovnik’s anger boiled over. He leapt from his chair and grabbed it before flinging it at the back wall as hard as he could. His roar echoed around the room, followed by the hollow smash of wood on brickwork.

  No one came to investigate the commotion. The soldiers knew this about their Captain, their Polkovnik. He was passionate. And God save the man who dared get in his way when he was frustrated.

  Sasha straightened his uniform, picked up his hat from the floor, and then made his way to the long stairway that led into the cold air outside. As he stepped out of the gloom into the fading starlight of dawn, his nostrils were still flaring. The crisp atmosphere of Vladivostok calmed him. He surveyed the myriad of lights emanating from the boats on their moorages, harbor cranes, and hundreds of colorful houses clinging to the slopes of the hills. While they were primarily Soviet buildings, they appeared organic against the background of an urban landscape that was punctuated with gothic cathedrals.

  Having left the catacombs of the fortress, his phone regained its link to the satellite and hummed in silent mode within his tunic pocket. He stopped walking and dug around inside for it. After a short struggle to pry it from his tight-fitting uniform, he opened its clam-shell case and answered. “Da?”

  The voice on the other end spoke for a few minutes. The Polkovnik stood silently, absorbing the information. Without speaking another word, he ended the call and signaled another officer in a similar green uniform to come to his location.

  The soldier walked briskly forward. “Da, Polkovnik?”

  Sasha barked something in Russian, indicating a westerly direction with an outstretched arm and pointed finger.

  “Da, Polkovnik.” The junior officer nodded, turned about face, and marched off.

  Sasha’s attention was drawn back to his beloved town. Oddly stretched on knolls that slipped into the sea, Vladivostok was considered one of the most picturesque cities in all of Russia. Indeed, while its rich military heritage was well known to the locals, the town’s rustic beauty had become quickly recognized by foreign tourists, who now descended upon it like vultures. Thousands of camera-wielding, fat Americans flocked and flapped around the city, using its unique geography to photograph the breathtaking panoramas and the white-winged yachts that slowly rocked in Zolotoy Rog Bay.

  He watched the people below scurry about their daily lives, going in and out of small buildings and cycling through alleys. They were unaware of what had happened here and were oblivious to the danger that lurked within their streets. The people were open and friendly, never losing their sense of humor or passion for what could be—a testament to the struggle of their ancestors. It was his job to protect them and shelter them from foreign enemies—at all costs.

  He turned and stormed toward a caravan of four black, special-purpose, armored assault vehicles. The Polkovnik admired them as he approached the lead truck. He had been lucky to obtain them. These prototypes, codenamed Ansyr, were designed to support special operations, patrols, and reconnaissance. Each thirteen-foot-long, wedge-shaped vehicle was capable of operating successfully in temperatures ranging from minus forty-nine to one-hundred-twenty degrees Fahrenheit and at altitudes of up to one-thousand feet. Most importantly, the lockable inter-axle and cross-axle differentials and all-wheel independent suspension meant it could cross any terrain. He would need it where he was going.

  The door slammed shut with a satisfying heavy clunk. Sasha nodded. The driver nodded back. With a fierce growl, the engine rose fro
m its slumber and powered the monstrous vehicle forward.

  Location: Dulce Base, New Mexico, USA

  The wheels of the massive Chinook touched down. The side door slid open with a substantial thump, and Kelly dropped onto the dusty ground, closely followed by Minya. Both were dressed practically in utility pants, heavy boots, and loose-fitting t-shirts. Each had a large backpack slung over a shoulder.

  A dusk sky had ignited the powder blue of day, though within a few hours, it would be extinguished by the wash of night. Out in the desert, there was no light pollution. The stars shone brightly and were even visible against the dying light of the sun.

  Kelly pulled the aviator sunglasses from his face. He saw the dark silhouette of a large structure sitting like a lifeless lump in the distance. It was all too familiar—the chopper ride, an unfamiliar and desolate place, the apprehension, and the U.S. Government being as clear as mud—again. He shook his head.

  “Nutflies,” he said, under his breath.

  “Stoh? I mean, what?” Minya asked.

  “Nothing. I just got a bad feeling.”

  From within the haze of the dying evening heat, a man approached them, dressed in formal pants and shirt, his necktie pulled away from the collar.

  “I’m Dr. Parnham,” the man said.

  Kelly frowned. “Where’s Freya?”

  “Ms. Nilsson? She’s inside the facility,” the doctor replied, appearing thrown by Kelly’s abrupt greeting.

  “Facility? I don’t see a facility.”

  “There.” The doctor waved an arm behind him toward an enormous, red farmhouse about a hundred yards away. Its silhouette revealed a dilapidated and unmaintained building. Its huge doors squeaked in the strong breeze.

  “Wow, budget cuts, huh? Before it was Paradise Ranch. Now it’s just Ranch.” Kelly chuckled at his own joke. No one else did. “Jesus, doesn’t anyone have a sense of humor anymore?”