by Bill Schutt
The Chinese tried to sidestep the Russian blockade, shifting to a new line of fire against the trapped Devil’s Brigader. The Soviets moved again into a line-blocking position, reminding Mac of Charles Knight’s sculpture of a T. rex and Triceratops squaring off for battle. The difference was that, at least for now, this standoff appeared to be all show, with little desire by either side to charge. The comparison broke down completely as the second Chinese helicopter moved steadily nearer, making it inevitable that they would soon outflank the Russian on either side.
While the aerial chess match began to take shape, Mac considered the two likely outcomes for those on the ground: killed by the Chinese or captured by the Russians and disappearing after “Uncle Joe” tortures out all the information he wants from us.
Mac thought again about Charles Knight’s sculpture and the two ancient enemies—neither quite willing to attack the other.
“Maybe I can change this,” he said to himself, noting that one of the Chinese helicopters was drifting into just the right geometry and was on the verge of eclipsing the Russian helicopter. Confident that the engine noise would drown out the sound of his sidearm, Mac waited for the very second the airborne geometry became perfect, then fired off three shots and quickly ducked.
Simultaneously, four puffs of smoke shot out from behind a rock shelter on the other side of the Russian helicopter. The bullets bypassed that craft and struck the other. After a moment of confusion, Mac realized exactly what had happened—someone else recognized the same fortuitous geometry and contrived the same plan, at the same moment.
The two sides were so focused on the trapped American, and on one another, that neither saw the actual shooters. The Chinese seemed only to notice penetrating gunfire from the direction of the Russian helicopter, and vice versa.
“MacCready!” Wang cried out beside him. “Stay down!”
Mac paid him no attention and kept just low enough, peering between rocks, to prevent the now confused and distracted intruders from seeing, and guessing, what had just happened. He had hoped to trigger at least a scrimmage, but what erupted now was a runaway spasm of gunfire that increased in ferocity for the better part of a minute.
The Chinese had nothing more substantial, for protection, than a canvas-and-glue hull. And, although the Russian helicopter came equipped with several patches of armor plating, the Soviets found themselves outgunned by the Chinese.
Within that first minute, within that single sweep of a stopwatch, the crew of the nearer Chinese helicopter were dead even before it fell to the ground. The Russians gained only a brief respite—perhaps twenty seconds more of life, for both of their pilots were slumped dead in their seats from Chinese gunfire. Mac thought he could discern at least two figures struggling into the cockpit as the Russian ship rotated away from him, staggered across the sky, then dropped upon the chopper aboard which Wang had arrived. It shattered against the older machine, scattering fire and smoke and throwing the few who survived—however briefly—into a disoriented, flaming rout.
As Mac watched, the second Chinese helicopter, its engine laboring, disappeared over the sheer cliff, beyond the spot where death had by now claimed the last of the Russian crew.
Reasonably sure that there were no guns trained on them, Mac and Wang bounded down from their hiding place. They reached snow and slid to a stop.
“Stay down!” MacCready shouted, but the surviving Devil’s Brigaders were already huddled around the body of their dead friend. Jack was covering them with his Colt .45 and he gave Mac a nod. Taking in the scene, Mac let out a deep breath as Yanni, unharmed, and the little mammoth came out into the open.
“Nice shooting, huh?” Jack called out. “But I’m afraid I’ve only got two rounds left.”
“That was you?” Mac followed.
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “What’s that they say about great minds?”
But staring down at the body of the Devil’s Brigader, Mac decided to say nothing.
The Bostonian, however, wasn’t quite through. “So, can you tell me why the Chinese and the Russians are running air raids on Tibet?”
MacCready shook his head, very slowly. “That’s a story for another time,” he said. “If ever.”
An unmistakable noise distracted them. Somewhere far below the strewn-field of wreckage, the other Chinese helicopter had survived and was—despite the rattle and shriek of an engine in distress—returning.
“Get to cover!” Mac yelled at Yanni, as the little mammoth instinctively placed its own body between hers and the onrushing sound.
Mac turned to face the roar of the approaching gunship, taking a bead on the edge of the shelf where he calculated the flying machine would emerge.
Jack followed MacCready’s lead. “What the hell are these guys so hot to find?” he pressed again.
But now there was no time to stonewall or deny; there was only time to face the enemy.
God damn you, Pliny, Mac thought. Why couldn’t you have stayed in fucking Rome?
In the Valley of the Cerae
Late Summer, a.d. 67
Five weeks after the Scythian defeat
There were no celebrations among the Cerae—nothing resembling a victory party, no outward expression of triumph.
“They are not us,” Pliny warned Severus. “I do not believe we can even call them people.”
Within hours, after only the briefest recess for a meal and sleep, the Cerae shifted to a widely communicated and apparently universally agreed-to plan. In response to it, they became as active as a nest of paper wasps.
The winds blew fitfully down from the hills. The mists of the Opal Sea rose and fell in waves, and in the center of the sea, the Cerae themselves were doing what Scythian ballistae had failed to do. They were bringing down the central tower.
“But why?” Proculus asked him.
“It’s the most visible evidence of their existence in this valley,” Pliny explained. “And a potential beacon to future invaders—a beacon they’ve decided to extinguish.”
In only a month, the tower had been completely dismantled. Architects, warriors, and mammoths now put to the yoke hauled it away piece by piece to some hidden lair.
By Pliny’s accounting, the Cerae physicians and architects had suffered something worse than a decimation—battle losses that had now led to a shortage of architecturally talented minds. As a result, Pliny and Proculus were escorted deep into a cave system where they were “invited” to assist in the drawing up of new structural designs. This surprising activity focused primarily on sketching in their own opinions on Ceran plans for underground roof supports. The system was being expanded at a furious rate, much of it branching out into and then remodeling a preexisting labyrinth of natural tunnels and caverns.
On the fortieth day after war’s end, Pliny stood on the lip of the balcony he and Proculus still shared. It would be their last day here, since the building was also being systematically deconstructed. The gardens below were a hive of activity in which each of the pallid white plants was carefully uprooted for transport to a new subterranean home.
Pliny shrugged. “By the winter solstice, every trace of these buildings will be gone.”
“After their encounters with the Pandayans, the Scythians, and us,” said Proculus, “they must know that the world outside is growing larger—and closer.”
“And so they’ve decided to hide every trace of themselves, under the fog and under the ground.”
Through a space between stone arches, they watched the frozen body of the great bull elephant being carefully prepared for transport to the caves.
Pliny gestured toward the activity. “Including that monstrosity.”
Proculus nodded, but said nothing.
“But what of the weapons they used to destroy the Scythians?” Pliny asked. “What if they decided to train such abominations against Rome?”
Proculus uttered a humorless laugh. “You have raised this question before.”
“Yes. And on that
day we had not yet seen the immensity of such power. I cannot bear to think of these living weapons—or something even worse—following trade routes and Roman roads into the very heart of the empire.”
Next door, the balcony Severus and Teacher had shared was being carted away in pieces. Even as Pliny and Proculus watched, one of the worms, fleeing the commotion, inched toward the two of them. Then, sensing their presence, it darted away.
Pliny gestured toward the tiny creature. “The buildings are not all that’s changing.”
“I’ve noticed,” Proculus replied.
Both of them were aware that physically, the worms were becoming smaller, faster, and seemingly more sleek-bodied than the ones they had seen at the death pits and during the battle.
Pliny did not understand the mechanism involved—no one would for nearly eighteen hundred years. And even then, Charles Darwin himself would neither see nor imagine evolution occurring at such a pace.
As Pliny and his friend prepared to descend from their quarters for the last time, both of them shared something remarkably close to a single thought.
No Roman, no man, can ever know that this place exists.
August 3, 1946
The helicopter was still beyond sight, below the cliff edge and rising loudly on damaged engines. The American rescuers and their rescued were hunkering down for a last stand against the Chinese—mere pistols against machine guns—when Alpha finally reappeared. From a distance, he communicated to Yanni with a series of hand signals and whistling sounds.
“What’s that all about?” Mac called back to her, his pistol still trained on the edge of the cliff.
“Alpha wants everyone out of here,” she said. “Out of here now!”
She was pointing uphill, unwisely, in Mac’s opinion, in a direction that would make them more easily seen and fired upon.
The Devil’s Brigade leader started to object, when Mac held up a hand. “Just, listen to her. Take Yanni and the others and run! Jack and I will follow as soon as we can.”
The naval officer from Boston shot his friend a confused Are you sure about this? expression.
Yanni could see what the two men had in mind, and she rushed over to MacCready. Grabbing his arm, she began tugging. “No, Mac!” she yelled over the approaching roar. “Alpha wants us all out of here. Something about a storm coming.”
“What?” Mac said, unsuccessfully trying to break free. “What storm?”
Yanni shook her head and tugged harder. “Not sure, Mac. You want me to stick around and figure out the particulars?”
Mac looked toward the edge of the cliff again. Twin rotors came noisily into view.
All three of them turned and ran.
The helicopter crested the cliff edge and navigated around the fringe of the Russian wreck. Coming close to a full stop, the pilot skillfully held his machine in a hover.
Mac, Yanni, and Jack picked up the pace, trying to catch up with Alpha and the mammoth, who were already far upslope of them. They caught a glimpse of Juliano and Wang, who appeared to be helping Nesbitt along. All three were reaching individual degrees of exhaustion in the mountain air.
Mac sensed sudden danger behind and his body moved instinctively—twisting to one side and knocking Yanni down in the same direction, just as a bullet burrowed through the air above their heads with the hollow sound that could only be heard (and felt) during a near miss. The crack of the gunshot came later.
Mac turned, surprised to see that the man who fired upon them was on the ground, limping. It appeared that he had jumped down more than a full story from the helicopter and decided to pursue them on foot. Why aren’t they just flying up after us and shooting?
The man, a Chinese officer, emptied an entire clip in their direction but this time he was off target by hundreds of feet. He dropped his weapon and began swatting at himself.
Alpha’s storm had arrived.
“This way!” Yanni said. Mac and the others obeyed without any further questions at all. Glances over his shoulder provided Mac with only bits and pieces of the picture below. Bright, sunlit streamers of snow rose vertically above the cliff face and above the enemy, as if driven by a howling wind. In another split second he saw the helicopter engulfed. During another glimpse, it was whirling away in apparent desperation—back again toward the terrain that dropped off more than a thousand feet. In the end, Mac paused and watched for nearly a full ten seconds. The Chinese on board were leaping from both sides of the machine. Mac was certain that by the time it began to drift and shudder, and fall out of view, not a soul remained aboard.
R. J. MacCready realized that the storm engulfing the Chinese was full of snow mimics. What he had no way of knowing yet was that he had just witnessed the first use of a racially tagged biological weapon in nearly two thousand years.
Autumn, a.d. 67
The Ceran domes and the enormous central tower were gone forever.
All of the valley’s inhabitants were now involved in a strange endeavor by which an entire civilization was trying to dig a hole into the earth and pull the hole in behind itself.
As the Cerae retreated into subterranean depths, the architects and the physicians seemed to have picked up as many as two hundred words of Latin from Severus, along with the words necessary to join them together in some meaningful fashion. As for learning the Ceran language, Pliny continued to believe he might have an easier time trying to communicate with a fish or a bug.
“This much they do understand,” Severus explained one day, as they surfaced into sunlight. “‘Pliny,’ they say. ‘He can be trusted.’”
“How would they know that?”
“Whether it is true or not, they think it,” Severus replied. “And what if I told you that, should you or Proculus choose to leave this valley, none of the Cerae will stop you?”
“I think I would choose to stay around a while longer.”
Proculus nodded. “It may be safer here.”
“Nero wanted us to find the Cerae and bring one of their heads home for him,” said Pliny. “Even if the ghoul is finally dead, who knows what would happen if the empire really does continue seeking the Cerae, perhaps even more vigorously? The Scythians might end up looking lucky by comparison, even if Rome somehow came out the winner.”
“It’s an amazement that the Cerae haven’t destroyed themselves with their own discovery,” Proculus added.
“And if Rome possessed such power?” Severus asked.
Without hesitation, Pliny replied, “I believe the empire’s wings are made of wax, and always shall be. Give emperors the power to shape life itself? No. If your wings are made of wax, never fly too close to the sun.”
“You, too, Proculus?” Severus asked.
“We can never tell of this place,” said Proculus. “But if we leave, come with us, brother.”
Severus looked down at the ground. “I cannot.”
“What?” Proculus shouted. “You, a Roman, choosing these monkeys over us? Are you still a slave to the scent of your she-beast?”
Severus shook his head. “You have seen that she is not well. For this reason, a path is being prepared for me to stay beside her.”
“What is the meaning of that?”
“I do not comprehend it fully myself. It is difficult for them to explain, in our words.”
What Pliny had been able to see and understand was that Teacher did not appear to be healing from her wounds with the same magical rapidity as the rest of the Cerae. Two physicians had been tending to her continually since the Scythian invasion. Such attention seemed proportional with the serious nature of her condition. There were, in fact, few in her caste left. Because her kind had taken an especially severe beating from the war elephants, Pliny wondered if their population might have been pushed to the edge of extinction.
“How bad is it?” Pliny asked. “Is Teacher dying?”
“You do not understand,” the centurion replied. “Her wounds from the battle are completely healed. It’s something else
that saps her strength.”
“What then? This strange addiction between you?”
“Cling to that if you must.”
Pliny stared at Severus, then shook his head, very slowly. “Her power over you. It is not what I thought it was, is it?”
“Shall I tell you why I must stay with her, always? Shall I tell you why a path is being prepared?”
“She has softened your brain,” Proculus insisted.
Severus managed a quiet laugh. “As most Roman women cloud men’s minds, from time to time.”
“Roman women?” Proculus stammered. “These Cerae are not us!”
“Maybe they are more like us than they appear,” the centurion said, quietly.
Though the Cerae looked humanoid and at the same time quite different, Severus’s suggestion could not have failed to hammer a few cracks into Pliny’s presumption that they were a breed completely separate from humans.
“What exactly are you going to do?” Pliny asked.
The centurion glanced over toward the path into the earth, then back to his friend. “I must admit,” he said, “I have yet to figure that out.”
“Stay with her always?” Proculus protested. “Nothing is forever.”
“Time will have its say,” said the centurion. “It always does.”
Chapter 24
The Man Who Loved Morlocks
Home is where the heart is.
—Pliny the Elder
Glory ought to be the consequence, not the motive, of our actions; and although it happen not to attend the worthy deed, yet it is by no means less fair for having missed the applause it deserved.
—Pliny the Younger
West, beyond the Valley of the Morlocks
August 4, 1946