by Bob Mayer
“Please,” Cadaver said. “This was an accident. That is the way I will write my report. We got too close. It is our fault.”
“Your report to who?” Nosferatu asked. “Who now sits in Avalon reading the dusty scrolls?”
A flicker crossed the Watcher’s face. Nosferatu, who’d lived for many years, was well versed in human emotion and tics. “You’re not reporting to Avalon. Who are you reporting to?” He glanced at the body, then bent over and ripped open the man’s bloody shirt, snapping a chain around the man’s neck and retrieving an amulet. He showed it to Nekhbet. There was an open eye set in the center of a pyramid. He put it in a pocket.
“Myrddin are not true Watchers,” Nosferatu said. “You do not report to Avalon. You are from the line of Merlin; the Myrddin Willt. You lie when you say you just watch. Your people broke your vows as Watchers long ago at the time of Arthur. You act.”
Cadaver took a step back, looking desperately over his shoulder. “I swear. Our orders are to just watch.”
“Orders from who?”
He shook his head. “The leader of my cell.” He nodded toward the body on the ground. “There are three in each cell. The leader and the two Watchers. Only the leader knows the contact in the cell above.”
“Kill him,” Nekhbet insisted.
“He’s telling the truth now,” Nosferatu said. He shifted to the Watcher. “Why were you ordered to attack us now? You’ve been following us since we arrived in Paris.”
“It was feared that—“ he hesitated.
“What?” Nosferatu snapped.
“It was feared that your, your—“ he paused at a loss for the right word—“companion, was unstable and could cause problems.”
Nekhbet surged forward, but Nosferatu stopped her; just barely. The combination of Cadaver’s blood and the feast she’d just enjoyed from the heart of the dead Watcher made her powerful. Nosferatu was weakened from her feeding. It was a dangerous equation that he was going to have to deal with eventually. But not today.
“Problems with what?”
Cadaver was at a loss. “I have no idea. But we were ordered just to watch. I swear!”
“You lie,” Nosferatu said. “Who is your cell leader? Where do I find him?”
Cadaver hesitated.
Nosferatu took a chance that Nekhbet had some control now. “Hurt him, but don’t kill him.” He let go of her.
Nekhbet was on Cadaver in a flash, grabbing his hair, pulling head back and slicing one long fingernail across his throat. Not into the vein, just a scratch, a hint of things to come. Enough to draw blood. She slathered her tongue across his neck, almost erotically.
“He tastes of fear,” Nekhbet said, letting go of him, but standing so close he could feel her breath on his skin.
“Please!” Cadaver whined. “I have a family.”
Nosferatu sighed. “And? Why should we care? You and your partner were going to kill us. But we should care about you, now that you have no power? Tell me how to find your cell leader and I will let you live.”
The human grasped, as they almost always did, at the hope. He gave up her location.
“Her name?” Nosferatu asked. “At least the name she is registered under?”
The information was forthcoming.
Nosferatu smiled. “Very good, my friend. You see? What you must understand is that I, and Nekhbet, are more human than Airlia. We share a common—“ and he leaned forward and sunk his teeth into the Watcher’s neck and drank.
Nekhbet took the carotid on the other side and they merged in blood.
MOTHERSHIP
“See that?” Turcotte asked as they came up on the mothership. “What are those?”
Two large drums, each over forty feet long and twenty wide were floating in space near the gash in the mothership’s hull. A half-dozen space suited figures in TASCC-suits were active around them, securing them to the outer hull using steel cables that snaked through the gash. Others were at work putting black framework in one end of the hull breach.
“That is not good,” Yakov muttered.
Turcotte slowed, angling for the opening. “Why?”
“They are nuclear reactors,” Yakov said. “Similar to what is in submarines. I saw many of those dumped on Novaya Zemlya.” He was referring to the arctic Russian Island, which separates the Barents from the Kara Sea. It is where the Soviet Union has conduct hundreds of nuclear detonations over the years. On the desolate far northern tip, the Russians had headquartered Yakov’s old unit, Section IV, the equivalent of the U.S.’s Area 51.
“They’re going to need power to do whatever it is they’re doing,” Turcotte said.
“Those do not appear to be shielded very well.” Yakov glanced at the panel in front of him. They were passing the two reactors and workers fifty meters away. “I have readings for radiation. Not life-threatening for a short exposure, but much longer than an hour or two--” he left the rest unsaid.
“We’re not staying long,” Turcotte said. “And we’re going inside.”
“Does a TASC-Suit protect you from radiation?” Yakov asked.
“That wasn’t in the briefing,” Turcotte replied.
“The shielding on those should be sufficient,” Yakov said, “but lifting both reactors into space on one ship; that’s a lot of weight. Also very dangerous if the rocket explodes on the way up.”
“And the best place to reduce weight,” Turcotte said, “would be shielding. I wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Parrish. Her version of a radiation pill.” He maneuvered the Fynbar into the mothership’s hold. “Radiation now?” he asked Yakov.
“Lower,” the Russian replied, “and acceptable.”
Turcotte was looking ahead. “That’s interesting. She was telling the truth about that, at least.” Stretched across the massive cargo bay was a semi-clear sheet of some thick material. On the other side they could see the parked Niviane and people, not suited, moving about.
“They appear very much at home,” Yakov said. “And look.” He indicated the far right corner of the bay. A battered talon was on the deck, surrounded by debris from the other talons that had been blown apart.
“Mrs. Parrish said there was no life on board,” Turcotte said. “The blast had to have killed everyone inside.”
One of the people ran toward the wall and gestured for them to go right. Turcotte followed the directions. A tunnel made of the same clear material extended to an airlock, a crane on this side for maneuvering it as needed.
“Seems like they’re expecting us,” Turcotte said as he set the Fynbar down with a solid thud on the hangar floor. The man who’d entered the airlock remote controlled the crane and began extending and raising the airlock toward the Fynbar’s hatch.
“Expecting someone,” Yakov said. “Most likely more of Mrs. Parrish’s ships, not us.” He glanced over his shoulder at Kara, who was sitting on the deck, her eyes a bit unfocued. “Is she all right?”
“I doubt it,” Turcotte said. “Probably a concussion.”
Yakov grunted as he got out of the co-pilot’s depression and went to Kara. “How are you?”
“I can hear you, you know,” she said. “But you’re right. My head is killing me. But, hey, I’m alive right?”
“An answer a Russian would be proud of,” Yakov said, helping her to feet. “Alive is all that counts.”
“Sometimes,” Turcotte said, joining them.
“All the time,” Yakov replied.
They went to the hatch and waited. There was a thud, then silence.
“I will carry you,” Yakov said to Kara.
“I can make it on my own.”
“I am certain you can,” Yakov said, “but I find a woman in uniform with a concussion and covered in vomit particularly attractive and would like to carry you over the threshold, as it is.”
Turcotte didn’t wait to hear any more banter and hit the control. The door hissed open, the Fynbar vented, and they went into the airlock, Yakov carrying Kara.
Once ins
ide they waited as the Niviane crewmember indicated for them to be still. He hit the controls on the other side. The door behind them sealed. The display in front flickered green and the interior door opened.
“Kara!” the man said, rushing forward.
Yakov handed her over. A team was behind the man and they put her on a stretcher and hustled her away. The man looked at them.
“Major Turcotte and Mister Yakov. Mrs. Parrish welcomes you to our base and has instructed us to extend every courtesy.” He smiled. “I believe we might even be able to rustle up a spot of vodka as we have two of your fellow countrymen in our crew, Mister Yakov.” He extended his hand. “Major Turcotte, I’m Julius, commander of this mission.”
“What exactly is the mission?” Turcotte asked as he shook.
Julius greeted Yakov, then turned to face the large bay. “Repair. We want to make as much of the Mothership functional. We’ve sent suited expeditions into the ship. We want to see if we can get the STL drive operational and life support.”
“You’ve got no ruby sphere for power,” Turcotte noted.
“True. But we’ve got two reactors to help us and the sphere is the key to the FTL drive.” He indicated power lines coming through the gash in the exterior hole.
“That is not every sustainable,” Yakov said.
“True,” Julius agreed. “It’s just temporary.”
“Then what?” Turcotte asked.
“Come,” Julius said, indicating for them to follow. There were several large shelters set up and he led them into one. Kara was on a steel table, two doctors hovering over her. “How is she?”
One of the doctors spoke without looking up. “Actually, she’s in good shape. I put her out to check her. Definitely a concussion, but I want to make sure there’s no brain swelling. The plate in her head actually saved her skull from getting crushed.”
Julius nodded. “Good, good.” He turned to Turcotte. “Kara was a Navy pilot. There was an accident during an approach to land on the carrier and she had to eject. Unfortunately, her head made glancing contact with the canopy on the way out. She had several surgeries and was made good as new. But the Navy didn’t want her back. We were very lucky to get her.”
“Right,” Turcotte said. “Okay. I’m glad she’s in good hands. We’ll be going.”
“But I wonder about the vod—“ Yakov began, but Turcotte nudged the Russian.
“Let’s go, my friend.”
Yakov frowned but followed Turcotte out of the shelter. Julius walked with them toward the airlock.
“We appreciate your saving her,” Julius said, when they reached the portal.
“It’s what anyone would have done,” Turcotte said.
“And what you did on Mars,” Julius added. “The world owes you. Both of you.”
“We appreciate it,” Turcotte said. “Good luck.”
He hustled into the airlock, through it and into the Fynbar, sealing the door behind.
“What was that about?” Yakov asked.
“Did you see the medallion around Kara’s neck?” When Yakov didn’t answer, he supplied it. “A Watcher medallion. The Myrddin.”
“We suspected as much given the names of the ships.” Yakov said as Turcotte powered up the Fynbar. “So. Mrs. Parrish is Myrddin?”
“It explains why she’s so rich. They’ve been around since Merlin.”
Yakov remained silent as Turcotte edged the Fynbar out of the cargo hold into space.
“And,” Turcotte said as he pointed them toward Earth, “I think she’s got bigger plans. I don’t trust her or her people.”
WARDENCLYFFE, SHOREHAM, NEW YORK
The excitement in the control room over the destruction of the talon muted as news of the nuclear detonations in Iran became known.
Leahy turned away. She headed toward a door on the side of the lab facing the tower. Her counterpart automatically came behind her. She opened the door, revealing iron stairs descending into darkness. She flipped on a switch and muted bulbs lit the way.
She heard him following as she went down.
An iron mesh gate blocked the stairs twenty feet down. A large warning sign proclaimed:
WARNING: HAZARDUOUS WASTE
EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
EXPOSURE IS FATAL
Leahy pulled a skeleton key from a pocket and inserted it in the old padlock. The lock, well oiled, opened without a sound. She glanced over her shoulder to see if the warning sign had any effect on the man. He waited, without a word.
She walked down a tunnel lined with old brick until she came to a round, vertical shaft. It was twelve feet wide with a circular staircase in the center, wrapped around a metal shaft six inches in diameter. This was directly below the surface tower.
The shaft descended into darkness. From a hook on the wall, Leahy took a safety helmet with a light attached in front. She turned on the light and donned the helmet. She crossed the iron grating to the staircase and checked behind her once more.
The man turned on the light underneath the barrel of his automatic rifle. Leahy headed down, the thud of her boots on iron echoing up the shaft. She was startled to realize the man was making no noise. She glanced up, but he was there, several steps higher. He had his weapon at the ready.
“It goes down one-hundred-and-twenty feet,” Leahy said.
No reply.
Reaching the bottom, a damp, brick floor, she waited until he joined her. Turning, the headlight revealed eight tunnels, four heading in cardinal directions, the other four midway between those.
Leahy recited from memory. "When the great truth, accidentally revealed and experimentally confirmed, is fully recognized, that this planet, with all its appalling immensity, is to electric currents virtually no more than a small metal ball and that by virtue of this fact many possibilities, each baffling imagination and of incalculable consequence, are rendered absolutely sure of accomplishment; when the first plant is inaugurated and it is shown that a telegraphic message, almost as secret and non-interferable as a thought, can be transmitted to any terrestrial distance, the sound of the human voice, with all its intonations and inflections faithfully and instantly reproduced at any other point of the globe, the energy of a waterfall made available for supplying light, heat or motive power, anywhere--on sea, or land, or high in the air--humanity will be like an ant heap stirred up with a stick. See the excitement coming!"
The words echoed without much power inside the shaft. She looked over at the man. “That was Nikola Tesla. He built this place.”
The man finally spoke. “I know.”
“How do you know?” Leahy asked, turning her head slightly so her light didn’t blind him.
“I researched when I received my assignment.”
“What is your assignment, exactly?” Leahy asked.
“You.”
“To protect me?”
“Yes.”
“And?” Leahy prompted. “I’ve worked for Mrs. Parrish and her husband, before he passed, for thirty years. You’re to protect me to protect their interests, correct? Which is different than protecting me.”
The man considered her, then the first emotion she’d seen: a hint of a smile. “Of course you would understand.”
Leahy nodded. “Operation Biting. British commandos raided the German coastal radar station at Bruneval in 1942 because they didn’t know it was a radar station. Just something strange and their bombers were taking unusually heavy losses since that place, and others like it, sprung up along the coast. They figured there was a connection given the strange antenna their recon aircraft photographed. They brought along an RAF technician to tell them what gear to grab. They were also under orders not to allow the technician to be captured if that appeared imminent since he also knew the most advanced technology the RAF possessed and they couldn’t allow that to fall into German hands.”
The man smiled once more. “I would have used the example of the Marines assigned to the Navajo code talkers who protected them but also couldn’t
allow them to be captured, but given we’re here—“ he indicated the shaft—“yours is more appropriate.”
“Who would want to capture me?” Leahy asked.
“Who wouldn’t? You’re Nikola Tesla’s granddaughter.”
“Tesla never had any children.”
“That’s the public version,” he said. “But here you stand.”
“You are informed,” Leahy allowed. “Do you have a name?”
“Does it matter?” he asked.
Leahy pointed at her head. “I have words running through my brain all the time. Words and numbers. I have to label things, define them with words or numbers or images in order to process them. In my mind I don’t you have designated. It would be easier to process if I had a name.”
He considered that. “Steven.”
“Were you ordered to kill Quinn and Kincaid?”
“Of course,” Steven said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Why? They weren’t a threat.”
“Why usually isn’t part of mission packet,” Steven said.
“So you will kill me if you’re ordered even if my capture isn’t imminent.”
“Yes.”
“Your honesty is refreshing. Do you know what we’re doing?” Leahy clarified. “Mrs. Parrish’s plan?”
“Of course not.”
“But you know her name and that you work for her,” Leahy said. “That’s more than most people know.”
“Did you really memorize that Tesla quote?” Steven asked. “Or did you ad lib it?”
“I have an eidetic memory,” Leahy said.
“Like your grandfather. He was a great man.”
“Yet all people know of is Edison,” Leahy said bitterly. “When they hear Tesla these days, they think of a car. Floating in space. A company that has nothing to do with my grandfather. He invented AC current. He made the modern world, not Edison who used to electrocute dogs and cats to claim AC was dangerous. He even electrocuted an elephant using AC current to discredit my grandfather!” Leahy stopped abruptly, but did note he’d lowered his weapon.
“Come on,” she said. Getting oriented she went to the tunnel heading due south. The brick walls were damp but there was a low, rhythmic noise indicating the pumps she’d had installed when they’d re-occupied Tesla’s old lab years ago were working.