The Cydonia Objective mi-3

by David Sakmyster

  Montross then leads them around the perimeter toward an upward sloping shaft where again he holds back a restraining arm—and then abruptly pushes Caleb and Alexander into a recessed nook in the hall, just as an immense block comes rumbling down the shaft and slams past where they had just been standing.

  Later: Alexander leads them over a chasm, across a series of stepping stones, choosing only those with certain hieroglyphics.

  Then: they come to a chamber with a central pillar and a doorway carved into its base. They gather around the shaft, shining their lights on the images, painted mural-like onto its surface. And they stare, uncomprehending, until Caleb points to something and says-

  3.

  “Here…” Caleb Crowe’s voice was weak, half-choked with the thin air in the passageways under the Great Pyramid—or wherever they were after nearly seven hours of wandering this labyrinth. They had walked for miles. Winding passageways hewn from the bedrock, doubling back and forth, descending for hundreds of feet in places, then rising again. There were arched bridges spanning over yawning crevasses, and sections where they climbed spirals staircases around tower-like spires thrusting out of the impenetrable darkness below. It always seemed they heard sounds of distant splashing, as if from waves lapping against the foundations.

  At first, Caleb had been surprised and relieved at the lack of water. He remembered reading essays on the geological makeup of the Giza plateau, and the speculation that even if there were tunnels or chambers below the pyramids, they would likely be full of water due to their proximity to the Nile and its annual flooding. But apparently the builders had constructed these chambers to resist seepage, or they had drainage tunnels out of sight.

  His interest in geology, however, quickly waned as they proceeded deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, pausing only to remote-view the way, each of them occasionally getting glimpses of the ancient past, of robed men and women solemnly proceeding along these very paths. Just snatches of visions, unable to see the purpose to these chambers, or the destination of its early travelers. But they had seen other things: passageways where the floors would have given way or where sliding walls would have imprisoned them after a false step. Rooms where the ceiling was supported on gears that would release and flatten anyone who stepped inside.

  They bypassed all of these traps, avoiding death at every turn.

  And now, after climbing a steep staircase, they had arrived at the top of what seemed like an enormous rounded pillar. The lights couldn’t probe anything above or below, and there was only one bridgeway leading away into the gloom. In the center of the floor there stood a huge block, inscribed with hieroglyphics and carved images. Caleb stared at it for a thoughtful moment. “This is… I don’t understand this at all. Why should this symbol be here?”

  “What is it, Dad?” Alexander had his flashlight highlighting the image of a baboon holding aloft a disc, flanked by royal serpents. The rest of the mural, painted around the immense block, depicted what appeared to be a scene of metallurgy: an ibis-faced man holding a hammer and a long spear, thrusting the lance into a cauldron. On a nearby table, a rectangular sheet of what seemed to be a book, except it was dyed a deep hue of green. The same god-man was bent over it with a quill, inscribing words of power.

  “Down here, this section I get.” Caleb pointed. “Here’s Thoth as a smith. Creating, in this panel, a spear-head. In the other, a tablet. A book.”

  “The Emerald Tablet.” Alexander said it reverently, fearful of speaking about it in this ancient place—with what might be its first-ever depiction.

  But then Alexander saw that Caleb had shifted his flashlight higher, to where the symbol of a god holding two staffs stood in profile, a sphere on his head. Above him, an inverted triangle, and at the top, a coiled serpent caught in a net, its head pinned to the triangle with a long spear.

  Xavier Montross had circled around the pillar, giving it little attention, instead eyeing the darkness all around them, as if imagining it concealed a multitude of monstrosities, guardians ready to descend upon them.

  “We don’t have much time,” Montross said. “Can we skip the sightseeing?”

  Caleb shook his head. “This is important.”

  “Yes, yes,” Montross said, finally taking an interest in the carvings. “Our friends, the dragon and the lance.”

  “Marduk and Tiamat,” Alexander said, remembering what they had been talking about earlier. “The war god killing the dragon-goddess. Stealing her Tablet of Destiny thing.”

  “Yes,” Caleb said, “but it’s astounding that it’s being depicted here, in this ancient passageway beneath the Giza complex. And at a place of seemingly great importance.” He glanced back toward the stairs, ruminating on the series of tests and challenges, the deadly traps and diabolical puzzles they had managed to solve only with the aid of their psychic abilities, glimpsing the past and seeing the way ahead.

  He shook his head with wonderment. “This is the crucial lesson. This is what the acolytes were meant to understand, this is the reward for everything we’ve just gone through.”

  Montross made a snickering sound. “Bit of a letdown, if you ask me. Risk-reward ratio way out of balance. It’s a nice picture and all, but—”

  “But it’s everything,’ Caleb said calmly. He pointed at the god-figure below the triangle. “That’s Ra. Marduk, if you will. But the placement of his symbol, below an inverted triangle, implies to me something about creation.”

  “But,” Alexander said, “Marduk wasn’t created after the dragon died, he killed the dragon!”

  “True…” Caleb continued staring at the pillar, and his flashlight beam trembled. “But instead of implying that he, personally, was created by the incident, what if it means something else?”

  “Like what?” Montross was still glancing around nervously as if expecting something horrific to come slithering down the air shaft and drop on them at any moment. Or the walls to close in or the ceiling to collapse.

  Caleb rubbed his chin in thought. “The symbol for Marduk, there with the two scepters, can also mean something literal. Something astronomical. The planet…”

  Montross whipped his head around. His eyes went wide. “Mars.” He approached, showing real interest now. “Yes, yes. This, taken a certain way, matches my vision. Your visions too, Caleb. Cosmic history wrapped up in myth. The epic disaster. A conflict that destroyed a planet-sized body out beyond Mars, leaving the current asteroid belt.”

  “And something else,” Caleb whispered, pointing again to the triangle. “It’s almost as if this is saying that conflict created Mars itself, and yet…”

  “That’s not right,” Montross said. “The myth could even read that Mars the planet acted as Marduk and influenced Tiamat into some kind of collision, if you believe cosmic catastrophic proponents like Immanuel Velikovsky. But it may have been something else, and its destruction may have created—what, a civilization on Mars?”

  “Or its moons,” Caleb said thoughtfully. “Depending on how long ago we’re talking, we know Mars had abundant water—oceans and polar ice—millennia ago. But also, its moons—Phobos and Deimos—are highly unusual, with irregular orbits, perplexing lunar craters and other inconsistencies. As recent as the ’60s, some scientists seriously considered the conclusion that they were hollow. Artificial.”

  Montross smiled suddenly, pointing to the two scepters of Marduk. “Phobos and Deimos. Translation from the Greek: Fear and terror.” He sighed. “Whatever this is telling us, can we contemplate it later? Nina’s got to be after us by now, and we’re no closer to getting out of here.”

  Alexander shifted awkwardly, glancing at the dark passage behind them. “What about going back? Finding the upward shaft and climbing up to the Great Pyramid? I think I saw a way in there.”

  “And then what?” Montross snapped. “Just waltz out the main door? They’d be on us in seconds.”

  “We could wait it out? Hide inside the pyramid somewhere.”

  Caleb shook h
is head. “Not with Nina out there. And especially not if her… kids show up.”

  “You mean your kids,” Montross said with a lopsided grin. Then he added, “So it seems I’m blessed with even more nephews, huh?”

  Caleb looked away. Reached for Alexander and squeezed his shoulders reassuringly. “I don’t know what to think about them yet. But I’ve gotten some visions, and I’m… worried.”

  Alexander nodded. “I’ve been seeing them too. For a long time, I think. Without knowing who they were or why I was seeing them. I wonder, were they glimpsing me too?”

  “Probably,” Caleb said. “If they’re as good as you.”

  “Again,” Montross said, his voice rising. “Can we proceed? I say we move on ahead, scout out where this infernal labyrinth winds up. There has to be another exit.”

  “Tell that to the minotaur,” Alexander said.

  Caleb glanced toward the darkness. “This may be it, and there’s no other way out. The path of the initiate was from the Sphinx to the Great Pyramid. Everything else is mere confusion and more tests of the candidate’s resolve.”

  Montross stared at the shadows ahead of them. “No. There’s something else. Another way out. I’ve seen it. Come along, I know the way.”

  Caleb lingered for a moment, glancing one more time at the dragon, focusing on the spear embedded in its skull. He reached out and before he knew he was doing it, he touched the image. Traced the dragon’s scales, then after a slight hesitation, put his finger on the raised markings of the lance.

  Nothing happened. With a sigh, a mixture of relief and regret, he was about to start after his son and his brother when a question suddenly popped into his head, and the resulting psychic trigger knocked him flat.

  Where is that spear now?

  #

  The Theban Legion, six thousand strong, stands at the ready in a rocky valley between snow-capped peaks, with a sprawling mountain range at their backs. A light snow falls from a hazy, dark mass of clouds obscuring any sign of the late afternoon sun. Heads high, eyes skyward, the legion stands defiant, motionless until their leader steps forward to meet the regal figure leading a larger force of centurions toward them. The thundering steeds strain to break into a rout and plunge into the midst of the legionnaires.

  But one horseman raises a hand and the entire force comes to a stop. Garbed in a purple cloak, with a crown of gold on his head, he leads his horse ahead, directly into the path of the approaching Theban legionary.

  The commander of the Theban Legion removes his helmet, revealing a dark-skinned face, a bald head, and shining eyes. He holds a spear in his left hand, sets its base into the cold earth, and then lowers his head and bows.

  “My Lord Maximian. You grace us with this unexpected visit. We have just come from Gaul, and have put down the revolt with all speed and success. And minimal loss of life. All glory to Rome.”

  Maximian nods indifferently. Glances around at the men, at the state of their armor, their bandaged wounds. “I hear stories, Maurice. Stories, stories. Always stories, all the way across the empire they come, flying like diseased crows, bearing ill news.”

  Maurice lowers his eyes. “What news, my lord?”

  “Don’t play games, commander. You know why I’ve come. Why I’ve had to personally make this trip…” He waves his arm around the mountainous land. “…to deal with a wayward commander and a legion that refuses orders.”

  The centurions at the emperor’s back jitter nervously, hands tightening on their weapons. Tense, eyes scanning the legionnaires with a mix of fear and respect.

  The legionnaires make no move, but only return the stares.

  “My Lord,” says Maurice. “There is but one order I have had my men refuse.”

  “And why is that, might I ask?” Maximian fixes him with a dull stare, then punctuates it with a yawn. “Wait, don’t tell me. You and most of your men have already shifted your beliefs to that of this new cult. This ‘Christianity’. And so, when I tell you to visit violence on any who refuse my divine right of rule, to these… cultists who bend a knee only to their martyred savior, you refuse. You side with them over your emperor. You call yourself loyal, yet you feel it is your right to disobey.”

  “My Lord, never. We have always succeeded in our missions. We have found… other ways of enforcing your rule. Without resorting to violence upon your otherwise loyal subjects.”

  Maximian rears his horse, and it stomps its forelegs down around Maurice. “Loyal!? Tell me how they are loyal when they bow to another? Tell me too, commander, how are you loyal when you likewise refuse? If I tell you now, march back into Gaul and slaughter every one of these defiant Christians, what will your answer be?”

  “My Lord, please. We are your strongest legion, your most able fighters. Feared among your enemies. Even…” He looks beyond the Emperor, at the trembling centurions. “Even among your own private armies.”

  Maximian waves his hand as if shooing off a cloud of bugs. “Yes, yes. And that is the only reason I haven’t slaughtered you on the spot. But I must ask, what good is a commander, an entire legion, no matter their battle prowess, if they cannot follow orders?”

  “Lord Maximian, please.” Maurice takes his hand off the lance—and for just a moment the spear point catches in a sudden shaft of brilliance as a break forms in the dense clouds and the sun bursts through. An incredibly smooth silver surface, ringed in gold, with a thin sliver of wood set in an indentation in the center of the spear-point.

  Maximian shields his eyes. And Maurice stares directly into the fierce glow—and lets his hand drop away. He lowers his head. “If that is what you ask, then I refuse.” He faces his men. “I cannot order you, my soldiers to do the same. I will bear responsibility alone for disobedience.” He turns back to Maximian. “And I alone will suffer the consequences.”

  Maximian, still squinting against the glare, has nothing to say. He seems to be agonizing over the intensity of the light.

  But then Maurice steps back, out of arm’s reach of the spear, and drops to his knees.

  And the sun disappears, hungrily devoured once more by the churning dark clouds. The light goes out, and the spear point shimmers another moment with a residual brightness, then dulls.

  Maximian blinks, then leans forward on his horse, composing himself. He raises his voice, and addresses the standing legion. “If your commander refuses my order, who will follow it?”

  No one speaks. The snow continues to fall, collecting on their bare heads, on their bloodied, scarred shoulders.

  “The penalty for disobedience is death.” Maximian moves his horse around Maurice, riding in front of the first line of legionnaires. Studying each one’s face. He rides down the line, then back. “And the sentence will be carried out here. On this rock, today! Who will step forward and command the legion? Who will march back into Gaul and do as I ask?”

  Maurice lifts his eyes to the spear, and it’s as if he still stares into the brilliance of the sun. Tears collect, roll down his cheeks.

  And as one unit, the legionnaires set down their weapons.

  Drop to their knees.

  Lower their heads and clasp their hands together in prayer.

  Maximian stops pacing. Stares at them, at the entire force. Rides back to Maurice. “We have determined their loyalty.” He glowers at the commander, fury rising in his blood. “Very well.” He raises a fist, rushes back and grasps the spear, yanking it from the earth and setting it across his lap. He rides into the midst of his centurions. And yells:

  “Kill them all!”

  He continues riding against the onrushing force, galloping away as fast as his steed can carry him over the rocky terrain. Far into the hills and rocky trails, far enough to escape the sounds of slaughter.

  Until he hears the sound of returning hoof beats, Emperor Maximian stares at his prize, the lance and the spear point that seem to pull at his thoughts, influence his emotions and stir up even greater dreams of power, dominance and subjugation.

>   #

  Caleb interrupts the vision. Tries to peer back further. Willing his mind to track the spear. Where was it before Maurice…?

  #

  A series of glimpses, fast and appearing intercut with the darkness, lightning-quick:

  A figure on a hilltop before a series of thatch shacks, brandishing a scintillating spear point atop a different-looking staff, thicker, whiter, made of Birch wood. He yells out a command in Spanish, and descends upon a force of invading Roman warriors.

  Irish moors, low fog over an ice-packed shore. And an assembly of warriors in fur cloaks and wooden shields. Men of huge stature, led by a hulking brute of scarred man with a misshapen head, and but one eye… Facing him and this immense force is a loose confederation of young men and even women, barely armored, woefully under matched—yet surging with confidence, following a blond youth with a spear held high—its point seething with reflected brilliance, bathing the leader with a fiery aura and causing ripples of panic in the mass of giants ahead.

  Further back:

  Something brilliant streaks from the night sky, dashing against the barren cliff side, startling the inhabitants of mud and clay huts, who rush into the desert. One man races to the glowing impact site, tools in his hands, shouting to his brothers. They gather around the crater, looking down to the glowing, spherical rock, tinged with cracks of emerald, pulsing and giving off intense heat.

  The man’s eyes widen. They all drop to their knees and bow their heads.

  “When it cools,” he says. “Bring it up to my workshop. God has spoken to me in my dreams. Told me this was coming. Given me instructions. Shown me what I must create.”

  His brothers nod, and the mason trembles with excitement, his hands tingling with power, anticipating what will take years to mold.

  “His will be done.”

  #

  Too much. Caleb tried to pull back. Dimly aware that Alexander and Xavier were around him, carefully monitoring his condition but fearful of waking him.