by Attard, Ryan
Chapter 32
Professor Brightmoore’s mansion looked like it belonged on a movie set. The man owned a giant mansion with acres of land, an estate befitting someone of his wealth, success and expensive tastes. Nick was aware of Brightmoore’s penchant for collecting expensive cars, and as he and Excalibur walked towards the front gates, he craned his neck in the direction of the garage, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the exquisite automobiles Brightmoore kept tucked away in there.
Excalibur pressed the buzzer and a voice came through the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Solomon,” Nick replied. Then he grinned. “Open up, you old geezer.”
Brightmoore chuckled. “Don’t get cheeky, boy.” The locking mechanism on the gate snapped open.
“How well do you know this guy again?” Excalibur asked as they walked towards the expansive villa up ahead.
“I guess both of us are camp defectors in a way, so that gave us something in common,” Nick replied. “Rebels in arms.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, joy.”
Nick gave her a sideways glance. “He’s like that fun, crazy uncle you turn to when your regular family doesn’t work.”
The front door swung open and there stood Professor Brightmoore, wearing a royal blue gown, slippers, and casually leaning on a black cane. His head bore a large bald spot at the back while waves of smoke-white hair were combed over it. His face had a stubble and sunken eyes, the telltale signs he had spent most of his life staring at tiny book print and computer screens.
“Professor Nick Solomon,” he said with a British accent.
“Professor Nigel Brightmoore,” Nick replied.
“Well, come give us a hug, you young wanker.” The old man draped his frail arms around Nick.
“Come on in. And who’s this lovely-looking creature?” he asked, looking at Excalibur.
“This is agent Excalibur of the NSA,” Nick said. “She works for a division much like our old camp, except they get government funding and no military raids.”
Brightmoore squinted at her. “You look familiar.”
“I grew up at the camp. I remember your stories,” she said.
“And now, she’s the NSA’s top ass-kicker,” Nick added. “Who would have guessed?”
Brightmoore smiled. “Well lad, you always knew how to pick them,” he said. “Now come on inside. I have a bottle of the ol’ good stuff yearning to be opened at just the right occasion, and your coming to visit me fits that category.”
“So, let me get this straight.”
Brightmoore was sitting by his unlit fireplace in one of those reclining sofa chairs. The Belladonna’s logbook sat in the middle of a coffee table, surrounded by three glasses of bourbon. Nick and Excalibur had each taken a seat on a couch opposite their host and had just finished recounting their adventure up until that point.
“You’re telling me that inside this logbook,” Brightmoore said, “are the precise routes that Ollie’s father, Captain Jack Finnegan, took to one of the artifacts? Why are you sitting here instead of actually going there?”
“It’s in code,” Nick replied.
“Well, of course it’s in code,” Brightmoore said exasperatedly. “That’s how secrets are kept. But you’re one of the Select—a code should be easy for you to crack.”
“Not a random generated code based on a polymorphic key,” Nick said. “If I remember correctly, the people at our old place thought some Select were on the bad side, what with us having ‘alien powers’ and the such. They took extreme measures against us. I could never figure at the codes when I was a kid.”
“And that’s why you’re here,” Brightmoore said.
“I would only come to the best,” Nick replied with a charming smile.
“As you bloody well should.” Brightmoore peered at the logbook. He reached for it, but changed his mind and grabbed his drink instead.
“All right,” he said after a sip. “I’ll help you. But you have to answer one question first.”
Nick gave Excalibur a sideways glance. Her face was devoid of emotion—not cold or impassive, just a shallow expression that indicated no further depth towards the topic at hand.
“Ask away,” Nick said.
Brightmoore smirked, like schoolboy being told a dirty joke. “I seem to recall our sources of information back then weren’t so good. We had copies of a translation of a certain book—a journal of sorts, if memory serves—and even that was shady. One of our main goals was to locate the original source of information.”
Nick smiled. “I’m not hearing a question yet.”
“Patience, my boy. It takes time to ask the right thing.” To emphasize his point, Brightmoore twirled his bourbon and knocked it back in one go. “It occurs to me that you could not have come this far without finding this ledger. So, I ask you, do you have it?”
The two men looked at each other in silence.
“That is a national secret,” Excalibur said firmly.
“One that you would not trust an old man with?”
Nick scoffed. “These guys almost had me blown up by a helicopter, and I was working for them! Trust isn’t their strong point,” he said. “The ledger is safe, and it’s been no help whatsoever in deciphering that.” He pointed at the logbook. “That’s all original code.”
“Stands to reason,” Brightmoore agreed. “Captain Jack Finnegan was the start of it all. It was the tuition and training he passed on to our founder that have created the new Order, what we called home. Perhaps this explains why you, a Select, cannot succeed—your opponent is just like you, if not better.”
He glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall. “It’ll take about four hours to fully decode a document of that magnitude. Enough time for the three of us to enjoy a nice dinner.”
Excalibur started to politely excuse the both of them, but Brightmoore was quicker.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” he insisted. “It’s been an appalling amount of time since Nick and I enjoyed some time together, and even more since I dined in the company of such a beautiful lady.”
Excalibur smiled politely in acquiescence.
“See, boy?” Brightmoore told Nick. “That is how you properly charm a woman.”
Professor Brightmoore’s skills behind a kitchen counter were nearly as impressive as his skills behind a computer. He worked with the precision of a surgeon, all the while humming and smiling like a child on Christmas morning. Then, once he gave Nick and Excalibur their share of tasks, he began recounting stories of Nick’s expeditions and sharing jokes; none of which impressed Nick, mostly because they were at his expense.
Excalibur, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to hear more.
Two hours later, they sat down to a fillet dinner of seasoned fish and gourmet side dishes, all complimented with a bottle of white Chardonnay which Brightmoore caressed like an infant.
They dined, shared more stories, and finally, after smacking his lips happily, Brightmoore stood up gently.
“Best we go check on that computer.”
His office consisted only of walls of bursting bookshelves and, in the middle, sticking out like a sore thumb, was a single, glass desk with several monitors on it and a large desktop computer whirring loudly underneath. The technological look of the whole setup was a stark contrast to the rest of the house, with it’s collection of antiques, books, and old furniture.
Lines of code zoomed from one end of the screen to the other, and after a few tinkering touches, Brightmoore handed Nick a small stack of paper, written in plain English.
“Baja California,” Nick read. He quickly scanned the rest the paper, trying memorize figures and numbers. “Our captain took a long detour, it seems. He went from the Atlantic all the way round to South America and California.”
“That would have taken months. Maybe even years,” Excalibur said as she peered over Nick’s shoulder to look at the printouts.
“Seems he got lucky,” Nick said. “Hold on. Look a
t this bit.”
The journal entry had been handwritten inside the logbook, just like the rest of the manuscript, but this one stood out from the rest. The handwriting was different, as if someone other than the original author had written it. Nick realized he was reading one of Finnegan’s personal entires, detailing his feelings for Duchess Tier and describing their time together.
Excalibur read the sheet of paper and looked at Nick. “She was a Select, too?”
He shrugged. “Seems that way.”
“Two Select?”
“Judging by this, they were trying really hard to make a third.”
“Stop joking, Solomon.” Excalibur scanned the letter again. “Do you know what this means? It took two Select to find the artifact, not one.”
“You’re just assuming that,” Nick replied.
“It’s simple mathematics,” she shot back. “Every clue we had so far involved you, Select Number One, and another—either Finnegan or whoever wrote the red ledger. Maybe Finnegan only made it to the artifact because he had another Select with him.”
“My dear,” Brightmoore interjected. “Might I pose a theory?”
They both fell quiet.
“Thank you,” Brightmoore continued. Years of lecturing took over, and suddenly, he was a university professor again, speaking to an auditorium of students who paid very good money to study at that particular school.
“Select do not have any super powers of any sort,” he explained. “Indeed, some of their abilities may give the illusion of the supernatural, but rest assured, the only ability they have is superior brain efficacy.”
“We have the camp’s files, Professor,” Excalibur said. “We already know all of this.”
“Ah, but therein lies your hubris,” he said. “You failed to take into account the concept of evolution. The human brain has evolved exponentially over these past few centuries. A person living today should, technically, be smarter than a person living during the Golden Age of Piracy—or at least, have greater brain potential, for lack of a better term.”
He motioned at Nick like a lab teacher does a dissected frog carcass to demonstrate a point. “Select have been getting smarter, the same way regular people have been getting smarter. Which means that Solomon, over here, is technically more powerful that Finnegan, albeit the pirate did have loads more experience with his powers.”
“So, basically, Nick can succeed by himself on a mission which required two Select?”
Nick exhaled as Brightmoore shook his head in surrender.
“You gotta remember that Finnegan didn’t even know he was a Select,” Nick told Excalibur. “And back then, it was mostly about religion and indoctrination rather than actual information processing.”
She shrugged, not entirely convinced by what he was telling her.
“If it’s any consolation, we’re better equipped, smarter, and I have the NSA to back me up,” he added. “Well, not really the NSA—just you. But all we have to do is follow Finnegan’s instructions.” With a dirty smile he pointed at Finnegan’s journal entry, the one depicting his amorous night with Duchess Tier. “We can start here.”
Excalibur rolled her eyes. “Never give up, do you?”
“I’m cute and you know it.”
“Solomon, I will shoot you.”
“You two aren’t married, are you?” Brightmoore asked with a chuckle.
Nick decided it was best to steer clear from that particular topic of conversation. “What was the key to breaking the cypher?” he asked out of sheer curiosity.
“Oh, that was a tricky bit,” Brightmoore replied. “You see, as paranoid as those wankers at the compound were, they always relied on the same code. It’s a lot like when you use the same password for everything you have. It is actually quite poetic, as far as passwords go.”
He paused for effect, clearly enjoying their looks of anticipation. “The keyword is Pandora.”
“Does that mean anything?” Nick asked as he crossed his arms and casually leaned against the door frame.
“Pandora was the mythological daughter of Prometheus, the Greek god of artifice,” Brightmoore explained. “According to legend, she was given a box by her father who warned her not to open it. Unbeknownst to the girl, the box contained the anti-life, a destructive energy that destroys every living thing. But, ignoring her father’s warning, Pandora opened the box, and evil was once again allowed to roam free.”
“Yes, I know the stories, Professor,” Nick replied. “I kinda graduated in the whole mythology thing.”
Brightmoore scoffed. “Don’t be cheeky, you brat. I was excavating tombs when you were still in your mother’s womb. Excuse me for forgetting what you graduated in or what your achievements are.”
“I sent you a copy of that issue of National Geographic when they featured me.”
“Is that what that was? I must have misplaced it in a drawer somewhere. Probably right next to my many, many degrees and other extensive lists of achievements.”
Nick opened his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Get on with it, old man.”
“Still can’t win one over me, you little wanker,” Brightmoore teased. He ran a hand through his white hair and resumed his explanation. “The folks at the compound used this analogy to describe the gods and their artifacts. Pandora refers to the gods who are meddling with powers they cannot possibly control. We—or more precisely, the planet—are the Box, with the artifacts being the source of evil. Hence why Pandora was the keyword; a reference to the metaphorical name the camp gave to the alien gods who instigated all of this.”
Nick tried very hard not to dwell on the symbolism or be drawn into the memories of his past. He had to approach this like any other expedition, one step at a time and completely divorced from his feelings. First, he had to find the artifact, and only after that he was allowed to dwell on alien gods, or whatever was out there.
Nick had already decided to study his own Select abilities in further depth, and scientifically prove the aliens’ existence if he had to, rather than just take the word of a few paranoid lunatics who drilled horror stories into his mind when he was just an infant.
But for now, he thought, just concentrate on the artifact.
Excalibur must have been on the same wavelength. “So, what now?” she asked, breaking the momentary silence.
They all looked at her.
“We know where the artifact is, right? When do we leave?”
Nick shifted from his position. “Give me a few hours to sort through all this,” he said as he waved the printouts around. “But you’re right. No point in delaying this.” He turned to Brightmoore. “Will you be joining us, Professor? One last field trip?”
Brightmoore stood up and shook his head. “No, no, my boy. I’m an old fellow, now, and have no business digging in trenches. These days, I am perfectly fine with opening a bottle of brandy and reading good old fashioned history books.”
Nick gave him a smile. “I understand. But you are getting some credit if we make it out in one piece.”
“As I bloody well should,” he replied with a smirk. Then, he gave Nick a hug. “You’re a good man, Solomon. The world could use a few more fellows like you.”
Nick smiled and returned the embrace. “I think you had a little too much wine.”
Brightmoore laughed. “Well, there are only so many pleasures in life-”
He never got to finish his sentence.
A burst of gunfire erupted inside the room, shredding books and shattering the computer screens. Antique vases and statues exploded into dust and the walls became pockmarked with holes and cracks as bullets tore up entire chunks. Brightmoore became unnaturally still, as a single dot of dark red expanded from his chest.
Excalibur’s training took over. She ducked for cover behind an aluminum shelf and extracted her handgun. Nick had no such training. Like most people in shock, he remained frozen on the spot as he observed the events occur in slow motion. He saw the details, the opportunities for evasi
on, but there was nothing he could do about any of it.
Instead, he could only watch as Brightmoore was riddled with more bullets. Nick counted five in total—five pieces of lead that embedded themselves into the old professor and spit blood in their wake. Brightmoore dropped his cane and slumped forward, dead.
Nick was suddenly aware of the sound of heavy footsteps as half a dozen heavily armed men carrying assault rifles marched through the mansion, with as much grace as a herd of buffalo. Behind them, appeared man dressed in an impeccable cream-colored suit and slicked-back hair. He bore no weapon, but carried himself with the arrogance of a dictator.
This man did not need a weapon to be dangerous.
“Mister Solomon,” Astrid said from across the study. “You owe me some answers. And I have come to collect.”
Chapter 33
Half a dozen assault rifles were pointed squarely at Nick.
He raised his arms and smiled weakly. “Whoa. Take it easy.”
Astrid walked in between Nick and his hired thugs. He pulled a pistol from his waistline and began waving it around like a gangster in a movie.
“Did you really think I couldn’t find you?” he cawed.
Nick was too busy grasping the situation to pay attention to his words. Instead, he focused on the gun in Astrid’s hands. Compared to the larger rifles carried by the other men, his firearm was much smaller—small enough to fit into Astrid’s delicately manicured hands. Already, Nick was processing every ounce of information about that pistol: a 1960’s Llama III-A model, self-loading blowback pistol with a .380 ACP eight-round magazine. The slide was plated in gold and had a series of intricate engravings, giving it an aristocratic appearance.
An ostentatious weapon for an ostentatious man.
As Astrid began pacing around, Nick started thinking of ways to get out of this situation. He had already identified four different ways he could disarm Astrid, but even then, the chances for survival were slim. Not to mention Excalibur, who was armed with just her Glock pistol, hiding behind cover. A few well-placed bullets could easily tear through the aluminum cabinet she was tucking in behind.
“I had to go through every known associate you ever worked with,” Astrid was saying, “and that is a very long list.” His eyes wandered over Brightmoore’s bullet-riddled figure and shrugged. “So sorry he was caught in the crossfire. Now, where is the lovely secret agent babysitting you?”