by Tom D Wright
When I reach the opening, I press my ear against the door to listen. That is when I realize that I dropped my dagger somewhere in the tunnel while I was hunting for pipe. Damn, I am not going back now. Again I place my ear against the door. When I hear no activity, I ease the door open.
This one opens without complaint, and I step out into one of the basement hallways inside the Temple.
Lit oil lamps in wall sconces about every fifty feet create pools of light in the curved passage to my left, so I blow out my candle. The dark section to my right must be an unused section. According to Angie’s directions, this long, circular hall runs around the bottom perimeter of the large temple. Her instructions direct me to go to the left for a few minutes, until I reach a ramp that will lead up into the central arena.
I head in that direction, and flatten against a shadowed section of wall when two workers emerge from a doorway up ahead and head down the hallway, away from me. They both wear drab gray coveralls. When I get to the opening they emerged from I find a small locker room.
The room is unoccupied. Along one wall hang several rows of various-sized gray coveralls on pegs. Several banks of open cubicle organizers line the other wall. The staff only get twelve-inch cubicle storage spaces without even a door to store their possessions, but I doubt theft is a big problem around here.
It only takes a couple of minutes to change into a pair of the gray coveralls and stash the black robe in one of the open lockers. I will fit in better, and the robe is a bit worse for wear after my trip through the access tunnel anyway. I drape another pair of coveralls over my sword so it is not conspicuous.
After fastening the last buttons, I step back out into the corridor, noting that the coveralls are remarkably similar in color to the dreary concrete walls.
Continuing down the passage, I reach the ramp, which appears to be heavily used, judging by how clear the center of the ramp is compared to the dirty debris at the edges. Just past it is a set of stairs leading up, and it appears less used. That would be my preferred route.
I listen for any traffic in the stairwell, then slowly climb the steps for several circuits, pausing at an opening onto the main level. A slow but steady flow of people walks by in the corridor. A few look at my gray clothing with dismissive glances and continue. All they see is gray; I might as well be part of the concrete for all they care.
Another few circuits, and the stairwell opens onto the next level, which is the top of the main seating area. I step out to examine the interior of the Temple, and look over a small sports arena that has been converted into a worship space.
An impressive array of oil lamps around the whole arena provides a surprising amount of light; it is supplemented with a collection of polished metal mirrors around the ceiling that reflect sunlight through openings in the roof.
The top row looks down on thirty rows of seats, which slope down to the floor level, also packed with seats. The central arena space has been divided in half by a massive wooden wall that rises to the roof and closes off the back half. The surface is decorated from top to bottom with enormous motifs of various jungles, forests, mountains and seas, as well as a wide variety of animals.
The artwork is certainly no Sistine Chapel—more like high school quality, at best. The artists were clearly going for quantity over quality. If the Archives was collecting art instead of tech, this would be an excellent ‘after’ example of how far we have fallen.
The arena is still mostly empty but filling quickly as scattered small groups of people gather throughout the stands. About six rows down, a small cluster of five people sits chatting. My exhaustion is catching up with me, so I could really use a few minutes of rest. Plus it might not hurt to take a moment to gather a little intelligence. I slip innocuously into a seat a couple of rows behind them, just close enough to hear the three women and two men.
“Did you hear about Carlina?” A rather pudgy woman at one end of the group, with long, stringy brown hair turns to face the others. “She placed second in the pie-baking category, but only after Erica’s entry was disqualified because a rat got through the netting and ate on Erica’s pie. Well, this morning I saw Carly collecting some boxes from the alleyway behind her house, and I swear I saw a long skinny tail in one of them!”
“No!” A younger woman in the middle with a horse-like face makes an animated gesture and laughs. “Carlina? I wouldn’t trust that cow as far as I can throw her.”
“What’s wrong with you?” a young man at the other end leans forward as he chastises the group. “You know it’s wrong to speak ill of our brethren, especially during the Harvest Festival. If you want to point out sin, start with that whore of an Archivist. Their evil desecration of Mother Earth brought judgment on the world and cast humanity into darkness, so the sooner we purify the world of their corruption, the sooner we bring back Eden.”
The young, horse-faced woman turns toward the young man eagerly and speaks up. “This is the first time I’ve come to town to witness a holy offering. When do they bring it out?”
The other, older man replies, “Not until the dedication ceremony starts. That’s when we want the attention of the Earth Mother, so they’ll bring the Archivist out then. The first cries of the sacrifice are the most powerful and heartfelt, and that will most please the Goddess.”
“I hope it doesn’t pass out too soon,” the younger man adds. “Last time, the offering had a heart attack after a few minutes. This is our first female offering and I’m worried it might not last long enough.”
I feel like someone has kicked me in the gut as I look down onto the floor of the arena, and the reality of what will soon occur clobbers me.
At the far back of the stage is what appears to be an engine lift, encased in wood panels and decorated with flowing displays of flowers. Chains hang down, fastened to an eight-foot-long, two-inch-thick wooden pole with a pointed tip on the far end. This apparatus faces what looks like a long, low pommel horse.
Both sides of the pommel horse have leather straps, to be attached to the offering’s legs and arms. The height of the pole has been adjusted so it dangles even with the top of the pommel horse. A man in gray coveralls like my own is slathering the pole with grease.
The wave of nausea I feel mixes with utter contempt for these people in front of me who refer to Danae as ‘it’. Then again, it is not their loved one who is about to have a greased stake shoved up her butt.
At least now I know that nothing has happened yet. But it will, soon. I have gathered more than enough information, so I return to the landing, then continue up the stairs to the next upper level. Based on Angie’s description, these are rooms that were once private club suites but have now been converted into storage rooms, including prisoner storage.
Angie is certain that I will find Danae somewhere up here. When she was sneaking around the Temple as a teenager, Angie saw Damien being held in one of those rooms.
As I continue up the stairs, I expect to find guards, or at least some sort of locked barrier. But the way is open. Apparently it has not occurred to the Disciples that someone might actually invade their inner sanctum. Which does not surprise me; these guys do not lack in confidence. I am probably the first intruder foolish enough to willingly enter the Disciple arena of Death. Or desperate enough.
At the top of the last flight of steps, I find a sword leaning against the wall, next to a small sack of food and a nearly empty jug. The guard must have gone to take a piss. I have no idea how long he has been gone, but luckily, it is a large jug.
For a moment I consider ambushing the guard when he returns, but the longer I remain undetected, the better. So I step out into the poorly lit hallway that runs through this upper level and guess which way to go.
Angie thought the holding cells were above the back stage, so I turn to the left and stealthily move forward from shadow to shadow. The distant sound of dripping water echoing in the passage makes me think of some sort of zombie apocalypse. The irony is, the actual apocalypse
came from a different sort of undead.
The only moving things I encounter are huge rats scurrying to get out of my way. About seventy-five feet down the hall, the passage is blocked by a metal gate with a loose chain and a dangling padlock, used to secure the passage beyond. Someone carelessly left it unsecured—probably the same negligent guard—and I ease through.
The unlit hallway seems abandoned. After about thirty feet, I conclude that the locked gate was meant to close off an unused area. I am about to return and try the other way when a sound I never expected to hear again comes from a door that is slightly ajar, to my right.
Static hiss.
I push open the door and step into a room that is very un-Disciple-like: it is lit with a dim light bulb. Against a wall on the far side is a rack of electronic equipment; I gasp as I step forward.
It has been more than three decades since I last encountered anything like this, but I still recognize very sophisticated radio equipment. Deep space communications equipment, to be precise. There must also be some sort of movable receiver on the arena roof, probably cleverly disguised.
This goes completely against the essence of Disciple doctrine. There is simply no way to reconcile this with their professed beliefs, but these are not the first true believers led by true deceivers.
The racked equipment is mounted next to a desk lined with a bank of monitors and controls. One panel controls the radio equipment itself.
It has been an exceptionally long time—since I was a space pilot—since I operated equipment like this. A single glance suffices to tell me that it is fully functional and active.
I examine the other control panel for a minute and open a couple of menus on a computer terminal. Then I realize that it controls a geosynchronous communications relay satellite. With this setup, someone could send and receive communications any time of day, to any part of the sky.
Even, say, Mars.
I have not forgotten my purpose here, but I cannot just walk out of this room without at least trying the radio. I lean my sword against the wall next to the desk, and then I redirect the relay satellite, which is pointed out randomly into deep space, toward the Large Magellanic Cloud.
The satellite has to track key stars to maintain its orientation, so the planetary orbits have been pre-calculated for the whole century. I just need to designate Mars as the target, and it knows where to point.
The satellite will take a few minutes to reorient, so I turn to the other screen and check its frequency. It is set to 1420 MHz. Why the hell would the Disciple inner sanctum want to conduct a SETI? If they are trying to contact their Goddess, they should be looking downward.
Whatever. I do not have time to worry about Disciple dogma. I switch to a frequency in the X band that I know the Mars colony would monitor. If anyone there is still listening, it will be here.
I hold down the transmit button and send a message hailing them, telling them who I am, and asking them to respond if they can hear me. I check the panel to confirm that it is transmitting, then repeat the message two more times.
The orbits of Earth and Mars have brought them to the closest point that they have been in in decades, and will be for many years to come, but our planets are still almost thirty-five million miles apart. My signal will take just over three minutes to get there, so even if they respond the moment they hear my voice, I will not hear an answer until more than six minutes have elapsed since my transmission.
I am bursting with anxiety to find Danae and the generator, but this is literally a once in a lifetime chance. So while I sit and wait, I close my eyes and take some deep breaths to calm myself.
What if there is no response? That does not mean they are not there, just that they either did not get the message or could not respond. I know I cannot wait long, but after all this time, I have to give it at least a few minutes.
After six very long minutes, I lean close to the speaker, hoping to discern even the faintest answer. But the only sound that emerges from the speaker is the soft hiss of static as the seconds tick. I am about to switch everything back to where I found it when first a crackle and then a man’s voice come through the speaker.
“Sorry it took so long to respond, but we were surprised to hear from someone, especially you. It’s part of the watch to listen, but we stopped expecting to actually hear from anyone, so we had to hunt for a microphone. Anyway, God, it’s great to hear from you, and someone here will very much want to talk to you. So don’t go anywhere.” Then I hear the man’s voice fade as he turns away from the mic. “Johan! I saw her on one of the hydroponic plant monitors a few minutes ago. Run down there right now, and get her. Hurry.”
Relief washes over me. Not just that I got a response, but that Sarah is still there, still alive, and I will hear my wife’s voice again after all these years. I reach for the microphone to reply, but before I depress the send switch, the metal gate clanks and rattles out in the hallway as it swings shut.
Now that I pay attention, I hear faint footsteps in the distance. I have just enough time to switch off the volume on the speaker and hide behind the rack. Fortunately, the dim light creates nice deep shadows, and my gray garb blends perfectly into the grungy concrete wall.
I cannot see around the rack, but the footsteps approach and pause at the doorway, then continue down the hall. As they move away, I walk over to the doorway and glance stealthily out into the passage. I cannot see anyone, but I hear his footsteps fade in the distance.
It’s probably just the sentry doing his rounds, but I will not risk that he will lock the gate on his way out. Danae is about to become a human sacrifice, so as much as I crave to hear Sarah’s voice, I will have to wait just a little while longer for her response.
Chapter Eighteen
When I reach the gate, I discover why the guard made so much noise: the chain is looped through the gate and padlocked, so I can pull the gate open about three inches, but no further.
The gate is constructed of welded steel bars, and the sides are encased in mortared brick that goes up to the ceiling. The Disciples could not have made the gate, but they did a great job of salvaging it. I can slide the chain up and down the bars a couple of feet, but that does not help any.
Reluctantly, I reach into a pocket and remove one of the few items I snagged from my backpack. The small, pen-sized plasma torch which I used to free the generator will not have more than a minute of cutting time left, but that is not the real problem. I did not have room for the goggles or the mitt, so all I can do is turn my head and estimate the cut while using my unprotected left hand.
I finger the trigger and hear a pop and hiss as a brilliant blue-white light illuminates the whole hallway. I hope the guard is way around the corner, ideally in a room.
It only takes about five seconds with the torch before a small section of bar drops to the floor. That is as much as my hand can take. My thumb and forefinger already burn like they are on fire as I drop the plasma torch in a pocket, and I flinch when my fingers brush against the fabric. If it stings this much now, it is going hurt like a son of a bitch later.
The chain slides up and slips through the break, and I swing the gate open so I can step through. Then I pull the gate closed again and hook the chain back through the break. It will not pass a close examination, but a quick glance should not reveal anything wrong. Still, it is only a matter of time until it gets noticed, so the clock is running. The fun begins.
A minute later I am back at the stairwell and as I expected, the sword and foodstuff have gone on rounds with the guard. I continue past and head in the other direction, moving slowly for the first few minutes while my eyes adjust to the low light that filters in from the main arena.
The first fifty feet or so are just defunct restrooms, which judging by the stench wafting through the doorway, were probably where the guard went to use a chamber pot, the first time I came through. Then I start passing the suites.
Many of the doors to these rooms are either broken or missin
g altogether. A quick glance reveals that most of the rooms are packed with trash. A couple of doors are closed but not locked; I hear nothing on their other sides when I press my ear against them. A quick search inside finds these rooms stacked high with chairs and tables.
Then, about a quarter of the way around the arena, I reach a door with a sliver of light shining under the bottom. I press my ear against the door cautiously and hear a man talk; a few moments later, a woman sharply replies. I cannot make out the words, but I know the woman is Danae.
The sound of her voice hits me like a punch.
For a moment I clutch the side of the doorframe as my head spins. I did not expect this; I focus my breathing so I do not pass out. What I felt while waiting for Sarah’s response is a mere shadow of what I now feel, when I hear Danae. Never in my life have I ever wanted or needed something the way I need right now to get to Danae.
I reach for the sword tucked into my belt—then I remember where it is: leaning against the wall next to the communications rack. Crap, I keep losing my weapons. I reach into my pocket for the final item I brought with me: the hypo spray Danae used so successfully on me. Hopefully, I will find it just as effective.
Going back down the hallway a couple of doors, I find a small box just large enough to hold with two hands, and add some small chunks of concrete to it, so it has a little heft. Then I go back to the room holding Danae and barely turn the door handle. Not locked.
Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle all the way and push the door open. Just a couple of feet ahead of me stands a Disciple with his back to me. Beyond him, Danae sits tied up in a chair. I lower my head as I step into the room, and as he starts to turn I hold the box in front of me. Hopefully my gray servant garb and submissive posture will buy me the precious seconds that I need.
The man gives me a scornful look when I thrust the box toward him, hands shaking. The quivering is not feigned, as agonizing pain from the fingers on my left hand shoots up my arm.