Maria Diaz was a soldier, first and foremost. She knew Huntington would sacrifice herself. Coogan, too. Diaz would do the same if it came to that.
But all those goddamn people on the surface didn’t have a choice in the matter. She did.
Diaz snatched the pad from Harry’s hand and entered the codes. “I swear to you, Harry, I am going to fucking ruin you for this.” She threw the pad back at him, which he nearly fumbled before getting two hands on it.
“You made the right call,” he said. “Sorry it had to come to this. But we didn’t know this place would have the kind of random ambient energy it does. We need to stabilize it.” He punched a few buttons on the pad and, a moment later, one of the larger holoviewers at the front of the room showed the entire BlueNet satellite network. It was firmly under Total-Suez’ command now.
“So there was some Cherenkov radiation already here, then,” Coogan said evenly. Good trooper, Diaz thought, getting the bad guys to talk.
Harry nodded. “It flared up out of nowhere early into our survey, nine months ago,” he replied. “We had a low-level hit prior to that, but it just suddenly burst out there like a beacon. We sent a team down, and they were able to get into the ruins—apparently, a Chinese tour group got lost down there right around the time of the flare-up. They must’ve triggered it.”
“Triggered it? How?” Diaz demanded.
“Beats me. I’m the funding here,” Harry said. “Talk to Greene. He helped pick the site.”
With that, Harry turned and walked back toward the accelerator to begin consulting with Ayim . . . and Greene.
“It’s happening again,” Diaz said quietly.
“Ma’am?” Hutchinson asked.
“Too many coincidences. They’re knocking on the door here while everybody goes batshit up there. There’s more going on. I think this experiment’s gonna work, and it’s gonna go badly,” Diaz said. She turned to Huntington and gave her a small smile. “You all right, Mags?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, allowing her shoulders to slump slightly. “I would’ve understood either way.”
“I know. I’m proud to have you here.”
They sat silently a moment until Coogan cleared his throat, a bit too dramatically. “Do you have orders, ma’am?”
Diaz turned to him. “Fuck if I know. I’m hoping that when they get BlueNet online and get it stabilized, we’ll be able to make a move somehow. Just be ready.”
They looked up to see a soft white glow start to emanate from behind the glass. Greene and Ayim were flipping through holodata quickly, sending status reports and readouts to one another as a hum started to permeate the room, sending small motes of dust down from the ancient ceiling.
A number of alerts flashed across various holoscreens throughout the room, including the one at Diaz’ station. BlueNet’s satellites were now focusing ambient Cherenkov radiation directly overhead—potentially bringing additional tachyons to bear on the collider, which had just fired off a new round of particles. Three billion to start—with billions more launched every second.
The glow began to intensify . . . and began to turn a light shade of blue.
Diaz saw Greene pump his fist, and her heart sank.
CHAPTER 17
October 18, 1797
Finch walked through the surface ruins of the Siwa oasis in the cool evening breeze, hoping he might talk to some of the savants, or at least Dolomieu once more. A few soldiers continued the excavation work in various places, but their hearts did not seem in it. They exchanged looks, the occasional Gallic shrug, and kept digging. Such was their lot, it seemed.
Yet there were indeed few of them, and as Finch continued his meanderings—his first time out of the tent since the incident in the temple below—he realized something had changed. Yes, there were still guards at Berthollet’s tent, and at the temple tunnel as well. A few others were enjoying a meal around their campfires. But the savants . . .
Where were the savants?
Finch spied a soldier walking alone between tents, and made for him. This time, he remembered his favorite elixir, placing a dab of it on his tongue quickly before approaching the man.
“Citizen!” he called out. “Could you help me a moment?”
The soldier stopped and turned, a smile upon his face. “Dr. Finch! You are well? We heard you were injured.”
Finch gave his best smile. “I am, thanks to your fellow citizens who carried me out of that tunnel. But pray tell, where is everyone? I had hoped to dine with my fellow scholars this evening, but there seem to be none about.”
“You are most welcome to dine with us, Doctor!” the soldier said a little too jovially, leaving Finch wondering if he had included too many Venusian extracts in the charm elixir he was using. “But the savants, they have gathered below, in the temple, at the request of Citizen Berthollet, along with many of the soldiers. I am surprised that you, of all people, have not joined them.”
“Ah, well, yes. I had thought we were meeting somewhere up here first, of course,” Finch said, hoping he sounded convincing. The mentis arts would only take one so far, after all. “I shall find them below then. I thank you, Citizen. I promise, we shall dine another night!”
The soldier bowed slightly and went upon his way once more, while Finch turned and went back to his tent. Jabir was not there, instead likely in pursuit of his own meal, so Finch hastily scribbled a note in Arabic for him, gathered his portable laboratory and a couple of needful items, and left once more, making for the entrance to the temple.
It was no surprise at all to see it guarded by four soldiers, and some of the more menacing ones at that. Berthollet, it seemed, was taking no chances.
Finch reached into the satchel at his side, pulling out a working of his own design, housed inside a hollowed-out chicken egg. It was a trick Weatherby had suggested back in ’84, when they were serving together and found themselves in need of clandestine tools.
Hiding behind a tent, Finch carefully took out his egg, peeked around the corner, and then lobbed it at the feet of the guards, before ducking back out of sight.
One of them let out a quiet, muffled “What?” before all became silent.
Finch approached carefully, waiting for the yellow mist to clear in the night’s breeze. The four guards were unconscious upon the ground. One began to snore, much to Finch’s chagrin. He quickly rolled the man onto his side, despite his still-aching arms, and was rewarded with silence once more. They would be asleep for four hours, which Finch hoped would be adequate.
He quickly but carefully made his way down into the tunnels, and was surprised to see torches at regular intervals along the walls. Berthollet’s men had done yeoman’s work in making the tunnel easier to traverse in a mere two days. Likewise, the first room Finch had encountered, the one with the spike traps, was not only open, but swept clean. Finch nonetheless hesitated at the door, thinking of the poor young man impaled by a spike who died before his eyes, but he soon stepped tentatively through the room. Whatever was there had been fully disarmed, it seemed.
Forging ahead, Finch began to hear the low hum of conversation ahead in the temple. He looked about, wondering if someone would come up from behind him most inconveniently, but there was nothing for it. He pulled out a second eggshell, hoping he would not need to use it—or if it was required, that he could use it quickly enough before an interloper raised the alarm.
Quietly stepping forward and keeping to the shadows whenever possible, Finch managed to arrive at the doorway to the temple undetected. He could see nearly all of the savants there, including Dolomieu, mingling with at least two-thirds of the garrison and all of the officers. None of the Bedouins, not even Sheikh Karim, were in attendance. The onlookers were talking in excited, hushed tones, occasionally glancing up toward the altar. Shifting his position, Finch crouched low and peeked around the corner to see what the fuss was about.
Immediately, he saw that Berthollet had missed his calling, for it was quite apparent that the Fr
enchman’s heart was not in alchemy, but rather the boards and lights of the stage. The last time Finch saw him, he was the perfect picture of a French gentleman. Now, standing there before the altar, he was nothing less than what one might expect of an Egyptian priest.
It had never been Finch’s wont to engage in the more theatrical aspects of the rites and rituals inherent in the mystic sciences. Questions that humanists had begun asking around the time of the Reformation had been clearly answered—ceremonial trappings and entreaties to God and His Angels (or, perhaps, to other beings) were unnecessary to perform the Great Work adequately. The prayers and props had purpose, of course, in that most of them served as mnemonic devices and guideposts for more complex workings, but it had been generally agreed upon by most scholars of alchemy that the praise of God, while laudable, was not strictly required.
Egyptian mythology of ages past, of course, made no mention of Allah, or Christ, or even Jehovah. From his studies and experiments, Finch knew these ancient rites included exacting religious requirements. Finch felt he could safely discern what was truly important—whether it was a particular mineral or an exercise designed to focus the Will—from the merely ostentatious. He had done so many times in the past, and naturally felt quite confident in his abilities, even when faced with a new and potentially dangerous working from the days of the ancient Egyptians.
It seemed Berthollet, however, would take no chances. He was as methodical in this as he was in most things. And so it was that the tall, portly Frenchman was now attired and purified as a Pharonic priest of old. In Finch’s opinion . . . it was not the best of looks.
As would be ancient custom, Berthollet could not wear wool, nor leather, and had but a skirt of linen around his ample waist, draped down to just above his ankles. Around his shoulders was a cape made of leopard skin, obtained at excruciating cost after the French had scoured the nomad tribesmen around the ruins. The skin was mottled and of poor quality, and smelled rather badly besides. It compared poorly to the jewelry and accoutrements he wore, likely salvaged from elsewhere in the temple.
What Berthollet was not wearing was hair. His final preparation had been to shave.
Everywhere. Finch knew this was also a requirement of the ancient priesthood, but it was a singularly unflattering look. If not for his dread concern about Berthollet’s aims, and the nature of his find, Finch might have found it laughable.
Observing the crowd once more, Finch saw that each person in the room was given a small copper disc with a hieroglyph carved upon it. Berthollet did not seem to wear one, but given his likely role as the rite’s enactor, he might not require it, Finch thought. Of course, Finch himself wasn’t wearing one either, and he knew not whether to be very worried or exceedingly grateful.
Finch’s musings were interrupted by Berthollet. “Let us begin,” he intoned.
The room fell silent, and the entire assemblage looked to the altar as one.
And that’s when Finch spied the wrapped bundle upon the altar itself, surrounded by a variety of ritual paraphernalia. It was the very bundle he discovered under the altar.
With solemnity, Berthollet began taking the leathery bandages off, unspooling them from what appeared to be a rectangular item, all in black. The Frenchman neatly piled the wrappings off to one side, then took the item in both hands to raise it above his head. “Behold!” Berthollet cried out. “The Book of the Dead!”
“Oh, dear God,” Finch whispered from his hiding place.
The Book of the Dead was one of two legendary items from Egyptian antiquity, the companion to the Emerald Tablet. The latter was considered the foundation of alchemy itself, compiling all ancient knowledge of the Great Work that would bring light and life to the cosmos.
The Book, on the other hand, was the Tablet’s opposite. Where the Tablet was light, the Book was dark. Where the Tablet dealt with the arts of life and matter, the Book was said to detail the workings of the spirit world . . . and the dead.
And now Berthollet had it. Furthemore, the Frenchman did not seem to want to simply deliver his prize to his patron, Napoleon. Not without delving into its secrets first. The translators must have been working through the night to provide Berthollet the means for whatever he planned to do next.
Finch realized, with a sense of dread, he had no idea what Berthollet would do. He was not only losing the chess match, but was playing blind besides.
“We are in the West, among the Field of Reeds,” Berthollet intoned, his arms wide, reading not from the Book, but from sheaves of papers beside it—the translation, most likely, courtesy of the Rosetta stone. “We implore the spirits of Duat to come forward. We offer the comforts of the living once more, and the means to shatter the bonds of exile, so that you may return. You may leave Duat, the land of the dead. You may come forth by night, from Upper Egypt to the very sea. You may call upon the darkness to give you strength, so that the daylight can no longer drive you back to the underworld!”
Finch cast his gaze across the room. The Frenchmen present looked bemused, for the most part, though one soldier clutched a crucifix in his hand at these words. Finch felt his pulse begin to quicken, and his stomach start to churn.
“I call you forth from the Field of Reeds,” Berthollet said, picking up a bundle of reeds off the altar. “I shall light a beacon to guide you on your journey!” With that, the alchemist dipped the reed-tips into a bowl of oil, then used one of the candle flames to light them on fire. The reeds burst into flame, and a sickly green flame at that; a half-dozen treatments that could produce such an effect, but Finch could not make sense of any of them in terms of the ritual. Who was Berthollet calling forth?
Berthollet then took up a small straw model of a boat, complete with a small human figurine inside. “These are the ferries that took you to Duat, to forever dwell away from the world. See the ferrymen now . . . and take these boats as your own!” Berthollet used the spear head to pierce each of the figures aboard the boat, casting them into a brazier to the right of the altar.
The ritual’s purpose hit Finch’s mind like a thunderclap. Berthollet was not performing a ritual to contact the dead, or to raise a particular person.
He was setting the stage for an invasion.
But from where? Duat, the afterlife itself?
Lost as Finch was in his own thoughts, the hand that clamped down on his shoulder made him jump. He turned to find one of the French soldiers there, with a pistol pointed under Finch’s chin. “Move,” the man said gruffly.
Finch clutched at his egg-grenade, but the soldier was canny, and snatched it from him quite deftly. Defeated for the moment, Finch slowly proceeded into the chamber, catching Berthollet’s eye in the process.
The Frenchman looked startled at first, but quickly broke into a wicked grin. “I should have known you’d find a way to join us, Dr. Finch.” Berthollet waved for the guard to bring Finch closer. “Come, then. You may stay here, with me, and see this working unfold. Watch as I discover the power of the ancients!”
The soldier shoved Finch toward the altar, keeping the gun pointed at the back of his head. Casting about, he saw no avenue of escape.
With a flourish and a shout, Berthollet grasped the book in both hands. And between the altar and the crowd of onlookers, the air itself began to shimmer.
June 21, 2134
“I swear to God, I’m going to sue the Chinese from here to Earth and back,” Hall said as Lander Two pierced the clouds over Titan. “Of course, if they didn’t file the official claim before it hit the fan for them, so much the better.”
Shaila couldn’t help but look at the ExEn executive askance. She knew such talk was a charade, an unconscious mask for Hall’s increasing discomfort over the fact that they were flying straight for people who murdered their fellow crewmen. But still. “That’s one way to look at a search-and-rescue op,” Shaila chided. “I assume you have the claim paperwork already done.”
“I’m literally gonna send it from the surface of Titan itself
,” Hall confirmed, missing the sarcasm. “It’ll be a running stream. Whatever I fly over and see, I’m claiming for ExEn.”
“That’s the spirit of exploration,” Shaila said. “Armstrong, this is Lander Two. We’ve cleared atmospheric burn. Over.”
“You’re cleared for landing, Two,” Archie replied. “Your vidfeed and data stream is fine. Skipper’s comms are still minimal. He says good luck and be careful.”
“Roger. Thanks, Archie,” Shaila said. “Stephane, what are you getting on sensors?”
Shaila could’ve asked Hall for the reading, but she wanted to hear Stephane right now, in this moment. He’d been quiet the whole trip, immersed in data, eyes darting over his HUD. “The Chinese lander isn’t giving off transponder signals,” Stephane replied. “I’m scanning for titanium and coming up with a hit in the same general area we identified from orbit. It’s actually pretty close to some interesting geography. Some very deep canyons carved by hydrocarbon flows.”
Shaila smiled. That sounded a bit more like him. “Roger that. I have the coordinates.”
Just then, the lander lurched as it entered the lower atmosphere. Shaila grabbed the stick and eased around the worst of the turbulence until the lander broke into the clear.
And Titan took their breath away.
They arrived in a very mountainous region, with rocky hillocks and peaks on either side of the lander, with a valley beneath. A large smooth lake of purplish hydrocarbons spread out beneath them, and they could see a river leading out of it and heading down through the valley, linking up with tributaries snaking down through the mountains.
Everything had something of an orange-honey cast to it due to Titan’s atmosphere. Combined with the purple of the liquid hydrocarbons, the whole image had a kind of warmth, even though the outside temperatures would be intensely frigid—so cold that the liquid ethane, methane and propane soup below could actually freeze solid in some parts, and would be intensely viscous throughout—more like a tar pit than a lake.
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