Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy

by Jennings Wright

  Clay and Neahle were the first to reach the rendezvous point. Clay had driven like a maniac through the streets, along the preset path he had memorized. No one chased them; they vaguely noticed the shadows of rebels who had formed three concentric defensive rings around the prison. Their job was to make sure no Firsts got through while chasing the infiltration team, and to take out as many enemy forces as they could once the Firsts began to arrive at the prison to investigate the raid.

  The portal was in the Catacomb of San Callisto, the entrance to which was along the ancient Appian Way. The problem was, the entrance to these Catacombs was not far from the Circus Maximus. Not wanting to chance being followed into the tunnel, the infiltration team had elected to meet to the east of the Catacomb entrance after driving far afield to lose any pursuers. They chose the Nome di Maria, a long-abandoned Catholic church on Via Centuripe, just off the parkland surrounding the Appian Way.

  Clay turned off the motorcycle and they slid off. He walked it around the back of the L-shaped building into the darkness. Neahle followed close behind, hyper aware for any man-made sounds. There were none. When they reached the meeting point, they sat down with their backs against the cold, damp stone of the church. Neither spoke. Neahle could feel the adrenaline starting to ease out of her system; she felt shaky.

  Forty-five minutes later they heard another motorcycle slowly making its way down the narrow street. The engine died and they could barely make out the sound of soft footfalls on the grass. Neither moved, waiting to see who had come. Dim light shone on a black helmet, then the helmet was pulled off and they recognized Riley and a thirty year old outsider named Michael.

  “You okay?” Clay asked, too tired to stand.

  “Yeah, you?” Clay nodded. Riley sat down next to Neahle and patted her upraised knee. “Just us?”

  “So far,” she said. “Darian?”

  Riley shook his head. “I don’t know. I think he got away with Monkey. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Michael stretched out on the ground near the wall and rested his head on his wadded up jacket. He was asleep in short order. Riley shook his head.

  “He’s usually in Chicago. Lots of violence there among the gangs and junkies. He can sleep anywhere.”

  Twenty minutes later they heard the sound of two engines. Again they waited, not moving from their place in the dark shadow of the building. The sun was beginning to light the sky in the east. They knew that the longer they took to regroup, the greater their chances of being caught. 8:00 had been the drop-dead time: whoever hadn’t arrived would have to find a rebel cell to crash with until it was safe to regain the Catacombs and portal. Neahle glanced at her watch. It was 7:45.

  Three people came around the corner, their helmets under their arms. Monkey, Darian, and Lindsey, a thirty-five year old woman originally from Boston who still spent most of her time in her home city. As the other began to rise, Darian motioned for them to stay put.

  “Stick to the plan,” he said quietly. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later.”

  The newcomers lined up along the wall, resting their heads against the stone, watching the ever-lightening sky and checking their watches. At 8:00, Riley stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants.

  “That’s it, let’s go. They’ll catch up later,” he said.

  All of the motorcycles were being left behind. Beppe and several of the Roman rebels were tasked with retrieving them when things settled down. For now, they were parked up against the building under the shadow of a stand of tall pines. They put all the helmets in a large black duffel bag and tucked that under a shrub. As they started around the corner they heard the whine of an engine. They froze. Pushing Darian back around the corner, Monkey ducked down and crept along the side of the church to the front corner.

  The street was lit by the soft morning sun and Monkey could see a lone motorcycle carrying two people, driving erratically down the pavement towards the church. As he watched, he recognized Hannah’s helmet and saw her long dark hair streaming down her back. Something was definitely wrong.

  Monkey ran back and grabbed Riley and Clay, telling the others to keep to the shadows. His serious expression brooked no argument; Darian took Neahle’s hand and pulled her down beside him next to the building.

  “What’s wrong?” Neahle asked.

  “The bike sounds wrong,” Darian said. “I don’t know why. Just wait.” He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Neahle didn’t know if he was praying or trying to be patient. Nevertheless, she followed his lead and said a small prayer of her own.

  The stuttering engine noise quit and they could make out the very soft murmurings of talking. Riley came racing around the corner and pulled up short in front of them.

  “Abacus has been shot.”

  They broke into the church through a back door, Riley and Monkey carrying Abacus while Hannah held her wadded up shirt against his stomach. To Clay, this looked all too familiar; he prayed that the outcome would be different than it was with Samson.

  Laying him on a long wooden pew, Monkey pulled up Abacus’ shirt. The exit wound was on his lower right side, and although it was oozing blood, the wound wasn’t large. Clay was relieved—he could have put his fist through the hole in Samson.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood and I don’t know if it’s hit any vital organs. What’s over here? Appendix?” Hannah said, desperately pressing the shirt down on the wound.

  “It went through the back… Kidneys maybe? Intestines, I guess. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.” Monkey ran his hands through his hair. “We need to get him back to the tunnels to Landon and Angie.”

  “It’s broad daylight now,” Neahle pointed out. “And we’d have to carry him. There’s no way we’re going to get across that park and down the Appian Way to the entrance of the Catacombs without being seen. Not now.”

  Clay glanced at Darian, who was standing back and watching.

  “Sir?” he said. “What do you think we should do?”

  Startled, Darian turned to him and gave a small smile. “I’m not a doctor, unfortunately. I agree he needs medical help and that there doesn’t seem to be any way to get it for him. Unless…” He paused, thinking. All eyes turned to him. “Unless we bring the help to him.”

  Riley nodded. “One person could make it to the tunnels without being seen. The park’s all grown up and there are still a lot of shadows. I’ll go and bring Angie back.”

  “Let me go with you,” Darian said. “Things will go better for you if you’re caught if I’m not here. I think I might need to lay low for awhile.” His green eyes creased at the corners with a small smile.

  Abacus opened his eyes and looked around. “Go. Darian needs to get out of Rome—that’s a lot more important than this.” He fluttered his hand weakly over his abdomen. He focused on Darian. “I’m Abacus—Aaron Turner, actually.” He tried a weak smile. “And you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Angie had stayed in the tunnels to man the sick bay and another dorm room that had been set up to receive casualties. When Riley ran in with a tall, blonde stranger on his heels but no injured person, she was confused.

  “You’ve got to come with me,” Riley said, breathing hard. He pointed to Darian. “This is him. Darian. He’s staying here. You, come. Abacus was shot.”

  Fighting shock, Angie grabbed a medical kit from behind the door. Looking at Darian, she said, “I’m Angie, medic, needed. Talk to you later—glad to meet you!” The two ran off through the maze of tunnels, back towards Rome.

  Darian, lost in the warren that was the living quarters, wandered around following the light of torches in sconces until he reached the living room. Smiling at the bright colored cushions and pillows, he sank gratefully onto a couch with a red/orange/pink motif and closed his eyes. He was al
most asleep when he heard soft footsteps, and then a familiar voice.

  “Darian?”

  Opening his eyes, he grinned, then stood and held out his arms. “Dad. I knew they’d do it.”

  Over the course of the day, the tunnel dwellers began to trickle in, mostly in small groups. Many had been wounded in small skirmishes with the Firsts, but, as they’d hoped, the aliens hadn’t been able to cobble together an effective response yet. While the years since the war had been long and frustrating for the humans, they had served one important purpose: the Firsts were complacent and unused to any real challenge. With Angie gone, those who knew any first aid helped to the injured as best they could.

  Landon and Darian walked around the increasingly crowded tunnels meeting people and helping with the wounded. Will had stayed behind to make sure there was plenty of food for the fighters, and the kitchen and dining room stayed open with a buffet style hot meal. Vasco came in just before dinner and grinned at Darian.

  “I am sincerely glad to meet you, my man!” he said, giving Darian a big hug. Clapping him on the back, Darian grinned back.

  “And you. You must be Vasco—you look like your brother.”

  “It’s Bobby, really. And yes, I look like my brother, minus the pirate effect. Where is he? Office?”

  Landon looked at him with concern. “He was shot, Bobby. He’s still topside, in Rome.”

  The color drained from Vasco’s face as he looked from Landon to Darian. “Is he…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Landon shook his head. “No. He’s not dead, but he is badly wounded. Angie’s up there now; they’ll bring him down tonight, after dark. I can help him then.”

  “Will he make it back? Can’t you go up?” Vasco sat down heavily on a chair.

  “I believe he will make it back. And no, I can’t go up. He’s in good hands.” Landon put a comforting hand on Vasco’s shoulder. “He’s in good hands,” he repeated.

  Vasco slumped in the chair, looking off into a dark tunnel at the end of the room. Then he shook his head, wiped his face with his hand, and stood.

  “Okay, what about everyone else. Casualties?”

  Darian gave a report. “So far, forty-four injured, but only three badly, not including your brother. From what I can piece together, there’s another two hundred staying topside; we don’t have counts on them. Anecdotal evidence is that there were a good number of rebel injuries, but only seven deaths that we know of. That’s in Rome. We don’t know about the other assaults yet, of course. We’ll have to gather that intel over the next couple of weeks, once things die down.”

  “Do we know anything about the comm center? Did anyone make contact with Marty?”

  Darian shook his head. “Nobody seemed to know where the phone is or if it will even work now that the comm center has gone up in smoke, although they knew that 4:00 was the usual time. Monkey will be back tonight. He can make the second scheduled call. For now… We wait.”

  It was after midnight when the infiltration team made it back to the tunnels. Abacus was stable, although the loss of blood kept him drifting in and out of consciousness and his face was very pale. A new crew took over from Monkey, Riley, Clay and Michael, who had carried their leader almost two miles to the Catacombs and then through the tunnels. They were exhausted. Abacus was hustled to the sick bay where he was met by Landon.

  “Lay him there,” he said, pointing to the bed Riley had been in after his fight. “Then you can go. Everyone can get some sleep. We’ll be fine.”

  Darian came in and leaned against the door. “Will he? Be fine, I mean?”

  Landon studied Abacus for a long while, pulling up the bandage on the front to examine the stitches, then rolling him slightly to examine the back.

  “The bullet missed his kidneys, spleen, liver, everything. Somewhat of a miracle,” he said, smiling at Darian. “But he lost a lot of blood and went untended for a long time, so there’s a risk of infection. I think, though, that he’s strong enough. He’ll make it.”

  Darian gave one nod then left the room, making his way to the newly renovated cave that had been given to him. He entered, thinking it looked remarkably like his prison cell except for one key difference—there was no lock on this door.

  The infiltration team sat together at one of the long dining tables, sipping tea and picking at oatmeal. They had all slept—they were too tired to fight it—but they were worried about Abacus. Word had spread to the whole underground, and there was an eerie silence as they waited. Darian had gone with Vasco into the office two hours before and not come out. Landon was still in the sick bay.

  “It didn’t take this long with me,” Riley said. “I think something’s wrong.”

  “I guess everybody’s different,” Hannah said. “Maybe he’s sleeping. It’s been a long few days.”

  Riley dropped his spoon into his bowl and gave up the pretense of eating. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “He’s going to be fine,” a voice said from the doorway. They all looked up to see Landon standing there, looking tired. “He’s fine. He’s sleeping now. He won’t be leading any more raids in the near future, but he’s recovering nicely.” He took a seat.

  “Really?” Neahle said, unable to believe it. “He’s really okay?”

  “Really,” Landon said, pulling over a mug and the carafe of tea. “He’s going to have some impressive scars, though.”

  Tension relieved, they all laughed. Riley picked up his spoon again and started eating.

  “Did Monkey talk to Marty last night?” Landon asked the group in general.

  “I did,” Clay said. “Monkey went to sleep. Marty was as high as a kite. He said the comm center blew up perfectly on cue. Thankfully he’d switched our phones to a La Defense tower. Then the vault team grabbed control of the satellite and threw most of the rest of the La Defense communications offline. They have reams of paper from monitoring communications coming in from all over the world. It was chaos up there!”

  “And the slaves?” Landon asked. “Did they get the slaves away?”

  Clay shrugged. “He didn’t know. In the vault they only know what we tell them or what they get from monitoring the Firsts. The rebels everywhere in Europe were supposed to try to gather as many slaves as would go and take them somewhere underground where the GPS won’t work. We’ll just have to wait and see how it went.”

  Landon nodded. “It’s important that the slaves are freed, that they join the resistance. We’ll need them.”

  “Wait, Landon is Darian’s dad?” Neahle said.

  “That’s what they tell me,” Clay said.

  “But… But…” Neahle sputtered. “I don’t understand. Is Landon from Ixeos then?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s a mystery.” Clay drank from his water bottle.

  “A mystery. Great. Because we don’t have enough mystery just being here,” Neahle said.

  “How about the great tattoo mystery?”

  Neahle shook her head. Clay had asked Landon how the tattoo of his twin brother’s fingerprint had been able to open the doors, but Landon had just smiled, laid a reassuring hand on Clay’s shoulder, and congratulated him for figuring it out. Clay got a headache when he tried to figure it all out, so he’d stopped thinking about it.

  “Have you talked to him?” Neahle asked.

  “Him who? Landon?” Clay said.

  “No, Darian.” For the past week, the tunnel dwellers had stayed underground, feeling overcrowded with so many all in one place. They were unwilling to use the portals to find out what had happened elsewhere until Marty gave the all-clear.

  “Yeah, he’s cool. He was locked in that prison all those years, but you’d never know it. They gave him books, but that was it. Nothing else. For fifteen years.”

  “Holy cow,” Neahle s
aid. “So… What’s he going to do.”

  Clay shrugged. “Save the world, I guess.”

  Two weeks after the raid, Abacus was as good as new. Marty gave the word that the frantic communication between La Defense and the rest of the planet had gone back to normal levels. From what he could tell, about two hundred rebels had been captured or killed worldwide on the day of the raid. On the plus side, it looked like almost thirty thousand slaves had disappeared from the GPS tracking program in Europe.

  Vasco gathered everyone together in the living room. “Okay, we’re doing this slowly. Teams of two, just to gather intel. Low and slow. We find out casualties, where the slaves are being kept, how many have been released from their tracking unit, and most important, we let everyone know Darian’s free. Tell them that three months from today we’re going to get back to work, but until then, everyone lays low and stays out of trouble. Got it?” Vasco looked around at the assembly in the living room. Heads were nodding.

  Darian stood. “Tell them that I’m going to start visiting them. Each city, every rebel and freed slave I can. If they know of people living off the grid, they need to find them and bring them in. We’re going to need everybody.” He squared his shoulders, looking even taller than his height. His green eyes were bright. “Tell them that we’re bringing the war to the Firsts, starting now.”

  Also by Jennings Wright

  After a daring robbery, Rei and Gideon Quinn are recruited by their boss to recover a lost family heirloom: a letter written by St. Paul that could rewrite the history of the Church. What they discover is that an old journal, also stolen but little thought of, was the real object of the theft. An art preservationist, Rei begins to decipher clues in the journal, and finds that they lead to a treasure: the long lost throne of King Solomon. As they embark on a treasure hunt, following the Portuguese Spice Route through east Africa, the Middle East and into India, they must rely on letters from a long dead Jesuit priest. They must also keep one step ahead of the secret militant order that carried out the robbery and is after the same goal: the prize of a lifetime.