Threshold

by Robinson, Jeremy

  “I do.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Deciding.”

  Marrs picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit extension that Boucher recognized as the number for security. But he didn’t react. Didn’t need to. The phone was unplugged.

  “Deciding what?” Marrs asked before putting the phone to his ear. When he heard no ringing or dial tone he knew the phone had been disconnected.

  “If you’re the right person.”

  Marrs had taken a step back toward the door. A bit of fear had crept back into his face.

  “How about this,” Marrs said. “You can tell me what you decided from the inside of a cell. CIA chief or not, this is illegal.”

  When he took another step toward the door, Boucher launched up, slid over the desk, and reached Marrs just as he was turning around to run. He took hold of the senator’s pinky and twisted it back. The man yelped as the digit neared the breaking point. Boucher pulled him back, leading him by the finger, and sat him down in a chair opposite the desk.

  “Did Duncan send you to bully me? Is that it?” Marrs rubbed his finger. “I’m not going to back down.”

  “I don’t want you to back down,” Boucher said, turning to the window so Marrs couldn’t see how hard these words were to say. “There’s a folder on your desk. Open it.”

  Marrs looked at the desk. A folder sat at its center. He stared at it for a moment. Distrustful. But curiosity got the better of him. He leaned forward, snagged the folder, and opened it.

  He froze on the first page, reading every word. When he finished, he asked, “Is this real?”

  “All of it, yes.”

  Marrs quickly scanned the rest of the documents.

  “As you can see, I’ve been keeping a record of all the poor choices President Duncan has made. I can’t sit and watch things continue to unfold like this. I’ve … admired your passion and thought you might be the right man to take it to. The man who can do what needs to be done.”

  Marrs slowly closed the folder. He looked horrified. For a moment, Boucher thought Marrs might back down. Was this too much? Did he lack the guts to really put his words into action?

  “This will destroy him,” Marrs said. He wasn’t gloating. Just stunned.

  But then a smile began to show. He was up to it all right. “You’ll testify in support of this?”

  Boucher knelt down, picked up the phone line, and reconnected it to the wall jack. “I will.”

  Marrs picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit number. A phone on the other side of the office door rang once before being answered. “Call a press conference,” Marrs said. “Get me everyone. Tell them I have proof.”

  Boucher heard the secretary’s voice through the door. “About what?”

  “About everything.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Haifa, Israel

  “WE DON’T HAVE time for this,” King said in frustration. His concern for Fiona coupled with the soaring temperature in the makeshift warehouse lab made him impatient.

  “We’ll find her,” Queen assured him, her confidence unwavering, but her own thoughts half a world away with Rook.

  “Tell me again what we have,” King said.

  Knight looked over several photos that had been spread out on the table. He had taken them before leaving El Mirador. They showed the cuneiform scrawled on the walls beneath la Danta pyramid. “Cuneiform. We can’t read it, but we know its origin is in Sumer. That coupled with the oversized sandfish you bagged points to Iraq.”

  “Which is a big country with plenty of places to hide,” King said.

  “And with all the troops still stationed there, one of the last places we would think to find someone hiding from us,” Bishop added.

  King looked at Davidson, who was waiting for test results at a laptop. “How long, Professor?”

  “A few more minutes.” He turned to King. “I’ve been thinking. The level of violence you have described is beyond anything attributed to golems before. They’ve been killers, to be sure, but the wholesale killing of thousands is unheard of.”

  “What’s your point?” Alexander said. His voice had been tinged with impatience since the confrontation with King.

  “A warning I suppose. Back in my office—which no longer exists, thank you—I mentioned the cycle of, what’s the right word? Evil. The cycle of evil is said to be transferred from master to golem upon creation and from the golem to master after it has killed.”

  “Black hearts,” Alexander said. “I remember.”

  “From what I’ve heard, this Ridley character was dark to begin with.”

  “The darkest,” Knight said. “He’s willing to kill anyone and do anything to achieve his goals.”

  King eyed Alexander. Was he any different? Had he committed unforgivable crimes in the past? There was no way to know. The man had spent a lifetime covering his tracks and erasing himself from history.

  “Then the first golems made would have contained that lack of regard for human life. And they’ve killed thousands over the past year?”

  King nodded. He could see where Davidson’s line of thought led. “And all of that death, all of that evil, has been transferred back to Ridley.”

  “Exactly,” Davidson said. “However evil your man started out, I assure you he is now much worse.”

  “He is nothing,” Alexander mumbled.

  King wasn’t sure what to make of the statement, but Queen had already shifted gears.

  “When you said we should call Ridley Adam,” Queen said to Davidson. “Were you referring to the biblical Adam?”

  “Who was molded from clay and given life through the breath, some would say the words, of God. To breathe something into being is to speak it into being. Yes, that Adam.” Davidson adjusted his glasses. “Which I find quite disturbing. Animating a golem is one thing. It’s simply animating a nonliving thing. We do it all the time with vehicles, robotics. Along with artificial intelligence we can create animated creations that are far more lifelike than an actual golem, though they are far less durable and coordinated.

  “But what you described with this Richard Ridley fellow goes beyond that. Using clay, his creator imbued him with what appeared to be genuine life. He was intelligent. He could speak. He emoted and coexisted with a population of people for days without raising suspicions. As amazing as this is, it is also an abomination. That Ridley is using the protolanguage to create nearly human copies of himself is narcissistic in the extreme.”

  “We already knew he had a god complex,” Knight said.

  “No,” King said. “A man who can give and take life, who can cure nations or destroy them, who can perform the very act of creation, doesn’t have a god complex. He wants to be God.”

  “I don’t understand how clay can become human,” Knight said. “It doesn’t sound possible.”

  “Even the science world acknowledges that clay had a likely hand in the creation of life,” Davidson said. “Though I disagree with the concept of accidental, random creation, there are many who believe clay catalyzed the formation of organic molecules. Take hydrothermal vents for example, life is supported there, not just by the heat provided by the vents but also the vast amount of clay surrounding them and expelled by them. I agree it’s a stretch, but clay seems to be at the center of both religious and scientific theories on the creation of life.”

  “And so we end up with golems that can create golems?” Queen asked.

  “I think you might need to consider a new term for the Ridley duplicates. While they return to clay after being … killed, they are not simply inanimate objects given the illusion of life. They are alive. And capable of speech. Thus capable of using the same protolanguage to create more golems.”

  King’s phone rang. He answered it quickly and listened to the voice on the other end. “So we’ll know if he enters any other countries?” King asked. “Good. Thanks for letting me know.”

  He hung up the phone and looked at the others.
“That was Boucher. Ridley—both of them—were traveling under aliases using fake passports.” He looked at Knight. “Your man at El Mirador was Enoch Richardson.” He turned to Alexander. “Our man from Stonhenge was Mahaleel Richardson.”

  “They used the same last name?” Knight asked.

  “Richardson,” Bishop said. “Son of Richard.”

  “He’s naming them after himself,” Queen said. “Like they’re his children.”

  Davidson stepped closer to the group, his expression grim. “I’m afraid their names reveal much more than the paternal feelings Ridley may have for his creations. Enoch and Mahaleel are both descendants of Adam—the biblical Adam—in a very specific genealogy leading up to Abraham and eventually to King David.”

  “And if you believe in it,” Alexander said, “to Jesus Christ.”

  Davidson conceded the point with a nod. “But what is important to note is that he is naming these golems using a very specific bloodline that leads back to the creator.” He turned to King. “Your earlier assessment was correct, he believes himself a god. And if he is naming them using this genealogy, you can assume there are at least six more of these Ridley golems.”

  “Six more?” King asked.

  “Enoch is the seventh in line,” Davidson said. “Before him are Jared, Mahaleel, Cainan, Enos, Seth, and Adam.”

  Something nagged at King. Ridley wouldn’t put in so much time and effort, and risk exposing himself, without something significant to be gained. He could already live forever. Like Alexander, with time he could do anything and become anyone. The world was his eternal playground. There had to be more, something missing, something bigger. Something Alexander said during their confrontation finally clicked.

  You have yet to fully realize what is at stake.

  He turned to Alexander. “What do you know?”

  Alexander looked indifferent.

  “Tell me or you’re out.”

  Alexander chuckled, but acquiesced. “You need to think bigger, King. Imagine the world laid out before you. You can mold it. It can be anything you want—a chessboard, a simulation, an escape. Given time and intelligence, it can be anything you want it to be.”

  King felt his back tense up. For the first time he was hearing exactly how Alexander viewed the world.

  “Now imagine you’re an impatient man not accustomed to the concept of eternity. A thousand years to remake the world is nine hundred ninety-nine years too many.”

  “You’re saying he wants to remake the world?” Knight asked, sounding doubtful. “The whole world?”

  Alexander met him with a hard stare. “Were I a less patient man, I would do the same.”

  The room fell silent as everyone in it reconsidered their alliances.

  “But how?” Davidson asked, not understanding what Alexander implied. “Replace political figures with copies? Maybe just change the personalities of key people? How could he change the world?”

  “You’re still thinking small,” Alexander said. “Up until twenty years ago it wouldn’t have been possible. There is no fixed rule with the mother tongue. It is the unique sounds of the language that affects the changes to reality. Not the speaker.”

  “He’s right,” Davidson said. “A recording of the language would work just as well.”

  “Or a broadcast,” King said, the full picture slamming home. With modern technology and the ancient tongue the world really could be remade, and in far less time than seven days. “He’s going to remake the world.”

  The beep that came from the computer was quiet, but grabbed everyone’s attention like it was an atom bomb. Davidson spun toward the computer screen. Alexander stood over his shoulder, looking at the results.

  “Amazing,” Davidson whispered.

  “What is it?” King asked.

  “There are traces of human DNA in the clay,” Alexander replied.

  “Have you compared it to Ridley’s profile?” Knight asked.

  “Hold on,” Davidson said, fingers working the keys. “If it’s a match, it shouldn’t take lo—”

  The results appeared on the screen, showing two sets of DNA markers. They were identical. “They’re the same,” Davidson said, stunned. “I was right. This clay wasn’t just an animated form resembling Richard Ridley, it was Richard Ridley.”

  He turned to Alexander, and then to King. “He was alive.”

  The silence that filled the room was broken by the ring of King’s cell phone. The ID read Lewis Aleman. King answered the phone. “What have you got, Lew?”

  “Last piece of the puzzle I hope,” Aleman replied, his response delayed by a second. “I’ve been running the chemical composition of the clay recovered from El Mirador through our system. And, well, I found a match.” He quickly followed with, “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Just tell me where it’s from,” King said.

  “Camp Alpha.”

  The name’s familiarity struck King instantly. It was the title of the U.S. military base established in the ruins of Babylon that had been rebuilt by Saddam Hussein. A large number of servicemen were stationed there, including a regiment of marines. Babylon made sense, being the origin of the Tower of Babel story, but it was also the last place anyone would think to look. “You’re sure?”

  “Yup. It’s straight from the Euphrates River, and I can peg it to Camp Alpha because of the unique contaminants it contains, courtesy of the U.S. of A.”

  Queen saw the bewildered look on King’s face. “What did he find?”

  “The clay is from Camp Alpha.”

  “Babylon,” Davidson said.

  Knight shook his head. “But how is he—”

  “The tower,” Alexander said. “He’s found the Tower of Babel. He’s not at Camp Alpha. He’s under it.”

  A sudden boom of metal coupled with the implosion of the warehouse’s metal roof made them forget all about the discovery. Large sheets of steel broke free and fell at them like giant playing cards. Honed by years of action, the instincts of the people in the room saved their lives. All but one of them managed to leap away as the giant blades fell from above.

  A slender sheet of metal fluttered high above Davidson for a moment, held aloft by its surface area. But Davidson, whose reaction was to flinch away and raise his hands, remained in the same position as the metal sheet tilted to one side and slid down like a guillotine. It sliced off his hand at the forearm. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sheet then struck between his shoulder and neck, shaving off a side of ribs and penetrating down to his gut. The weight of the giant metal playing card pulled him over. King saw the man, nearly cleaved in half. Davidson was dead.

  “This way!” Alexander shouted, leading the team out the back as a very large, unseen attacker pounded through the roof and made short work of the lab beneath.

  They exited through the back door into an alleyway where a very out of place black Mercedes waited for them. A moment later, the back wall of the warehouse fell in. King looked back to see a golem, constructed from a mishmash of metal from the warehouse, a car, and chunks of pavement, rise up, ready to strike the building once more. “In!” he shouted, opening the Mercedes’s back door. The team piled in and Alexander had them screeching down the alley in moments. The golem, as big as it was, would never catch them.

  Alexander stopped the car at the end of the alley and looked back. The golem was trying to force its way through the tangled ruins of the warehouse. He took a phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. He looked back again. A moment later the golem disappeared in a ball of fire that consumed the entire warehouse, destroying everything inside—the samples, lab equipment, and Davidson.

  As they drove away, King took a moment to mourn the death of Davidson, who had lost his life for something that wasn’t his problem. Then he focused on the nagging question that entered his mind the moment the attack had begun: How did he find us?

  The answer came quickly. He turned to Alexander. “Check your pockets. Your phone. Everything. One o
f us is being tracked.”

  Alexander pulled the car over. Despite the strange scene of two men patting themselves down by the side of the road, no one paid them any attention. All eyes were on the rising column of smoke.

  King had searched most of his body when he realized that the only article of clothing he had yet to change since his search for Fiona had begun was his cargo pants. He’d checked the pockets first, but neglected the cargo pockets lower on his leg. He could feel the aberration as he reached for it. He took hold of the small object and pulled it from his pocket. It was the size and shape of a Tylenol capsule.

  Alexander saw him holding it. “Destroy it.”

  King took it in both hands and snapped it in half. The fragile electronics within fell to the road.

  They entered the car again without a word shared. King sat with his arms crossed. He now knew how Ridley managed to stay one step ahead of him and Alexander while the others were able to catch him with his guard down. He knew why they’d been attacked so quickly at the university and in the warehouse. But there was one question nagging at him: Who had put the tracking device in his pocket, and when?

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Babylon, Iraq

  AS THE HUMMER door closed with a metallic clunk, King shook a storm of sand from his hair. Upon exiting the aircraft they had been greeted by a wall of airborn sand. It coated their clothing, filled their hair, and crunched between their teeth. Had the Republican Guard been as numerous and relentless, an invasion of Iraq would never have been possible. Luckily for the team, which now consisted of King, Queen, Knight, Bishop, and Alexander, the sand was only an annoyance.

  The heat was the real enemy. Though dry, the temperature was unbearable in the afternoon sun. Moisture was wicked away from the body as soon as it was sweat. The team carried water bottles with them, drinking constantly to keep dehydration at bay. They felt their journey was nearing an end, which meant a confrontation loomed on the horizon, and each one of them would need their strength.