Paternus_Rise of Gods

by Dyrk Ashton

  Someone clears their throat dramatically. Over Peter’s shoulder, Edgar sees Fi cross her arms. He nods to Peter and takes a short step back.

  Peter wipes his cheek and spins to face Fi and Zeke, his grin returning. “So!” he says, clasping his hands with a loud clap. He bounds down to join them. “You like my collection, Zeke?” he asks, taking his shirt from the chair and sliding his arms into the sleeves.

  “It’s... unbelievable.”

  Peter points to what looks like the three oldest guitars, aligned in a row on the center of the wall. “Do you recognize these?” he asks, buttoning his shirt.

  Zeke studies the first of them, which is longer and thinner than a regular guitar, and shakes his head.

  “That’s a Stradivarius,” Peter tells him. Zeke is stunned.

  “I thought a Stradivarius was a violin,” Fi interposes, not entirely happy with the direction the conversation is taking. She’s got questions. Serious questions. And they’ve got nothing to do with guitars.

  Zeke gives her a quick shake of his head and mutters, “Hm-mmm. The Stradivari made these too, but not very many. They’re extremely rare.”

  Peter points to the second of the three. “A George Louis Panormo,” and the third, “Antonio de Torres Jurado.”

  “Damn,” Zeke exhales. The history of the modern guitar on one man’s wall.

  Peter finishes buttoning his shirt. He smooths it down, leaving it untucked, and smiles at Fi. She just looks annoyed.

  “They must be worth a fortune,” Zeke comments.

  Peter is more interested in how Zeke wears his shirt, with the sleeves rolled up below the elbows. He folds his own up the same way. “I wouldn’t know,” he shrugs lightly. “They were gifts.” He snatches the wide-necked guitar from above the buffet, turns and tosses it into the air, giving it a speedy horizontal spin, and catches it.

  Zeke is taken aback at his handling of the precious instrument.

  “Ten strings, obviously, extended range,” says Peter. “The brainchild of the maestro Narciso Yepes, designed and manufactured by José Ramirez.”

  Fi's glare of disbelief and incredulity at the mini history lesson going on while the world as she knows it has completely shattered doesn't seem to sway Peter or Zeke in the slightest. Zeke prattles on like an enthusiastic appraiser on Antiques Roadshow.

  “...With string resonators for C, as well as A, G and F sharps, giving it authentic chromatic resonance like a sustain pedal on a piano.”

  Peter gives him an approving nod. “Allowing for the transcription of compositions for baroque lute--”

  “Without having to delete transposed bass notes,” Zeke finishes, then looks embarrassed at having interrupted him.

  Peter isn’t bothered in the slightest. “Exactly!” He plops into a chair and gently strums the guitar. A sound of magnificent beauty floats to Zeke’s trained ears. “Still in tune!” says Peter, pleased. He begins to play. Mol sits nearby, listening contentedly. None even notice Fi’s growing frustration.

  Zeke’s mouth drops open gradually... my God... He lowers himself to sit on the edge of the raised floor.

  Peter is playing Bach’s “Solo Violin Partita No 2,” also called “The Chaconne,” probably the most difficult piece of music to play on guitar, ever. Zeke’s heard that even the greatest of classical guitarists can take years to master it. After introducing the main theme, Peter goes into a medley of sorts, choosing the most striking segments, and hardest to play, of all five movements of the piece. His quick but seamless transitions make Zeke dizzy. Peter grins gleefully, bobbing his head with the music, plucking away with his fingertips and extra long fingernails. Zeke can’t believe it. He makes it look easy!

  Fi’s still standing there, arms crossed, completely ignored by the boys. Even the most beautiful music in the world won't soothe the questions simmering in her brain. She turns her wasting glare from the musical bromance and scowls daggers at her uncle instead.

  Edgar stammers, “I’ll fetch some biscuits for the tea,” then bolts for the kitchen.

  She rushes after him, muttering under her breath. “Oh, no you don’t...”

  * * *

  “It was you!” she accuses, catching up to Edgar as he reaches the hall at the opposite end of the great room. “When Peter borrowed that phone today, he called you!”

  He pushes through a swinging galley door to the kitchen, which is bright and roomy. White walls and cabinets, granite countertops, top-of-the-line stainless appliances. He proceeds to one side of the central island counter, Fi to the other.

  “And it’s been Peter, all this time,” she presses. “He’s your employer!”

  Edgar crouches to a cabinet and comes up with a package of ginger nut biscuits. He sighs deeply, avoiding her condemnatory glare. “Please understand, Fiona. I have been under oath, and I hope you know by now that I’m the kind of person who would take an oath very seriously. This has been extremely difficult for me. Perhaps the most arduous task I have undertaken in all my life. But whatever you may think of me, I am a man of honor.” He pauses in solemn contemplation. “At least, I used to be...”

  “An oath? To him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why? Who is he, Uncle?”

  Edgar sighs again, reaches to a cupboard behind him and retrieves a serving platter. “That he will have to tell you himself, dear.”

  “Part of the oath,” she scowls, tearing at the package of biscuits.

  Edgar leans on the countertop, studies the palms of his hands like a map--a habit he picked up from his father, he recalls, and it’s not the most pleasant of memories.

  * * *

  The last notes of “The Chaconne” fade away. Zeke drags his eyes from the strings to Peter. “Jeez...”

  Peter grins. “I’m a little out of practice.” He holds the guitar out to Zeke. “Give it a whirl?”

  “Umm...”

  “Go on,” Peter insists.

  Zeke takes it gently, brushes his fingertips along the curve of the body, up the sleek neck. He turns it over--and sets it firmly in his lap because of what he sees written on the back, afraid he might drop it. He took only a year of Spanish in high school, but his months in South America doing volunteer work gave him enough experience with the language to interpret the faded pencil markings: Dearest Pedro, truest maestro, we are forever in your debt. Muchas Gracias. Beneath it, in two different scrawls, Narciso Yepes and José Ramirez III.

  “I... uh...” He hands the guitar back to Peter, wipes his sweating palms on his jeans. “I wouldn’t know how to play it. Thank you, though.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  * * *

  “Fiona...” Edgar’s voice is strained.

  She pauses while arranging biscuits on the platter at the sight of her Uncle Edgar, her rock, her protector, so emotional and torn. He won’t even look at her.

  “I failed you today,” he continues. “I was not there, in your time of greatest need. After all the years in your service, when you needed me most, I was not there.” Fi doesn’t know how to respond, and now her uncle’s hands are quaking. “I have deceived you all these years, and it has caused me more anguish than you can imagine. Nothing erodes the soul like secrets and lies. God forgive me.”

  Fi can’t stand seeing him this way. He looks like he might actually weep... She takes his hands in hers.

  “Uncle,” she says softly, “you’ve always been there for me. You are a man of honor.”

  Edgar isn’t so sure. Treachery runs in his blood. In an attempt to overcome it he devoted his early life to goodness, truth and faith. He bows his head further and wonders--perhaps he is his father’s son, after all.

  * * *

  “Ah!” Peter shakes a finger, “more of a six string man, ay?”

  “Well,” Zeke’s eyes unintentionally dart to another Ramirez hanging on the wall behind Peter, “yeah, I guess.”

  Peter retrieves the guitar, somehow knowing exactly the one Zeke was looking at. He hands it
to him. “Excellent choice.”

  Zeke holds it like it might crumble in his hands. It’s one of the most exquisite things he’s ever seen. He gingerly turns it over. In Spanish, it reads: To Pedro, my teacher, my friend, with utmost gratitude, signed Andrés Segovia Torres. Zeke thinks he might pass out.

  “It’s just wood and wire,” Peter encourages. “Play something.”

  Zeke positions the guitar delicately. He thinks a moment, then begins. If you could hear golden flowing honey it would sound like this guitar. The song he’s chosen is “Greensleeves.” Peter regards him with mock suspicion, trying to hide a smile.

  Zeke notices Peter’s expression and presses his palm softly against the strings. “You seemed to have a real affinity for that song when you were...” he lets the statement trail off, not sure how to finish.

  “Old as dirt?” Peter asks. “An invalid? Out of my ever-lovin’ skull?”

  Zeke expresses a brief anxious laugh.

  “Well, I should think I’d like it,” Peter grins. “I wrote it.”

  Zeke’s shocked and confused at the same time. He can’t be serious... Can he?

  Peter’s jovial demeanor is suddenly replaced by one of focused concentration. He moves his head as if feeling the air with his face. Mol’s ears perk and he looks intently toward the front of the house, throat rumbling.

  Peter’s eyes narrow. “Edgar.”

  * * *

  In the kitchen, Edgar jerks his head up, instantly alert.

  “What?” Fi asks. “What is it?”

  * * *

  Zeke starts at a sudden mechanical chirping sound. Lightning sparks through the great room windows, accompanied by a clap and rumble of thunder.

  The light plays across Peter’s stern features. “We have company.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Flowers & Figs 12

  Fi squeezes her uncle’s hands, shouts to be heard above the piercing chirp! chirp! “Is that an alarm?”

  Edgar responds flatly, “Motion sensors,” then strides purposefully out of the kitchen. Fi hustles after him.

  They enter the great room and Edgar makes a beeline for a wide rolltop desk built into the shelves in the corner beyond the fireplace. He reaches beneath it, presses something and the alarm is silenced. At the other end of the room, Peter replaces the ten string guitar over the buffet, then hurries to them. Zeke, the six string Ramirez still in his hands, walks cautiously to the piano in the center of the floor.

  Fi joins him. “Now what?” she asks under her breath.

  “Who knows,” he replies, then lowers his voice. “But Peter just told me he wrote ‘Greensleeves.’”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Well, apparently my uncle’s been working for Peter all these years and I never knew.”

  “Does he know who Peter is? Or--what--he is?”

  “I think so, but he won’t tell me anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Some stupid oath.” She pushes her hair nervously behind her ear. “I don’t get it, Zeke. This just keeps getting more and more fucked up.” Her trembling fingers go to her lips. “I think I’m gonna lose it.”

  He takes her hand. “Well, you won’t be alone. I’ll be right there with you.”

  For the first time since all hell broke loose at the hospital, it dawns on her that Zeke has been right there with her, the whole time. It’s selfish, she knows, since it means he’s caught up in this insanity too, but she’s glad.

  The wind can be heard whipping up outside. Rain hammers the high windows. Fi and Zeke both notice their palms are sweating. Edgar moves books on the shelves above the desk, seemingly at random, sliding them out one at a time and pushing them back in forcefully. A soft whir and the shelves above the desk retract into the wall to be replaced by sliding panels of flat screen monitors. At the same time, the rolltop of the desk lifts to reveal more monitors, keyboards, lighted buttons and all manner of communication equipment.

  Zeke groans, “Now it’s the freakin’ Batcave...”

  Edgar’s fingers fly over the keyboard and touchscreens in a staccato stream.

  “Great,” says Fi. “So much for Edgar not knowing how to text.” She recalls his reaction in the kitchen. “I get the feeling he’s not hard of hearing, either.”

  “I guess there’s a lot about your uncle you didn’t know,”

  “You think?” There’s no mistaking the sarcasm.

  Images blink to life on the monitors, angles on various areas of the estate. Edgar touches an empty space on the desk and a 3-D image of the house and grounds appears. He pokes, pinches and waves through it, causing the image to shift, expand and zoom, then gives Peter a look of affirmation.

  Fi and Zeke move closer. A chill runs up their spines at what they see. A holograph of Kleron, approaching through the woods with a group of the men from the hospital.

  “Shit,” says Fi. “That’s not good.”

  “You think?” Zeke replies, returning the sarcasm.

  Peter places a hand on Edgar’s shoulder, who reluctantly relinquishes the chair.

  “You’re going to wipe the system,” Edgar states, ill at ease.

  Peter is already typing away. “Kleron has located us twice. He may have found a way in.”

  “Which nodes will you--?”

  “All of them.”

  Edgar exhales his regret, but quickly recovers his bearing and moves to the table where the backpacks that they brought from the car are sitting. “Yours is the blue one, Zeke,” he points out.

  Puzzled, Zeke unzips the pack. Inside is a variety of clothing, toiletries, all the necessities. He checks the tag on a shirt, then a pair of pants. They’re the right size. “How’d you know?”

  “Peter told me you were with him. I did the best I could in the limited time available. Better safe than sorry, they say.”

  Fi’s listening and just as puzzled as Zeke, but she’s drawn more to what Peter’s doing at the computers. She peers over his shoulder. He’s typing password after password. Words like erase and purge appear, as well as cautions that these operations cannot be undone and data will be irretrievable.

  “I’m sorry to do this,” Peter says without looking up. “Every bit of intelligence and knowledge we’ve collected in electronic form, everything on our worldwide holdings, as well as our backdoor entry to government and corporate networks, all of it is accessed through this system.”

  Fi shakes her head but says nothing, surprised Peter is speaking so freely.

  “Edgar and I began the project together, but he continued refining the system while I wallowed in the self pity and depression that brought on my latest bout of patermentia.” He sighs, continuing to deftly manage mouse and keyboard. “But now it’s a distinct possibility the network’s been compromised. We’ve taken great pains to keep our identities and whereabouts secret over the years, but in this day and age, if one wishes to live among the watoto, that is becoming increasingly difficult to accomplish. Perhaps impossible.”

  As usual, Fi has no idea what he’s talking about. Watoto? She’s about to ask what it means when she sees a folder entitled The October Foundation pop up on the screen.

  “Do you know of this?” Peter asks.

  “Just that they funded St. Augustine’s,” Fi replies. “You?”

  Peter shakes his head. He checks a monitor above the desk where red dots designate Kleron’s group making its way across the estate. They appear to be moving slowly, deliberately taking their time. He opens the folder, revealing documents for the foundation as well as funds transfers for the hospital.

  “Sly bugger.” Peter says with appreciation.

  Fi’s mouth drops open. Edgar is The October Foundation. And he’s rich!

  “I remember now,” says Peter. “It was Edgar who placed me on the front steps. He built St. Augustine’s for me.” He marks the folder for deletion, then adds casually, “He most likely arranged for your internship as well.”


  “What?” Fi asks. “Why?” Peter doesn’t answer. Fi gazes at her now even more enigmatic uncle.

  Peter considers the blinking words on the computer screen: Are you sure? He speaks as if to himself. “Kleron must have amassed considerable resources to prepare for this day. If there’s a chance he has accessed any part of the network, we have no choice.”

  Fi pulls her eyes from Edgar to listen to Peter, though she still doesn’t understand what he’s talking about.

  “I just hope it isn’t too late.” He clicks Yes. Series of bars appear, ticking up from green to red.

  * * *

  All over the world, in hidden vaults, secret government installations and shadow corporation basements, drives smoke and sizzle, others burst into flame, still more are subjected to electro-magnetic pulse. Every one of them is eradicated. Except one.

  Conduits eject from a gleaming crystal cube in a shower of sparks, and there it sits, softly pulsing, deep beneath the earth.

  * * *

  Peter offers Fi a sly smile. “Luckily for me, I have an excellent memory.” He hits a button and the rolltop and shelves return to their hidden state.

  Fi realizes something--at St. Augustine’s, Peter’s mind was basically gone. “You remember being at the hospital?”

  He rises from the chair and faces her. “Now that the mentia has passed, I remember everything.”

  Fi’s eyes involuntarily dart to Edgar and Zeke. Uh oh. For the past few months, when she needed someone to talk to about things she couldn’t tell anyone, she’d talk to Peter.

  He smiles tenderly. “And I know, now. It was you.”

  “What was me?”

  “You brought me back.”

  Zeke and Edgar have noticed their conversation and listen with growing interest.

  Peter takes Fi’s arm and walks her closer to them. “You talked to me, read to me, took me out to see the stars. You gave me flowers and figs.” He grins knowingly. “And I remember what happened in the pool.”

  Fi gulps, sees the questioning looks from Edgar and Zeke. She takes a deep breath. “Last night, I had a seizure.” She’s surprised by the lack of alarm on Edgar’s face, but continues. “I dreamed about a baby floating in the ocean. I just remembered it today. And I remembered I’ve had that dream before. I know women dream about babies--” then off Zeke’s look, “--it’s not like that, Zeke!” He hastily returns his attention to the blue pack. “There were volcanos and meteors and stuff! But I saw it again, while I was awake. This afternoon, with Peter, in the swimming pool at the hospital--but I didn’t have a seizure--it just--happened. I didn’t tell anybody because it sounded crazy, but now...”