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Erebus - Copyright © 2019 R. K. MacPherson - All rights reserved.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are creations of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Tales by R. K. MacPherson
Antigone’s Fall
Nicholas Cross and Thomas Abelard come home from the war in Iraq and start new lives in Tacoma, leaving the past buried in the bloody Middle East. When a young man hires the two to investigate his girlfriend’s alleged suicide, however, Nicholas and Thomas uncover a mystery that grows deadlier with each answered question. The past and present threaten to collide as they race to find the truth behind Antigone’s Fall.
Stormcaller – Book One of the Stormcaller Cycle
Isaura Durand didn’t ask to become a witch. She didn’t understand how it would change her, but when she awakens to her power, Isaura finds herself plunged into a brutal struggle with dark forces.
Thrust into the heart of Seattle’s eldritch world, Isaura uncovers a series of ritual sacrifices designed to unleash magic’s true power. Allied with a grumpy Norwegian mage, a Native American shaman on a Harley, and a fearless medic, Isaura must overcome her own demons and her growing list of enemies. Victory is anything but certain, and to survive, Isaura must embrace her potential and become the Stormcaller.
Assassins – Book Two of the Stormcaller Cycle
In this sequel to Stormcaller, the Amazon best-selling urban fantasy novel, Isaura Durand finds herself hunted. The FBI wants answers to the ritual murders in the Cascade Mountains, the blood mages want to put an end to her meddling, and an order of assassins wants her dead. Oh, and the rest of the eldritch community thinks she's murdering other adepts.
As she races through the chaos to stay ahead of her enemies, Isaura searches for answers. Why can she control lightning—her signature power—when no other adept can? What is the source of her magic? The truth carries frightening implications and may cost more than her life....
Acknowledgements
Books do not write themselves and Erebus was no different. I want to thank everyone who gave assistance, support, and feedback on the story. I believe it made a difference in the final version of this novel and I shall be forever grateful for the aid. Any mistakes in this story are mine alone.
Bridget McKenna – For giving initial feedback and development edits. Your advice is, as always, spot on. I’d be lost without your editing acumen. Thank you!
Scott James Magner – For helping me with some of the tone and plot choices. In particular, you showed me how the relationships should shape the characters. Thanks so much for the time!
Though he wasn’t personally involved, Robert Zubrin’s books, The Case for Mars, Entering Space, How to Live on Mars, and The Case for Space have long served as an inspiration to me and encouraged me to advocate for our space-faring future. If you haven’t read them, I recommend you do so.
Most important, I want to thank my beloved wife, Amanda, for her patience, support, and encouragement. You believed in this story even when I struggled with my doubts, plus you helped me build a quite respectable reference library about the red planet. Thank you, now and always, my love.
Erebus is the beginning of my journey to Mars. It will not be the end. Thank you for making the voyage with me.
One
NEON LIGHT STREAMED through the thin curtains over the window. The scent of sex and tequila filled the air. Rumpled blankets and discarded clothes made a trail to the bed. The shower’s steady hiss came from the bathroom, where a young man stood under the steaming needles of water, skin as pink as a lobster, his head drooping.
His damned phone rang. He ignored it and reached up to rub a knot in his shoulder. It rang again. Annoyed, Dash growled as stuck his hand through the shower curtain, wiped it on a hanging towel, picked it up and looked at the screen. The caller ID displayed unknown.
“A little early for debt collectors,” Dash mumbled as he turned off the water. He took the call, deepening his voice, as if that would fool anyone wanting him to pay off his credit card bill.
Or his student loans.
“Hello?” He said.
“Dash?”
“Rasul!” Elation surged as he heard his foster brother’s voice. “You jerk! Mom's been worried sick about you. Where have you been hiding?”
“Dash, I need to talk to you. Now.” Rasul’s voice raced, as if he’d drank a dozen espressos, but Dash also heard a tremor.
Dash yawned. “Can I call you back in five minutes? Or five hours. What time is it anyway?” He chuckled.
“Four in the morning,” Rasul said. “It isn’t safe to talk over the phone. Meet me at the Crowne Plaza.”
Dash’s laughter died out and he held the phone closer. “Wait, what? The Crowne Plaza where?”
“Los Angeles, you idiot. By the harbor.”
He tried to make light of things. “Look, it’s been a hard week and a long night, little brother. Why don’t we grab lunch?”
“Dash!” Rasul hissed. “I’m serious. Lunch might be too late.”
Dash sat up. “What are you talking about, Rasul? Too late for what?”
Exasperated, Rasul growled, “We can't talk on the phone. Come to my hotel. I can explain everything—including why very few people have seen most of our aircraft carriers in the past year.”
“Wait, what? Aircraft carriers? Rasul, don't jerk my chain.” Dash gave a halfhearted laugh. “I know you're bored but I really have to sleep.”
“I've got proof. Take a look.”
The line went dead, but a text message came in almost immediately. Dash opened it up and saw what looked to be a massive cylinder. It was hard to see on his phone, but it looked like some sort of industrial wine glass with four stems instead of one. He didn’t recognize components or shapes and didn’t know what to make of the image. Still, he trusted Rasul enough to know he hadn't Photoshopped something just to mess with him.
Dash wiped his face off with a towel, then wrapped it around his body. He hated hotel towels—they never seemed quite long enough to get around his hips. He video-called his brother back, who answered on the first ring.
“You saw it, right?” Rasul’s wan, gaunt appearance had replaced his healthy, olive complexion. His black hair, normally short and neat, looked like a greasy black mop.
“Rasul, what the hell is that? And what's wrong with you? You look like shit.”
“It’s Orion.” He took a deep breath, then gushed, “You wouldn't believe me without seeing what I’ve seen. Come to my hotel. I've got lots more to show you, inshallah. I put it in my favorite number, in case I miss you.”
Dash frowned. “Wait, why would you miss me?”
“This is huge, Dash—”
He held up a hand to cut him off. “Fine. I'll be there in a few hours. I need to change
. Text me your room number.”
Desperation twisted Rasul’s face. “You can’t wait, Dash, please! Get over here!”
His brother was a man of faith and no small amount of courage. Dash couldn’t remember him ever sounding so frightened in his life. He nodded. “Okay. You’re springing for breakfast, though.”
“Alhamdulillah! You got it!” A grateful smile lit up Rasul’s face. “Thanks.”
“This is big, right?” He cocked his eyebrow and leaned towards the camera. “You promise?”
“Interplanetary!” Rasul’s head bobbed.
“All right.” Dash sighed. “See you soon, little brother.”
Rasul rolled his eyes, relaxing for the first time. “Three months, Dash. That's all you've got on me”
He hung up and toweled off, then hunted down his clothes from around the room. Dash slipped into black jeans and a charcoal club shirt, then tugged his black boots on over his socks. As he laced up, he realized there were an extra pair of panties under a chair. The sight sent a thrill down through his belly as he relived his encounter with the owner.
“A souvenir?” Dash chuckled as he threw the underwear into the trash can.
As he′d left well before rush hour, Dash sped across town. He skipped breakfast, planning to eat with Rasul, but downed a latte to fuel himself. He replayed his conversation with his brother over and over in his mind.
Something about the tension—no, the fear—in his brother’s voice nagged at him. Rasul wasn’t the sort of man prone to histrionics. He was strong enough to openly wear his kufi at work, to ask for time to pray each day, and still give everything he had to his job.
His brother might be a lot of things, but coward wasn’t one of them.
Dash’s phone rattled around as it beeped. He glanced down at the screen, which said NANCY. His editor, the angry dragon that controlled LA Eye.
“Shit. The McCann story.”
It was too early to get yelled at, so he ignored the call. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he took a deep breath, then let it out to release his stress.
It didn’t help all that much.
Why was his brother calling him about out of the blue? Rasul was a gifted engineer, who worked at Huntington Ingalls, building ships for the U.S. Navy. What was Orion and why did he mention aircraft carriers?
Finding out would probably cost his job if he didn’t get the McCann story published before someone else broke it, but his instincts told him this detour was worth taking. Besides, Rasul hadn’t spoken to his mother or himself in almost a year. If Dash didn’t check up on him, his mother would never forgive him.
The Crowne Plaza glowed pink as it reflected the brightening sky. It seemed odd that Rasul would go all the way across LA just to stay at this hotel. Most of the clientele were cruise ship tourists. If he’d wanted to pick up loyalty points, the Crowne Plaza at LAX was much more convenient.
Dash opted for valet parking, not wanting to hassle with finding a place to leave his Jeep. He didn’t bother trying to look like a regular guest, so he left his go bag in the trunk. He did, however, grab the messenger bag with his laptop. Most of his research was backed up to cloud storage, but he didn’t want to leave the local copies unsecured.
“Good morning! Welcome to the Crowne Plaza!” A cheerful attendant greeted him.
Dash handed him his keys and five bucks as he walked away. He strode into the hotel, texting his brother to meet him at the front desk. His phone buzzed with a simple text message:
Room 520 CU soon
Dash frowned. Rasul? Embracing abbreviated text? That didn’t seem like him.
“What’s with you, little brother? Did you call me all the way out here to tell me you eloped?” Dash mused to himself as he walked to the elevator bank.
The elevator opened with a ding and he waited for a trio of somber-dressed elderly women to exit, gossiping as they limped past with their canes and their rolling suitcases. At this hour, they could only be heading for the airport. The cruise ships wouldn’t begin boarding for hours. Dash pressed the button for the fifth floor and leaned against the wall. The long night had worn him out a bit and his stomach reminded that he hadn’t eaten in eighteen hours.
The elevator doors opened, and he stepped into a dim corridor, with blue and green carpeting meant to approximate rippling water. He glanced at the wall to see how the rooms were numbered, then walked to his brother’s door and knocked.
No one answered.
Dash worked out the time in his head. If Rasul was praying the Fajr prayers, he wouldn’t answer the door, but he’d just texted him to come up, so he should have waited for him before starting. He knocked again, harder this time.
“Can’t you wait to finish your morning prayers, Rasul?” He muttered.
Raised in a devout Muslim household, Dash had rebelled at a young age and broken up with Islam a long time ago. If his brother was praying, he couldn’t have been doing it for long and could start over again, damn it. Letting Dash in wouldn’t break his wudu or anything.
“Come on, Rasul. Open the door already. I had a venti latte an hour ago and I desperately need to use the little boys’ room.” Dash pounded the door.
A keycard shot from under the door and smacked the toe of his boot.
“Really?” Dash rolled his eyes. “You can’t even open the door for me?”
He picked up the card and inserted it into the lock, which beeped and disengaged. He opened the door. Chilled air poured into the corridor, giving him goosebumps. Dash shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest.
“Way to be a gentleman, you jerk. What’s going on, Rasul?”
A dim, narrow entryway widened into the bedroom, with a bathroom off to the right. Dash saw a pair of legs ending in red Chuck Taylors on the bed, contrasting with the tan wallpaper.
“Did you come down with a massive case of the lazies? What are you doing back on the bed?” Dash walked forward and saw his brother sitting against the plain wooden headboard. Tall and slim, Rasul wore jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a white kufi. Sweat ran down his gaunt, pale face despite the air conditioning. His wide eyes and quivering chin warned him half a second before he heard a metallic click beside him.
“Don’t bother moving or screaming.”
His eyes panned to the right as he tried to comply with the not moving thing. A man dressed in a dark suit stared at him over the black metal of a pistol with a long metal extension on the end. A suppressor.
That couldn’t be good.
Dash’s blood raced as adrenaline flooded his veins. He tensed up, then forced his muscles to loosen.
“You two are brothers?” The gunman asked, a wry grin on his face.
The two men looked nothing alike. Rasul stood tall with a slender frame, with brown skin and a thick, trimmed black beard. Dash possessed a swimmer’s build and shaggy blond hair.
Dash swallowed his fear and said, “Foster brothers.”
“Ah, I see.” The gunman cocked his head to the right. “Please, have a seat on the other bed. Feet on the mattress is just fine.”
The man’s calm, almost friendly tone unnerved him, but Dash obeyed, taking care to make slow, deliberate movements.
The gun never wavered as it tracked Dash.
“Phone, bag, and keys on the bed,” he ordered.
“Keys are with the valet.” Dash tossed the messenger bag down by his feet. “Everything else is in there,” he said as his voice shook.
“I’m so sorry, Dash,” Rasul whispered.
“Shh,” he murmured, shaking his head.
The gunman walked to the end of the bed and poked through his bag. He took his kubaton and pocketed it, then dumped the rest of the contents on the comforter. He pawed through it and picked out a pair of USB sticks. “I’ll take these, okay?” He turned the laptop on but shut it when he saw the password prompt. “This, too.”
Dash couldn’t think of anything to say. The McCann story wasn’t worth dying over.
“Mr
. Bandari,” the gunman turned his attention to Rasul, “where is the information you stole? I’ve been asked to retrieve it.”
The gunman reminded Dash of his foster father. Same cold-blooded demeanor, same mechanical detachment. He could have been discussing the weather.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Rasul stammered.
The gunman sighed. “Mr. Bandari, please don’t waste my time. You are in an unbelievable amount of trouble. You’re facing twenty-five years to life for each count of treason.”
Rasul’s eyes widened. “T-treason?”
The gunman nodded.
Dash knew the gunman was lying. Whatever Rasul had done, prison was the least of his problems. The metal extension on the pistol was a suppressor, which meant this guy wasn’t any sort of law enforcement officer. Still, if Rasul had stolen information, it would explain why he wanted to meet with him and if this polite murderer was here, the data had to be legitimate.
“You told your brother it was in your favorite number.” The gunman prompted Rasul. “If you don’t cooperate, I’m authorized to make this very unpleasant.”
Rasul tried looking defiant but wasn’t convincing. Too many years of being the good, obedient son left him unprepared for rebellion.
“Keep in mind that I have your brother here, which means I can do lots of things to him before I even start in on you.” The gunman’s eyes flashed.
Icy fingers clenched Dash’s stomach. He wasn’t lying about that. He didn’t doubt that he would torture him if it motivated his brother into cooperating.
“What’s the number, Mr. Bandari?”
“One-one-two-three.” Rasul sighed as his shoulders slumped.
Dash gasped as the pistol swung his way.
“I’m serious!” Rasul cried out. “It’s the first four numbers of the Fibonacci sequence.”
“And where did you store the data?”
Rasul swallowed and exhaled. “It’s on a memory stick. I stole it from Enterprise when she was under construction.” He tapped the side of the bed. “I hid it under the mattress.”
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