Cosega Source: A Booker Thriller (The Cosega Sequence Book 5)

by Brandt Legg

  “When was it built?” Gale asked.

  Rip rolled his eyes, annoyed she was getting him going on more historical trivia.

  “It went up in 1723. Watch your head,” the old man cautioned, as Rip barely ducked in time to avoid banging his head into a pipe.

  “Three hundred years,” Gale said, whistling.

  “National Historic Landmark.”

  “It sure is tight down here, and it’s got that weird musty odor,” Gale said, as they came to what appeared to be a solid wall.

  Rip, used to the dank air of ancient places, shook his head as if this were an unimportant matter. He was more concerned with how they were going to get through that wall.

  “Well, there are thirty-seven tombs.”

  “How many buried?” Rip asked.

  “More than a thousand. Some say quite a bit more. They started the crypts down here in 1732, filled them up, emptied them, filled them again, emptied them again.”

  “Wait, they emptied them?”

  “Yeah, well, people paid for the spots, liked the idea of being interred for all eternity with their family and fellow worshipers. The church raised a fair amount of money selling the slots, but once the place was filled, they still needed more money, so . . . ”

  “So out with the old and in with the new,” Rip chimed in as they passed the heavy, sealed doors.

  “That’s about right. Watch your head on those pipes,” he reminded them again. “Only in recent years has more been learned about them . . . and the bodies inside.”

  “Creepy,” Cira said.

  “Yes.” Avery chuckled. “Used to be you could smell the bodies. On some days, back in the 1850s, the stench of decomposing remains wafted straight up through the floors and back up into the windows.”

  “Gross.”

  “Yep, horrible hellish smell, people decaying like that. Then with all the sickness going around, the city ordered the church to seal the crypts permanently.”

  “I don’t blame them,” Gale said.

  Avery continued to remind them about the pipes and other low ceiling hazards.

  “What’s this?” Cira asked.

  “That’s The Stranger’s Tomb,” Avery told her. “From long about 1813, it was where they buried poorer citizens, including children, that had died from disease.”

  “More creepy,” Cira said.

  “You get used to it. Look there, that’s the tomb of John Pitcairn, a British officer stationed in Boston at the start of the Revolutionary War.”

  “Then how did he get in here?”

  “Even though he was with the British, Pitcairn was respected, even liked by the locals. He got shot at the Battle of Bunker Hill, died soon after, and was buried here, like many who fell that day.”

  “Does he have anything to do with what’s hidden here?” Rip asked.

  “Not that I’m aware,” the old man replied thoughtfully. “Now this crypt holds the final remains of Samuel Nicholson. He was Captain of the USS Constitution, you know, the famous ‘Old Ironsides’ from the war of 1812. He was so revered that servicemen still visit the Church to this very day in order to pay their respects.”

  “Fascinating,” Rip said impatiently, still looking around for a hidden chamber.

  “Yes, and here’s where they moved some bodies . . . ”

  Gale almost hit her head on a beam trying to back away from the damaged crypt. “Like Cira said, it’s creepy down here.”

  “Oh, just wait until we get underneath.”

  “I thought we were underneath,” Gale said.

  “Oh no, we’re just below the church.”

  Rip looked for seams on the ancient brick, experienced in such matters. He recalled some work he had done in Egypt twenty years earlier—same musky air, dark and damp, cold, stale feel to everything, same dead end wall.

  Archaeology is the same thing over and over again.

  “How long has it been since this was opened?” Rip asked, hoping for a clue.

  “I don’t know. I guess I was the last one . . . had to have been at least fifty years . . . maybe longer.” The old man scratched his head. “No, I guess it’s been more than seventy years.”

  “How old are you?” Gale asked.

  “Eighty-nine.”

  “Wow, eighty-nine. Are you all right to be down here?” Cira wasn’t sure she’d ever met anyone older than that, other than Crying Man.

  “Young lady, there’s no place I’d rather be, and I suspect nowhere I’d be safer.”

  “As much as I’d like to solve the puzzle myself,” Rip began. “However, in the interest of time, I think we should get on with it.” Rip nodded toward Avery. “Please.”

  “All right.” The man walked back about ten feet, reached up between two ceiling boards, and pressed something. There were a series of clicking noises, and then—

  Nothing happened.

  “Is it broken?” Gale asked.

  “No, just old.”

  Avery walked over to Rip and handed him an ancient key that appeared to be made of iron, but it felt too light for that metal. “Now find the keyhole at the top that’s just been revealed, push it in, give a slight turn to the right. Careful not to turn it to the left, or you’ll have to do it all again.”

  “Got it,” Rip said as he reached up and found the slot. After the turn, they could hear ancient ball bearings slowly grinding. About ten seconds later, a small opening appeared.

  Sixty-Seven

  Trynn had been to several of her launches in the past, but this one was different. He knew it, she knew it, and every Cosegan knew it. The Terminus Doom had made everything different, and even their children knew the Imazes were attempting to change their fate by changing future history. The concept was difficult to understand, but everyone had been assured the results would make it clear.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Shanoah said.

  Trynn nodded. “I know.”

  Silence took hold, but the conversation continued in their eyes for several minutes. They spoke of impractical things—love and yearning, their desperate hope to be together again, to survive the coming days . . . months . . . years.

  “Time . . . ” he started, trailing off.

  Would they recognize each other in the Eysen? Find one another in parts of space where the Imazes would go? They both understood that it was even possible the Imazes would return before they left. One of the far towers at the ISS was monitoring for just such a calamity.

  “Time is a funny thing,” he finished at last.

  “Look for me,” she said. He knew she meant in the Eysen, and the sky, and his dreams.

  “I will always find you.”

  She kissed him, a long, reckless kiss, something that might hold up through the brutal winds of time. Her eyes lingered for a few more seconds until she put on her helmet and turned to board the ship, disappearing into the light. Still, he waited until the doors and transport hatches were sealed. Then Trynn turned and quietly returned to the safe observation area.

  Even though their mission was to save humanity, in most respects it was just another routine lift off like the dozens of flights that left every day. Countdowns were short, treated more like planes taking off at busy airports. Once the clearance was given, the ship climbed into the blue skies. A series of quick flashes sent it through the atmosphere until, in seconds, it was just a spec. An instant later, it was gone completely.

  “I will see you again,” Trynn whispered to the sky, and he believed his vow. He was just unsure if it would ever be in the physical form.

  He checked his strandband. The Terminus clock held at fourteen days.

  It should have gained weeks, even months with the launch, he thought, worried. Not a good sign.

  Discovered 10,000 years earlier, the Epic-seam—a space-time tear located inside the spectrum belt—had been the subject of constant research missions and experimental probes ever since. Two successful missions made it through, but neither of those had returned. Fragmented transmissions
provided only spotty results of what may have happened to the lost Imazes. Some theorized that those missions could have actually contributed to causing the Terminus Doom, but the consensus was that they’d made only minor contributions to the apocalypse.

  Shanoah had been on the most missions to the spectrum belt and the cross-connected Oordan-field, and she’d been the leading force behind developing the current plan. Many believed the Imaze program would end after the catastrophic mission that claimed Stave and many other lives, but Shanoah, insisting they not have died in vain, and believing the Imazes had the best chance to stop the Terminus Doom, had pushed on. She’d taken everything learned in the earlier failures to make sure nothing would go wrong this time.

  Trynn slipped out with the crowds, knowing he was likely to be arrested now that Shanoah was gone. He’d arranged to have Ovan waiting with a goeze. This time he would take Ovan inside with him. High-peak was the only place either of them would be safe now.

  He didn’t see Weals, but it didn’t matter. Even if he had, the Arc’s spies already knew where he was headed.

  “The archaeologist has found another Eysen,” Ovan said as they sped toward the Mistwave forest.

  “Which one?” Trynn asked, trying not to panic.

  “Nostradamus.”

  “At least that will slow him down.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What?” Trynn asked, preparing for more bad news, fearing Rip may have somehow gotten it powered-up.

  “He’s about to find a fourth.”

  “It can’t be,” Trynn said, giving in to the panic. “We haven’t inserted it yet!”

  “You need to tell him to stop,” Ovan said. “You know what happens if he finds it before the insertion.”

  “I can’t stop him. We don’t have enough globotite.”

  “We must find a way.”

  “If he finds it before we get it linked . . . ”

  “Then it’s over,” Ovan finished.

  Trynn shook his head.

  “You never counted on the archaeologist finding them all, did you?”

  “I never expected to insert more than one Eysen,” Trynn admitted.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “You know what I mean. Just two. And now we’re already at four.”

  “So we’re in a race against your archaeologist,” Ovan said gravely. “A race for our lives . . . for humanity’s survival.”

  “And Rip doesn’t even know he’s not supposed to find it,” Trynn said quietly, wondering if the Arc had been right all along, that far-future manipulations were too risky, and then realizing he may have just destroyed the world Shanoah was flying into and ruined the only chance they had.

  Sixty-Eight

  “Markol killed one of the archaeologist’s people,” Cardd announced soon after they’d arrived at High-peak.

  “What?” Trynn said, immediately imagining Gale dead. “Who?”

  “They called him Huang.”

  Trynn, relieved it wasn’t Gale, still mourned for Huang, who he knew to be a good man. “Does Rip know?” He rarely called Rip by anything other than “the archaeologist,” but the personal attack had shaken him.

  Cardd shook his head. “We’re not sure. We don’t really have the resources available right now to check.”

  “We’ve got to get the next Eysen inserted now,” Ovan said. “Here’s the insertion coordinates.”

  Cardd looked at them, then focused on Trynn. “Are we doing this?”

  Trynn nodded slowly. “Is the Eysen ready?”

  “It’s ready, but we don’t have the globotite necessary to establish a link, let alone maintain one.”

  Trynn looked out at the ocean, concealing himself from view long enough to slip another Revon into his mouth. “Send it anyway,” he said, turning back to them.

  “But the risks of sending an unlinked Eysen . . . it could be a million times worse than Nostradamus, and it’s not just going to a shopkeeper. We’re sending it to one of the most influential personalities of the far-future.”

  “Our time window is closing,” Ovan said. “How long until the insertion team can be in place?”

  “Wait, do either of you even understand what Jesus means to humanity in that era?” Cardd asked. “The impact he had for more than two thousand years is unequaled!”

  “We can have the insertion team at the site within the given time slot,” a woman said. “But they need to leave now.”

  “Do it,” Trynn said.

  Cardd sighed. He had tried to argue the other side, but already knew the options were gone. “Die today or die tomorrow,” he muttered to himself.

  Trynn returned to the projections and began shifting thousands of events in anticipation of the third insertion. Technically (counting Rip’s) there were four Eysens in play, but he considered Rip’s Eysen to be the final one, and refused to count it until everything else was exhausted.

  “Might be time to work the archaeologist’s Eysen into the view,” Ovan said.

  “No,” Trynn said. “I can’t see it.”

  “But it’s there, it’s linked, and the operator is—”

  “No!”

  “Consider it,” Ovan said, undaunted by Trynn’s anger. “Perhaps if you factor it into the sequence, a solution you were previously unable to see may come into view.”

  “We can do it with the Jesus Eysen. The third insertion . . . It will work.”

  “Where is the globotite coming from?”

  “I have a group working on that,” Trynn said, never taking his eyes from the projections, never stopping his shuffling. “The Circle has confiscated the globotite we need. It still exists.”

  “Yes, but where?” Ovan pressed. “And how do you get it?”

  “Welhey is trying to find out the location, and I have a group of Havloses who will—”

  “You are endangering Welhey and using mercenaries—”

  “Do you know another way?” Trynn snapped.

  “No,” Ovan admitted. “I’d hoped we could avoid bloodshed.”

  Trynn shook his head. “More than bloodshed is at stake. In order to save our society, we may have to destroy it.”

  “Destroy?”

  “Revolution may be the only way.”

  Cardd ran into the room. “You need to stop the insertion team!”

  “Why?” Trynn asked, not even looking at his distraught assistant as he slid more than thirty projections into another run of six-hundred, each encompassing events within events, as he juggled the occurrences filling the five thousand years leading up to Rip’s hunt for the Jesus Eysen.

  “I hardly know where to begin,” Cardd stuttered.

  “Try the beginning,” Ovan said.

  “You always think that the next Eysen will be enough, that you can repair the mistakes from the previous one, and then when it isn’t, you think to just add another Eysen—”

  “Your point?” Trynn asked, sliding hundreds of projections.

  “I’ve just run through the Jesus scenarios, added in Leonardo and Nostradamus, then combined all that with the materials we hacked from the predictive league models,” Cardd explained. “The crystal-minds and our own super Eysens leave no doubt . . . risks increase exponentially every time we put another Eysen into the far-future.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Ovan said. “We already knew that.”

  “Then what are we doing?” Cardd asked, astonished. “It’s a losing game. More Eysens make it worse, not better!”

  “That’s just probabilities,” Trynn said absently, studying something in the Maya civilization. “As we’ve found, making changes in real-time sends ripples in both directions, and those changes cannot be quantified by the crystal-minds, or even the super Eysens, because of one big thing missing from the equation.”

  “What?”

  “The Missing-Time,” Trynn said. “We don’t have enough data from that period. Nearly eleven million years, largely unmapped.”

  “It makes a difference,” Ovan sai
d.

  “Then how do you know what you’re doing?” Cardd asked, alarmed, waving his arms to all the projections Trynn was shifting.

  “Ovan has a theory that we can’t do more than seven Eysens. After that, it just gets too crazy,” Trynn said. “And no one can contain that kind of energy.”

  “So?” Cardd asked, not even wanting to imagine the third, let alone the seventh insertion, after what he’d just discovered.

  “So don’t worry,” Trynn said. “We’re only on the third.”

  Sixty-Nine

  The Etheren miner found Mairis in her garden. “You’re Trynn’s daughter?”

  “Yes?” she answered hesitantly.

  “I need you to get this to your father right away.”

  She looked at the four pouches he held out in his hand. “Globotite?”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too dangerous to take it.”

  “You’re wrong . . . it’s too dangerous not to.”

  “I can’t. My father—” Mairis started to say that she and her father were not speaking because he was a cold and awful man.

  “Your father is a hero. A brilliant and brave man . . . likely the only one who can save us.”

  She met his eyes and saw love there. Love for her father. A reverence and respect that implied he would die for Trynn.

  “You have a chance,” he insisted, inching the hand holding the pouches closer. “You are not Etheren, yet you know our ways, and you can find him.”

  Mairis stared down at the man’s hand, shaking her head faintly. “You overestimate me.”

  “These pouches . . . people I know, people I loved, died trying to get these through. A girl much younger than you, who works in Solas at a health-lounge, was given this one by a man just before he was killed by guardians. She tried to get it through the city, but they have arrested so many Etherens. Forty-three dead that we know of. Seventy-seven globe runners arrested. Another sixty-two are unaccounted for. The girl somehow got back here and found me. This one . . . ” he pointed to the next pouch.