The Atlantis Trilogy Box Set- The Complete Series

by A. G. Riddle

  We are alone at last in the wood-paneled drawing room, and the nerves start to get to me. I’ve been careful with the pills today, taking only one. The pain has gotten better of late, or maybe I’m just “learning the leg” as Dr. Carlisle said I would. But it’s still there, nipping at me through the nervousness. Even so, I stand, waiting for him to sit.

  “What do you take, Pierce? Brandy, scotch, bourbon?”

  “Bourbon’s fine.”

  He pours a glass almost to the top, doesn’t bother with ice, and hands it to me. “I know what you’re here to ask, and the answer is no, so let’s just get that little bit of unpleasantness out of the way so we can enjoy the evening. Kane tells me you’ve come around on the Gibraltar dig, says Craig gave you the nickel tour of our little project.” He fixes me with a coy smile. “Now I’d like to hear your impression of it—as a professional miner. Will she hold until we can get through?”

  I start to speak several times. Wicked thoughts run through my head. He brushed you aside like a door-to-door salesman. He’s Immari, a snake as bad as Kane. I take a long pull of the drink and speak as evenly as I can. “I’d like to know why.”

  “Let’s not be uncivil, Mr. Pierce.”

  “She’s in love with me.”

  “I’m sure she is. War is an emotional time. But the war will end, and feelings will fade. The real world will set in, she’ll come back to England, and she’ll marry someone who can give her the life she truly wants, a life of civility and grace. A life you can’t appreciate until you’ve seen the savagery of the rest of the world. That’s what’s in store for her. I’ve already made the arrangements.” He crosses his legs and sips at his brandy. “You know, when Helena was a girl, she used to take in every flea-ridden, diseased, wounded, and otherwise half-dead animal that ever wandered onto the estate. She wouldn’t relent until they either died or recovered. She has a good heart. But she grew up and lost all interest in rescuing animals. Everyone goes through phases like that, especially girls. Now I’ll hear your opinion on our tunnels in Gibraltar.”

  “I don’t care about those tunnels or what’s down there. It’s a dangerous mine, and I won’t work it. What I will do is marry your daughter, with or without your permission. I’m not a wounded animal, and she’s not a little girl anymore.” I set the drink down on the glass table, almost breaking it and sloshing brown liquid all over the place. “Thanks for the drink.” I rise to leave, but he sets his own drink down and heads me off at the door.

  “Just a minute. You can’t be serious. You’ve seen what’s down there. You’d turn away from that?”

  “I’ve found something that interests me a great deal more than lost cities.”

  “I’ve told you. I’ve already made a match for Helena. It’s settled. Let’s put that aside. As for the dig, we can pay you. That’s my role in this, incidentally. I manage the purse—the Immari Treasury. Kane runs the expeditions and a great deal more, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now. Mallory’s our master of spies. Don’t underestimate Craig, he’s quite good at it. So what will it take? We can double it. Two thousand dollars per week. In a few months you could set yourself up any way you like.”

  “I won’t work that mine at any price.”

  “Why not? The safety? You can fix it; I’m sure of it. The army men told us you were quite clever. The best, they said.”

  “I told her I wouldn’t work in a mine. I made her a promise. And I won’t make her a widow.”

  “You assume you’ll marry her. She won’t marry without my permission.” Lord Barton inhales and watches for my reaction, satisfied that he’s cornered me.

  “You underestimate her.”

  “You overestimate her. But if that’s your price, you can have it, and the two thousand dollars per week. But you agree, right here and now, that you’ll work that dig to the finish. Once you do, I’ll give my blessing without delay.”

  “You’d trade your approval for whatever’s buried down there?”

  “Easily. I’m a practical man. And a responsible man. Maybe you will be too one day. What’s my daughter’s future for the fate of the human race?”

  I almost laugh, but he fixes me with a stare that’s dead serious. I rub my face and try to think. I hadn’t expected the man to haggle, least of all over this business under Gibraltar. I know I’m making a mistake, but I don’t see what option I have. “I’ll have your permission now, not after the dig.”

  Barton looks away. “How long to get into the structure?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Weeks, months, years?”

  “Months, I think. There’s no way to kn—”

  “Fine, fine. You have it. We’ll announce it tonight, and if you don’t keep up your end in Gibraltar, I’ll make her a widow.”

  85

  Associated Press

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  86

  Immaru Monastery

  Tibet Autonomous Region

  Kate leaned her head against the wooden wall of the alcove and stared at the sun, wishing she could stop it right where it was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw David open his eyes and look up at her. She opened the journal and continued reading before he could say anything.

  December 20th, 1917

  The Moroccan workers cower as the rock comes down around them. The space fills with smoke, and we retreat back into the shaft. We wait and listen, ready to pile into the truck that straddles the rails, ready to zoom out of the shaft at the first sign of trouble—fire or water in this case.

  The first cry of a canary breaks the silence, and one by one, we all exhale and move back into the massive room to see how far the latest roll of the dice has gotten us.

  We’re close. But not quite there.

  “Told you we should have drilled it deeper,” Rutger says.

  I don’t remember him saying anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure he sat indolently, not even inspecting the hole before we packed it with the chemical explosive. He walks to the excavation site for a better look, raking his hand on one of the canary cages as he passes by, sending the bird into a panic.

  “Don’t touch the cages,” I say.

  “You’d let them choke to death on methane gas to give yourself a few minutes head start, but I can’t even rattle them?”

  “Those birds could save every one of our lives. I won’t have you torture them for your own enjoyment.”

  Rutger unloads the rage meant for me on the Moroccan foreman. He shouts at the poor man in French, and the dozen workers begin clearing the rubble from the blast.

  It’s been almost four months since I first toured the site, since I first set foot in this strange room. In the first few months of digging, it became clear that the part of the structure they had found was an access tunnel at the bottom of the structure. It led to a door that was sealed—with some sort of technology beyond anything we could ever hope to break through. And we tried everything: fire, ice, explosives, chemicals. The Berbers on the work crew even performed some strange tribal ritual, possibly for their own sake. But it soon became clear that we weren’t getting through the door. Our theory is that it’s some sort of drainage tunnel or emergency evacuation route, sealed for who knows how many thousands of years.

  After some debate, the Immari Council—that’s Kane, Craig, and Lord Barton, my now father-in-law—decided we should move up the structure, into the area that contains the methane pockets. That’s slowed us down, but in the last several weeks, we’ve uncovered signs that we’re reaching some sort of entrance. The smooth surface of the structure, some metal that’s harder than steel and makes almost no noise when you strike it, has begun to slope. A week ago, we found steps.

 
The dust is clearing, and I see more steps. Rutger shouts for the men to work faster, as if this thing is going anywhere.

  Beyond the dust behind me, I hear footfalls and see my assistant running. “Mr. Pierce. Your wife is at the office. She’s looking for you.”

  “Rutger!” I yell. He turns. “I’m taking the truck. Don’t blast anything until I get back.”

  “The hell I won’t! We’re close, Pierce.”

  I grab the pack of blast caps and run to the truck. “Drive me to the surface,” I say to my assistant.

  Behind me, Rutger bellows out a tirade about my cowardice.

  At the surface, I change quickly and scrub my hands. Before I can leave for the office, the telephone at the warehouse rings, and the manager walks out. “Sorry, Mr. Pierce, she’s left.”

  “What did they tell her?”

  “Sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

  “Was she sick? Was she going to the hospital?”

  The man shrugs apologetically. “I… I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t ask—”

  I’m out the door and in the car before he can finish. I rush to the hospital, but she’s not there, and they haven’t seen her. From the hospital, the switchboard operator connects me to the newly installed phone at our residence. It rings ten times. The operator breaks on. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no answer—”

  “Let it ring. I’ll wait.”

  Five more rings. Three more and our butler, Desmond, comes on. “Pierce residence, Desmond speaking.”

  “Desmond, is Mrs. Pierce there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I wait. “Well, put her on then,” I say, trying but failing to hide my nervousness.

  “Of course, sir!” he says, embarrassed. He’s not used to the phone. It’s probably why it took him so long to answer.

  Three minutes pass, and Desmond comes back on the line. “She’s in her room, sir. Shall I have Myrtle go in and see about her—”

  “No. I’ll be there directly.” I hang up, run out of the hospital, and hop back in the car.

  I order my assistant to drive faster and faster. We zoom recklessly through the streets of Gibraltar, forcing several carriages off the street and scattering shoppers and tourists at each turn.

  When we arrive home, I jump out, race up the stairs, throw open the doors, and storm through the foyer. Pain punches at my leg with every step, and I’m sweating profusely, but I plow on, driven by fear. I climb the grand staircase to the second floor, make a beeline for our bedroom, and enter without knocking.

  Helena turns over, clearly surprised to see me. And surprised at the sight of me—sweat dripping from my forehead, the panting, the painful grimace. “Patrick?”

  “Are you all right?” I say as I sit on the bed with her and brush the thick blankets back. I run my hand over her swollen stomach.

  She sits up in the bed. “I could ask you the same thing. Of course I’m all right; why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I thought you might have come because you, or there was a problem…” I exhale, and the worry flows from my body. I scold her with my eyes. “The doctor said you should stay in bed.”

  She slumps back into the pillows. “You try staying in bed for months on end—”

  I smile at her as she realizes what she’s said.

  “Sorry, but as I recall, you weren’t all that good at it either.”

  “No, you’re right, I wasn’t. I’m sorry I missed you; what is it?”

  “What?”

  “You came by the office?”

  “Oh, yes. I wanted to see if you could slip out for lunch, but they told me you were already out.”

  “Yes. A… problem down at the docks.” It’s the hundredth time I’ve lied to Helena. It hasn’t gotten any easier, but the alternative is a lot worse.

  “The perils of being a shipping magnate.” She smiles. “Well, maybe another day.”

  “Maybe in a few weeks, when it will be three for lunch.”

  “Three indeed. Or maybe four; I feel that big.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “You’re a brilliant liar,” she says.

  Brilliant liar isn’t the half of it.

  Our revelry is interrupted by the sound of knocking in the next room. I turn my head.

  “They’re measuring the drawing room and the parlor below,” Helena says.

  We’ve already renovated for a nursery and enlarged three bedrooms for the children. I bought us a massive row house with a separate cottage for the house staff, and I can’t imagine what else we might need now.

  “I thought we could build a dancing room, with a parquet floor, like the one in my parents’ house.”

  Every man has limits. Helena can do whatever she wants to the house; that’s not the issue. “If we have a son?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry.” She pats my hand. “I won’t subject your strong American son to the dull intricacies of English society dance. But we’re having a girl.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You know this?”

  “I have a feeling.”

  “Then we’ll need a dancing room,” I say, smiling.

  “Speaking of dancing, an invitation came by messenger today. The Immari Annual Meeting and Christmas Ball, they’re having it in Gibraltar this year. There’s to be quite a celebration. I rang Mother. She and Father will be there. I’d like to go. I’ll take it easy, I assure you.”

  “Sure. It’s a date.”

  87

  Kate squinted, trying to read the journal. The sun was setting over the mountains and dread was building in her stomach. She glanced over at David. His expression was almost blank, unreadable. Maybe somber.

  As if reading her mind, Milo entered the large wood-floored room with a gas-burning lantern. Kate liked the smell; it somehow put her at ease.

  Milo set the lantern on a table by the bed, where the light would reach the journal, and said, “Good evening, Dr. Kate—” Upon seeing that David was awake, he brightened. “And hello again, Mr. Ree—”

  “It’s David Vale now. It’s nice to see you again, Milo. You’ve gotten a lot taller.”

  “And that’s not all, Mr. David. Milo has learned the ancient art of communication you know as… English.”

  David laughed. “And learned it well. I wondered at the time if they would toss it out or actually give it to you—the Rosetta Stone.”

  “Ah, my mysterious benefactor finally reveals himself!” Milo bowed again. “I thank you for the gift of your language. And now, may I repay the gift, at least partially,” he raised his eyebrows mysteriously, “with the evening meal?”

  “Please,” Kate said, laughing.

  David gazed out the window. The last sliver of the sun slipped behind the mountain like a pendulum disappearing in the side of a clock. “You should get your rest, Kate. It’s a very long walk.”

  “I’ll rest when we finish. I find reading relaxing.” She opened the book again.

  December 23rd, 1917

  I strain to see as the dust clears. Then I squint, not believing my eyes. We’ve uncovered more stairs, but there’s something else, expanding to the right of the stairs—an opening, like a gash in the metal.

  “We’re in!” Rutger yells and rushes forward into the darkness and floating dust.

  I grab for him, but he breaks my grasp. My leg has gotten some better, to the point where I only take one pain pill, sometimes two, each day, but I’ll never catch him.

  “You want us go after ’im?” the Moroccan foreman asks.

  “No,” I say. I wouldn’t sacrifice one of them to save Rutger. “Hand me one of the birds.” I take the canary cage, switch my headlamp on, and wade into the dark opening.

  The jagged portal is clearly the result of a blast or a rip. But we didn’t make it. We merely found it—the metal walls are almost five feet thick. As I cross into this structure the Immari have been digging and diving for going on almost sixty years, I’m finally overcome by awe. The first area is a corridor, ten feet wide by thirty feet long. It op
ens to a circular room with wonders I can’t begin to describe. The first thing that catches my eye is an indentation in the wall with four large tubes, like massive oblong capsules or elongated mason jars, standing on their ends, running from the floor to the ceiling. They’re empty except for a faint white light and fog that floats at the bottom. Farther over, there are two more tubes. One is damaged, I think. The glass is cracked, and there’s no fog. But the tube beside it… there’s something in it. Rutger sees it just as I do, and he’s at the tube, which seems to sense our presence. The fog clears as we approach, like a curtain rolling back to reveal its secret.

  It’s a man. No, an ape. Or something in between.

  Rutger looks back at me, for the first time with an expression other than arrogance or contempt. He’s confused. Maybe scared. I certainly am.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and resume scanning the room. “Don’t touch anything, Rutger.”

  88

  December 24th, 1917

  Helena glows in the dress. The tailor spent a week taking it out and took me for a small fortune, but it was worth the wait and every last shilling I paid him. She’s radiant. We dance, both ignoring her promise to take it easy. I can’t say no to her. Mostly I stand stationary, but the pain is manageable, and for perhaps once in our lives, we are well-matched on the dance floor. The music slows, she rests her head on my shoulder, and I forget about the ape-man in the tube. The world feels normal again, for the first time since that tunnel exploded on the Western Front.

  Then, like the fog in the tube, it all goes away. The music stops, and Lord Barton is speaking, raising a glass. He’s toasting me—Immari’s new head of shipping, his daughter’s husband, and a war hero. Heads nod around the room. There’s some joke about a modern day Lazarus man, back from the dead. Laughter. I smile. Helena hugs me closer. Barton’s finally finished, and around the room, revelers are downing champagne and nodding at me. I make a silly little bow and escort Helena back to our table.