Helios (Cerberus Group Book 2) Page 7

  The sun, knowing that it is almost free, begins to burn brighter, too bright to look at. Raven cries out in agony as his feathers blacken, burnt by the sun’s touch, but he does not let go. His talons tear still more holes in the sky, but as the sun rises higher, its light pushes back the darkness, transforming night into day, restoring life, filling the world with light…

  Fiona came to with a start, legs jerking, feet reaching for the ground that was no longer under her. She threw her hands out, as much to catch herself as to grab hold of this new reality in which she found herself.

  There was something in her fist, a crumpled piece of shiny fabric. Where did that come from?

  “Fi!” Gallo shouted. “Thank God.”

  “Aunt Gus…?”

  “Get up, Fi. We’re in trouble.”

  She sat up, the memories flooding back in, but her recollection of the darkness, of Raven stealing back the sun and the moon, did not slip away as dreams usually did.

  The giant trilobite-centipede creatures were everywhere now, swarming toward them. They were so close that she could see their black eyes, tipping long stalks that protruded from the segmented carapaces, and chattering mandibles.

  “Did you see that?” Pierce pointed out across the water. “That was Erik!”

  “Erik?” Fiona hadn’t seen anything. She looked around but there was no sign of him. “Where is he?”

  “In the water.” Pierce swung the backpack again, knocking another of the attacking creatures out across the pool. He looked her in the eyes, entrusting her the same way she’d seen her father do with his teammates. “You’re my heavy hitter, Fi. You can help him.”

  She scrambled to her feet and started kicking at the creatures. They were a lot more solid than she expected, like striking a bucket full of water, but her first kick launched one of the trilo-pedes into the air. The second one however, caught the sole of her hiking boot in its mandibles. She gave a yelp that was part frustration, part fear.

  Pierce stepped in and brought the backpack down like a hammer, crushing the arthropod’s shell, releasing an explosion of rust-brown guts.

  She shook her foot, but succeeded only in separating the pincer-like jaws—which were embedded in the rubber sole of her boot—from the crushed body. Focus, she told herself.

  The golem’s hand rose, lifting them high above the surface of the pool, and it moved toward the spiraling walkway where they had first arrived. Even before it stopped moving, Fiona leapt onto the path and scrambled several feet until she was well clear of the water-line.

  As soon as Gallo and Pierce were clear, she commanded the golem to move away, but as it did, half-a-dozen of the trilo-pedes dropped off the stone hand and began scurrying up the walkway toward them.

  Fiona ignored the creatures and focused her intentions on the golem.

  Find Erik.

  The stone automaton plunged its head and shoulders under the water with a splash, sending out a wave that crashed against the wall below where Fiona and the others were standing, soaking them with spray.

  A few seconds later, the golem emerged again, one of its massive fists curled around a motionless human form. The hand opened to deposit Lazarus at their feet, and Fiona saw that he was covered in trilo-pedes. Rivulets of diluted blood streamed down the walkway, as the squirming creatures continued tearing into Lazarus’s flesh.

  Pierce started forward, probably intending to attack the menacing creatures with his bare hands, but Fiona beat him to it.

  Prompted by another silent command, the golem’s hand detached at the wrist, splitting into five human-sized golems that landed on the walkway with a rapid series of earth-shaking thumps. They were rougher-looking than the giant; the large pieces of stone comprising them did not allow for fine details, but what they lacked in aesthetic appeal, they more than made up for in sheer power.

  Two of them bent over Lazarus and began smashing trilo-pede carapaces between their bowling ball-sized fists. The other three began stomping the advancing creatures with reckless abandon, splattering the walkway with green-brown goo. In a matter of seconds, Lazarus was bug-free, and the area around them clear of the creatures.

  Pierce and Gallo rushed over to the unmoving Lazarus and took hold of his arms, dragging him further up the walkway, even though the threat was held at bay. A moment later, the big man convulsed, breaking free of their grasp. He curled into a fetal ball and gave a great racking cough, spewing water from his mouth and nose, and then he howled as if he was being burned alive.

  His agony was palpable, and for a fleeting instant Fiona felt like she might pass out again. Pierce and Gallo recoiled as well, but the moment passed. Lazarus mastered the primal fury-beast his resurrection had almost unleashed. He blinked several times, his head jerking as he took in his surroundings. His clothes were riddled with little gashes, each no more than an inch long, and through them, Fiona could see bright pink skin—new skin—growing back at an accelerated rate to replace the chunks torn away by the trilo-pedes. Beyond him, the golems continued stomping the creatures, each stone footfall sounding—and feeling—like a blow from a sledgehammer.

  “I’m okay,” Lazarus rasped, his face still contorted as he endured the unimaginable pain of rapid healing. He rose to a kneeling position. “Looks like you guys didn’t need me after all.”

  “We’re just glad you made it,” Gallo said, but despite her welcoming and relieved tone, her body language told a different story. She was afraid of him, afraid that he might lose control of the fury-beast and kill them all. Fiona knew better, but her attention was divided between controlling the golems and grappling with the mystery of her strange…dream? Vision?

  She squeezed her fists tighter and realized she was still holding on to the bunched up piece of shiny fabric.

  “Can you walk?” Pierce said.

  Lazarus nodded. “If I have to, I can run.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need to do that, as long as Fi can keep our retreat covered.”

  “What are those things?” Gallo asked.

  “Some kind of pre-historic crawdad,” Pierce said. “There could be an entire isolated eco-system down here. Fortunately, we’ve got what we came for, so I think we can forego further exploration.”

  Fiona realized he was staring at the thing in her hand. “This?”

  She held it up, opening her hand, and as she did, the fabric expanded with a pop. Instead of an amorphous crumpled mass, a perfect sphere, the size of a softball, now rested on her palm.

  She remembered it now, remembered trying to pick it up and how unmovable it had been.

  And then I passed out. That can’t be a coincidence.

  It was feather-light now, like holding on to a soap bubble. She applied gentle pressure with her fingertips, distorting the precise symmetry, but it popped back into shape as soon as she relented.

  “Okay, that’s a neat trick,” Pierce said, bending down to take a closer look at the orb. “Looks like it’s woven from some kind of memory metal wire. Definitely not from the Sintashta period.”

  He straightened and glanced over his shoulder at the waterline. Trilo-pedes were still emerging from the pool, crawling up onto the walkway, only to be obliterated by Fiona’s golems.

  “But that’s a discussion for another time,” he went on. “Fi, you brought us this far.”

  “She needs a minute,” Gallo said, moving closer to Fiona. “You passed out back there. Are you okay? Did something happen to your insulin pump?”

  While she could bend earth and rocks to her will, Fiona’s own body was not always as cooperative. Diagnosed with Type 1 insulin-dependent diabetes, she managed her blood sugar with a sophisticated computer-controlled insulin pump, tucked in an inside pocket at her hip, but in stressful situations—being trapped underground and menaced by giant bugs, for example—her body chemistry got too far out of whack, and she crashed.

  She knew what that felt like, and this wasn’t it.

  “The pump’s fine,” she said. “I’m fi
ne. How long was I out?”

  “Just a few seconds.” Gallo’s forehead creased with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? Was it that thing?” She pointed to the orb.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. I had a…vision. Maybe it was just a dream. My subconscious trying to tell me something.”

  “What did you see?” George asked with sincere interest.

  “It was something from an old story my grandmother taught me: Raven Steals the Light.” She saw the others exchange a concerned glance. The vision…dream…memory…whatever, was still vivid in her memory, but the relevance of the underlying message was not so clear.

  If you sing to the river...

  “The river,” she blurted. “I think this pool is connected to an underground river. If we can find it, we can follow it to the surface.”

  The same intuitive certainty that had brought her down to the lowest reaches of the ancient city was now telling her that she had everything she needed to get them back out.

  If you sing to the river, it will wake up and sing with you.

  But she did not need the river to wake up. She needed it to sleep again.

  She didn’t even attempt trying to explain it. She wasn’t sure there were even words for it. Instead, she put both hands on the sphere, lightly, so as not to crush it, and she began to sing, chanting the same tribal song she had sung in the vision of Raven.

  And just as in the vision, the water listened.

  NINE

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Carter felt only a little guilty about the deception that had secured her a seat aboard an Italian military transport bound for Geneva. Although she wasn’t a medical doctor, she had done international relief work in Africa. She felt a certain kinship with the men and women who were willing to set aside their lives and rush headlong into the jaws of a crisis to help the helpless.

  In her own way, she was doing the same, which was why she was able to hold her head up high as she filed off the plane with all the other volunteers. Then she slipped away from the queue to pursue her own mission of mercy. If she was right about the earthquakes having an other-than-natural cause, then her actions might save thousands of lives.

  Although there were ongoing widespread power outages across Europe, the television news networks were already back up and running, chronicling the disaster for the few who possessed the means to watch. Carter did not have access to a television, but as she got off the plane and turned on her satellite-enabled smartphone, she received a flurry of messages from Dourado, most of which contained links to various news agencies. She skimmed the articles and briefs, and was pleased to learn that most of the quakes had caused little more than cosmetic damage, with minimal loss of life.

  There were a few exceptions, though. An 8.1 magnitude temblor off the coast of Portugal had done extensive damage to Lisbon and the surrounding areas. The subsequent 30-foot tsunami had done even more damage all along the coasts of Portugal, Spain, and Morocco. Though the number of confirmed dead was still low relative to the population in those areas, estimated casualties were in the tens of thousands. A 7.5 quake had been reported in the Hindu Kush mountains, affecting parts of Afghanistan and Pakistan, and while few details had emerged from that remote region, similar events throughout history suggested the death toll would be in the thousands. What made the situation even more tragic was the fact that the minor damage and disruptions in cities across Europe would further delay relief efforts.

  Carter read the articles quickly, gulping them down so that the scope of the tragedy wouldn’t overwhelm her. The most bitter news was contained in the last message, just three short words:

  Still no word.

  George Pierce carried a satellite phone just like hers, capable of sending and receiving from almost anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, the phone relied on line-of-sight. It didn’t work underground, and underground was where Pierce and his team had gone before the quakes had begun. That Pierce still hadn’t checked in, two hours later, could only mean one thing.

  They were still underground.

  Not thinking the worst was impossible. Lazarus and the others might already be dead, or worse: buried alive and dying, unable to reach the surface. And there wasn’t a thing Carter could do to help them.

  Her response, which wasn’t a response at all, was even briefer:

  Arrived.

  She put the phone away and headed outside. She was traveling light, as was her custom. No luggage, not even a carry-on. It was not her intention to spend the night, but if she had to, she could buy whatever she needed.

  A skycap directed her to a waiting taxi, and the dutiful driver opened the rear door for her. As she slid inside, her attention was drawn to an LED touch screen—about the same size as her tablet computer—mounted to the back of the driver’s seat. On the screen were two rows of virtual buttons, each one marked with a language choice. Assuming that it was some kind of onboard entertainment system—and most likely not a complementary amenity—she ignored it, waiting for the driver to take his place and inquire about her destination.

  A moment later, a disembodied female voice began speaking. The first utterance was in French, a language that she spoke, though not fluently. The same voice carried on in German—at least Carter thought it was German—and then in Italian, another language she was picking up. Regardless of the language, the statement was the same.

  “Please select your language from the menu,” the voice said in English.

  With a sigh, she tapped the button marked ‘English.’

  “Welcome,” the voice said. “Please state your destination.”

  Carter raised an eyebrow. “Welcome to the twenty-first century,” she murmured.

  “I’m not sure I understood,” the voice replied. The screen went blank for a moment, then a virtual keyboard appeared. “Please say or enter your destination.”

  Carter cleared her throat and enunciated her answer. “Tomorrowland.”

  “Searching.” The screen refreshed again, displaying several choices: An electronic music festival in Belgium, a revival cinema showing the 2015 Disney film of the same name, and a nightclub called No Tomorrow.

  “Do you see your destination here?”

  Carter shook her head, then she remembered she was talking to a machine. “No.”

  “Please state your destination.”

  Carter kicked herself for not having done her homework, and wondered if she would have better luck just talking to the driver. “I’m trying to find Marcus Fallon. Or Ishiro Tanaka.”

  “Searching.” The screen blinked again and the list changed. There were a few personal listings, though none of them contained the exact combination of first and last names. But one item on the list stood out to her. “Space Tomorrow,” she said. “That’s the one.”

  The screen changed to show a full business listing for Space Tomorrow, which included location, phone number, and the name of the founder, Marcus Fallon. “Is this where you want to go?”

  “Yes,” Carter said, starting to feel a little exasperated by the process.

  The fare for the trip appeared on the screen along with a menu of buttons. “Please choose your payment option.”

  As Carter made her selection and swiped her credit card, she recalled an article she had read about something called shadow work, which was the name economists used to describe the shift to self-service and automated systems. Shadow work was everywhere, from self-service checkout lines at grocery stores to automated ordering systems at restaurants. It was widely preached that automated customer service systems were preferred by consumers, especially the younger, hipper, Millennial crowd, who enjoyed the freedom of taking charge. In fact, it was the businesses that benefited, because instead of paying employees to interact with customers, the customer became an unpaid laborer—grocery clerk, waiter, travel agent—without any meaningful savings in the exchange.

  Like it or not, this was the future.

  At least they hadn’t replaced the taxi driver ye
t.

  As the cab pulled away from the curb, she realized she was wrong about that, too. The man sitting in the driver’s seat was looking at his smartphone—one hand holding it, the other swiping right—and he was paying no attention to the road ahead. But the wheel turned and the car accelerated, pulling into the flow of traffic.

  The car was automated, too.

  Carter’s panic was immediate but short-lived. The computer brain controlling the car was probably more attentive than the human driver on his best day, and with 360 degrees of constant observation through integrated video and radar surveillance systems, it was certainly more aware than any human driver ever could be. The human operator, though he probably didn’t realize it, was only there to facilitate the transition to a completely automated system. In five years, nobody would think twice about sliding into the back seat of a fully automated taxi.

  She settled back and tried to enjoy the ride, but everywhere she looked, she saw reminders of the recent upheaval—downed trees and power lines, cracked concrete, boarded-up windows, and broken glass. There had been several small quakes in the area, all occurring simultaneously, multiplying the destructive intensity of the seismic waves. Fortunately, no lives had been lost.

  Fallon’s corporate complex was situated a few miles to the north of the airport, on the shores of Lake Geneva. The ride was short and uneventful. As the taxi pulled to a stop at the gated entrance to the walled compound, the LED screen flashed to life with the message:

  You have arrived.

  The voice of the computer echoed the message, and then asked if she wanted the taxi to wait for her.

  “No, thank you,” she said, feeling a little awkward speaking with the machine, and ignoring the real flesh-and-blood human sitting in the front seat. The driver—or rather the driver’s-seat filler—did come to life long enough to let her out. Then without a word, he got back in, and the car drove off.