Survive Page 8

  “Hmmm. . . .”

  “Turns out, this rescue was only half of our mission. The other half was the ark-ship itself. It was left in orbit not to observe but to actively guide the asteroid to Earth and make sure it struck as my Father intended. The asteroid was equipped with a hollow interior and retrofitted with a small resonance chamber and remote guidance system, for my Father’s personal use—all of it so well disguised and so far below the asteroid surface that none of the Earth probes would ever find it. Even our own Fleet sensors would easily miss it unless we knew where to look—”

  “Oh!” I make a small sound. Gears turn in my mind and I interrupt wildly: “If it has a guidance system, then it can be diverted away from Earth! Your Father can simply change its course!”

  “Yes!” Aeson says. “But he needs to be convinced to do so. And right now, I’m not sure how to convince my Father about anything or what leverage to use without making things worse. In the course of my hard questioning, Nefir only told me what he knows about the Imperator’s secret ‘plan within a plan’—which is quite a lot, but not everything that lurks inside my Father’s dark mind. And now I’m beginning to suspect there’s even more to it. . . .”

  “So this whole mission must have some other hidden reasoning behind it,” I ask, “some intricate Imperial or even personal agenda?”

  “I believe so. . . . And that’s the missing part we still don’t have. We don’t know why my Father wants the asteroid to strike Earth—especially now that the public mission objective has been achieved, and the Earth refugees are safely here on Atlantis. At this point it seems to serve no purpose, not even as a bargaining tool. Why destroy Earth? The only thing that comes to mind is that it’s somehow related to the alien threat to us all.”

  “Well, we can ask him right now when we see him,” I say, feeling my pulse quicken again, its rhythm echoing hard in my temples. “In fact, I have all kinds of things to ask!”

  Aeson nods, watching me seriously. “Gwen, promise me you’ll be very careful when you talk to him. Please think things through before saying anything—volatile.”

  “Oh, believe me, I will. Too much is at stake!”

  “Exactly.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “To continue—Nefir Mekei was in charge of this half of the mission, as known only to my Father and a handful of IEC members, all Imperial loyalists. At the same time Nefir was also serving as the ACA liaison with the Earth governments, and he was supposed to make excessive material promises to them in secret, on behalf of Imperial Atlantida—promises that my Father never intended to honor. Now those of us in Fleet High Command knew about that part—about exaggerated promises—because it was relevant to the entire mission. These promises would keep the Earth United Nations docile and cooperative while we carried out our plan, since they expected to be rescued by us at the last minute before the asteroid hit.

  “In fact, the ACA promised them there would be at least one ark-ship at their disposal, so yes, the top Earth officials and leaders such as your American President Donahue, King William of England and British Prime Minister Corwell, Chinese President Liu Kao Wong, United Industan President Ghatak, and Russian President Zabrodov knew about the cloaked ship remaining in orbit, even while the rest of Earth and our own Atlantean Fleet did not.”

  “Oh my God. . . .”

  Aeson pauses to drink from his cup of lvikao. “As you already know, I was in charge of creating the hologram ark-ship illusion to fill the empty slot in the Fleet formation within the Quantum Stream, for our return trip.”

  “Yes, I remember our talk after the second QS Race,” I say. “That’s when you first mentioned them, though indirectly—the ancient aliens.”

  He nods. “Back then I assumed this secrecy was for everyone’s safety—both for the crew staying behind on board AS-1999 and the rest of our Fleet personnel, and the poor, doomed residents of Earth who really didn’t need to be given false hopes of last-minute rescue. Instead, my actions were directly contributing to the mission that would have Earth destroyed. . . . I’m so damn sorry, Gwen.”

  I sigh, watching his tortured expression. He barely meets my eyes in that moment.

  But before he can continue, Aeson’s wrist comm emits a tone. He checks it and says, “It’s my Father. He wants to know if we’re coming now.”

  I sigh again, this time exhaling a furious breath, as I watch Aeson key something back, his fingers tapping lightly on the micro device. When he looks up, he says, “Let’s head out. We can continue talking along the way.”

  Minutes later, flanked by the usual retinue of guards, we exit the estate past a few curious but respectful servants. Outside, the dawn has brightened, and we get in the hover cars and lift off into the sky.

  I usually have no problem flying in large, reasonably safe vehicles such as this one, but this morning for some reason my gut feels like it’s falling out from under me. . . . And then my head reels with vertigo, which dissipates quickly enough, but instead a new terror grips my intestines.

  My mother is dead. . . .

  When the Imperator brings up this fact, as he cruelly might, I must keep from bawling.

  I must not cry, not blink, or respond in any way that might show weakness.

  I must be a rock before him.

  Chapter 7

  I focus on my breath to keep it regular, trying not to hyperventilate. Meanwhile I silently observe Aeson as he keeps us in the major air traffic lane, with the guard vehicles on both sides and behind us. The golden roofs of the Imperial Palace complex soon come into view, contrasting with metallic fire against the mauve and ebony grandeur of massive structures and splotches of manicured greenery of the park and gardens below.

  We come down on the private airfield—indeed, my first memory of being on Atlantis is in this very same spot where I first landed directly from orbit in that fateful shuttle, more than two months ago—a distant memory now, with all the things that have happened in the interim.

  It feels like a lifetime. . . .

  “Gwen.” Aeson glances at me. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not,” I say in a numb voice. “But I will be, once we’re in your Imperial Father’s presence.”

  He takes one hand off the steering panel surface momentarily and places it over mine, squeezing it. His touch is strong and warm, and it gives me a jolt of reassurance.

  “I love you . . .” I whisper in reply.

  His solemn expression melts.

  We get out of the hover car and start walking along the mauve cobblestone-like surface of the airfield toward the park entrance and the garden paths that lead to the main building of the Imperial Palace.

  At this early time, except for the uniformed Palace staff and gardeners, few people are about. The ones who walk past us bow to pay their respects before the Imperial Crown Prince and his guards . . . and then they see me. Without hesitation they bow before me also—deeply, with the same level of reverence as they show Kassiopei.

  Even knowing enough to expect it, I’m once again stunned.

  But Aeson gently guides me onward, giving me no time to show confusion in front of these courtiers and servants.

  We enter the grand marble interior that is the front hall, which branches off into myriad palatial chambers, corridors, and connecting passages. We take the swift elevators to the top floor and then emerge in the lobby of mauve and cream marble, which serves as the entry to the Imperial Quarters, past a number of other elevators along all the walls. At the massive double-doorway entrance, a row of Imperial guards equipped with gold staffs salute the Imperial Crown Prince—and myself—and we are immediately admitted within.

  Aeson’s personal guards must stay behind at this point, due to Imperial Security Protocol, so Aeson and I enter alone.

  The antechamber of the Imperial Quarters is a grand hall with a vaulted ceiling and colonnades along the gilded walls, with an informal reception-room throne and other lesser chairs along the back wall next to which are more doors leading deeper into
the private areas of the Quarters. All the seats are vacant.

  The last time I was here in this very room was that fateful first morning when we had eos bread with the Imperator up on the rooftop pavilion, and I met the whole family, my future in-laws. And now the same high-ranking servant approaches us with a hurried bow and points to one of the doors. He has an alarmed expression, and before Aeson can ask anything, he says, “Please, this way, my Imperial Lord and Lady, you are expected immediately! Our Imperial Sovereign, the Archaeon Imperator, is in his Red Office, and he will receive you there.”

  Aeson nods, and we enter a short, ornate corridor with a distant, arched ceiling. Aeson walks past several other interior doors toward a room in the back, and I follow him with quick steps in order to keep up.

  The door is open, and a warm glow of sconce lights greets us, as we find ourselves inside a relatively small but opulent chamber decorated in deep, earthy shades of river-red clay, mauve, rust, carnelian, and fine gold trim.

  It’s interesting that there are no windows here, only four walls draped with ancient tapestries, ornamental curtains with valances obscuring wall library nooks filled with scrolls, carved wooden plaques depicting ancient stylized reliefs, and occasional modern digital landscape photographs.

  A large desk stands near one wall, and a tall chair, while three more chairs are spread around the room. Three monitor screens of different sizes rise off to the side via intricate and somehow antique-looking spiral-jointed mech arms, suspended over the desk at eye-level. They are reminiscent of exotic metal blossoms, or maybe strange avian wings.

  The Imperator himself stands behind the desk, leaning forward slightly, with his two hands resting on the desktop, fingers drumming against the high-gloss polished surface.

  His long Kassiopei-blond hair hangs loosely down his shoulders in a rather unkempt fashion, and his lean, ageless face is fixed in a disturbing expression. He is wearing a deep-green jacket over a simple, pale shirt and black trousers, possibly the most casual I’ve seen him to date.

  I catch a glimpse of the Imperator’s very dark blue eyes, and they appear wide and terrible as he looks at me in that initial moment of recognition.

  “You! Both of you! At last!” the Imperator exclaims, striking one hand violently against the desk surface and straightening.

  “My Imperial Father—” Aeson greets him coldly, but is immediately interrupted.

  “How do you feel now, girl?” Romhutat Kassiopei turns directly to me, stepping past his son. “Sufficiently recovered from your many ordeals and that performance of yours, enough to get to work? Well?”

  “Yes,” I say in a frigid voice, looking up unflinchingly at his glaring face. And I don’t add “My Imperial Sovereign.”

  “Well then! Let’s begin!” And just as abruptly the Imperator pushes past us, back to the desk, and nearly rips one monitor screen from its elegant, curving mech arm, dragging it toward him, turning it so that it faces us. I see a live-streaming close-up view of the Atlantis Grail Stadium, bright with morning light, from the vantage point of someone standing right in the arena at the base of the Grail.

  The stadium appears empty of people, with not even the clean-up staff around. Only silence, gusts of wind, and birdsong, punctuated by occasional distant swells of surrounding city traffic. Everything is untouched. The variously broken and displaced tiers and rows of seats, leaning statues, walkways, and uprooted flooring on the ground, show the same level of structural damage in the arena as had been there yesterday. It’s a strangely sad, abandoned grand expanse.

  The Grail itself is jutting out of the broken ground at a slight angle, just as I last recall it. Immediately, a sickening feeling comes over me as I start to remember and relive everything. . . .

  No . . . stop. . . .

  I struggle to focus on the present, clear my mind. That’s when, during a particular moment of lull in the living silence, I hear the deep, bone-rattling hum.

  “There it is! Can you hear it?” the Imperator says, lifting one finger up. And then he taps the display surface and addresses the screen, “Approach closer. Center on target. Enhance sound.”

  Whoever or whatever is there, causes the live camera device on that end to rotate smoothly and point at the golden, gleaming object, so that now it’s looming in view, overshadowing all else. Then the camera view starts sailing forward, bringing itself closer yet, so that it’s only a few feet away, then a few inches from the “goblet stem” portion of the Grail.

  It occurs to me, there is no person holding up a device. It’s some kind of hovering robotic drone. Could it be a nano-camera?

  Meanwhile the deep, humming sound grows in volume, and now there’s an added buzz from vibration as the device makes physical contact with the Grail surface.

  “Before my Bride does anything,” Aeson says coldly, “My Imperial Father must explain what is happening. Why is the Ra Disk in New Deshret affected by whatever is happening with the Grail in Imperial Atlantida?”

  Romhutat glances up at his son.

  “I’ve been harboring a theory, Father,” Aeson continues. “My theory is that the Atlantis Grail monument is not a monument at all, but the uppermost section of a very ancient, very deeply buried ark-ship that lies sprawling, far underneath the Stadion which marks the Landing Site of our first Colony, right here in downtown Poseidon. And the Ra Disk carved in the face of Dubutaat Mountain is also not a carving at all, but a portion of that same old ship. . . . And if you put the two together, the Ra Disk fits precisely over the top of the Grail, and it becomes a great golden sphere—a resonance chamber.”

  For a moment the Imperator stares at his son like a basilisk. And then he nods. “Yes, clever boy. You figured it out.”

  Aeson inhales deeply. “So then—”

  The Imperator makes a harsh scoffing sound. “So then nothing. This information is not yours to have—not yet. It’s a fragment of the vast set of hidden knowledge revealed to the new Imperator only after he ascends the Throne of Imperial Atlantida. Unfortunately, because of your Bride’s meddling, disastrous actions, you get to find out sooner than you should. Or maybe it’s fortune, not misfortune—feel free to call it either!” And the Imperator looks from Aeson to me, while his near-black eyes appear wild. “You must be so full of questions now. Just itching to know, are you? So eager—”

  “How much of this whole structure is the ancient ark-ship? How deep does it go? I’ve been inside it, haven’t I?” Aeson continues, ignoring the barbs. “The first four underground stories at least, the ones that house the research facilities? Is that the original ship, or later additions built around it?”

  “Ah! It’s all the ship, idiot boy! At least three hundred levels down! Some of them so far down that we’ve never been that deep! We cannot open them due to ground instability, for fear of implosion and collapse! We cannot risk damage to any of it, not ever!”

  “Okay, why?” I say in a hard voice, speaking up for the first time.

  Romhutat snaps to me. “Because the ancient ship is a glorious, dangerous, sacred treasure of our past! It houses all the technical and esoteric knowledge of our original civilization, so much of our history! There are so many answers there, but they are convoluted, partial, incomplete. . . . We keep looking and finding more things to question, more unsolved puzzles . . . mysteries instead of solutions, enough to make you mad . . . symbols and ciphers, imperfect fragments of arcane languages. . . . It’s an entire city down there!”

  My mouth parts in wonder. Aeson frowns.

  “And you, Gwen Lark,” the Imperator tells me. “See what you’ve done to this antique? It’s bad enough that you uprooted it physically, causing untold possible structural damage to the lower levels. . . . But the worst part? You keyed it to yourself and you broke the Master Lock—the Imperial Aural Block! It’s a safety lock to keep the ark-ship suspended in its quantum resting state, all parts of it inert. And now, because of your brute-force override, the ship is no longer inert—”

  “B
ut how? What exactly did I do?” I start to hyperventilate. “What does it mean—?”

  “It means that all components are now active, regardless of their location on this planet, because they are all bound at the quantum level. And all of them are broadcasting—far outward, beyond our stars . . . for anyone who’s listening, to hear. . . .” The Imperator’s eyes widen, and there’s a flicker of new darkness that I suddenly recognize as fear.

  At the thought of the Imperator himself being afraid, a cold wave washes over me. . . .

  But just as swiftly he regains his hard control and continues, “The pieces of the ship were physically separated by our ancestors for a reason, to minimize the possibility of this kind of unfortunate tampering, and only one Logos Voice may set and maintain the Master Lock at a time. The Imperator of Atlantida holds that right, throughout generations, to control and maintain the ship in secret, for everyone’s protection.”

  Romhutat turns to Aeson. “Your turn would’ve come. You would have properly keyed it, using the correct procedure learned from me at the initiation. No one would have suspected. . . . But now, because of what was done by your senseless Earth Bride—”

  “Senseless?” I exclaim. “How was I to know any of this? I sang in order to win the Games! I thought it was going to be a harmless vocal demonstration!”

  “Speaking of sense, Father—this, what you describe, doesn’t entirely make sense,” Aeson says with brutal sarcasm. “Why did the ancients bother to separate the components if it’s all bound together by one voice anyway? Why dump the top half of the resonance chamber in New Deshret?”

  “Why, why. . . . Ah, the questions! Very likely to hide it in plain sight, disguise its true nature from nosy fools and hope for the best? We don’t know,” the Imperator replies after a slight pause. There is leashed fury in his voice. “This is one of those unanswered questions. I was told by your Grandfather that one Logos Voice was responsible for the whole ship—that is all he knew. As to why New Deshret has the Ra Disk—”