Authors: Mark Henrikson
Professor Russell and
Alex both sat cross-legged on the floor with a chess board between them. The professor pitied Alex for the position she’d played herself into. She had four pawns to Brian’s two on her queen side and was relying on that advantage to bolster her attack. Her position looked deceptively strong, overpowering in fact, yet defeat was inevitable.
A soft spoken alarm pulled his head away from the game board. The sound was coming from a device
leaning against the wall in the corner that looked very much like a roll of wrapping paper. Dr. Andre retrieved the device and brought it back to a table alongside his partner. He held one end of the roll, and unfurled it with the other to reveal a two foot by three foot piece of flexible silicone that laid flat across the table. Dr. Andre stood and looked down on the object which in turn cast a faint blue glow upon him that gave the man an almost angelic appearance.
Dr. Andre must have felt the intrigued stare of his captives and looked back toward them. “How rude of me to place the viewer w
here only I can see the action.” He immediately dragged a chair over to face the captivity cage, picked up the device and placed it upright on the chair leaning against the backrest.
The entire surface area of the view screen shone bright and clear like a flat panel television. On display was a view of the small brick warehouse
he instantly recognized as the building masking the tunnel entrance leading back to the Sphinx chamber. The camera transmitting the picture must have been mounted on the roof of a building directly across the street.
Onscreen, three
Humvees roared to a stop in front of the building’s lone door. The second captor chuckled when he saw four of the soldiers pull a stout battering ram from one of the vehicles and made ready to break down the door. “How many swings do you think they’ll take before moving on to plan B?”
“I would guess three,” Dr. Andre ventured.
“I’m going to go with five,” the other wagered.
“Five . . . six . . . seven,” the man narrated. “He’s stubborn that one.
”
Finally the men on screen placed the battering ram back in the truck and moved the vehicles away from the building while one soldier out lined the
door with what looked like silly putty. When the soldier ran out a detonation chord the professor knew he was not playing with a children’s toy.
It was strange to watch a violent explosion happen on screen with no sound. A cloud of smoke and splintered fragments of the door frame flew in every direction, yet all he heard was a soft chuckle from his captors.
“Nope, try again,” the other man said and then turned his head to look at Frank. “Care to place a bet on what your boss tries next?”
Contrasting with his joking words, the man’s body language told a different story. Behind his eyes and in his posture was tremendous anger, or maybe fear, particularly when Frank’s NSA colleague stepped into the camera frame.
“I’ll wager our freedom he uses that TOW missile launcher before too long, and I will double down that it does the job,” Frank answered with the confidence of a soccer player lining up for a game winning penalty kick.
Dr. Andre pulled on his partner’s arm to bring his attention back to the view screen where a soldier had just armed a rocket launcher mounted on top of the middle
vehicle. “He is good. As long as they have the smarts not to use an explosive round, this should break through.”
Professor Russell couldn’t understand the flippant attitude of the two men toward events taking place only
a short three miles away at the tunnel entrance. Those weren’t girl scouts knocking on their door selling overpriced cookies. These were trained warriors who clearly had license to use whatever force necessary to get the job done. Both of them were in serious jeopardy and yet they observed the action and commented on it as if watching their favorite movie. The only thing missing was a bucket of popcorn between them.
True to all predictions, the missile punched a hole in the door large enough for a grown man to fit through with room to spare.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” the second captor sighed on his way back to his workstation.
Dr. Andre looked over at Alex still sitting on the cold metal floor. “The way you simply picked the lock to breach that door last week was far more elegant and civilized my dear.”
“There was nothing simple about picking a twenty six pin lockset,” Alex fired back.
“True.” The doctor then directed his eyes toward the chess board. After a few second
s of consideration he declared, “Checkmate in four,” and then moved away to continue his work near the same terminal his partner occupied.
A dismissive hiss escaped her lips, “Whatever; your move Professor.”
Brian Russell then proceeded to unleash his minority pawn attack that left her queenside exposed so his bishop and queen could maneuver in to deliver checkmate in the predicted four moves.”
“How in the world did
n’t I see that coming?” Alex groaned.
“You had superior numbers and thought that alone gave you the advantage without realizing my pieces were in perfect position to turn the situation against you,” the professor instructed.
With her tone foreshadowing the answer, Alex asked, “Are we sure the men coming to our rescue aren’t making the same mistake?”
In the Roman
senate chamber Hastelloy sat next to Pompey, who now carried the cognomen of Magnus (the great) behind his name due to his great deeds in recent years. Pompey stood to propose a measure for immediate vote. The race was on to pass the measure before the new Tribune of the Plebs, whose election was purchased through significant bribery by Julius Caesar, could arrive in Rome. The position of Tribune was an odd one in that it wielded great power and respect within the city limits, but carried no authority whatsoever anywhere else in the Republic.
Inside the city of Rome a Tribune
was sacrosanct and could not be physically harmed; it was a time honored tradition never broken. The person holding the position could propose measures to the senate, and most importantly, had the power to veto any senate measures he felt did not serve the people of Rome. In practice the Tribune usually only vetoed measures that could harm the people who purchased the election for him.
The new Tribune was
on his way from Caesar’s army camped in northern Italy. If the man arrived in time he would most certainly veto this measure as it aimed to destroy Caesar and his base of power once and for all.
“Senators,” Pompey began. “I propose a measure to bar any citizen
from running for the position of Consul who is not in the capital at the time of elections. It is the highest elected office in the Republic and must be held by a citizen who is of the people enough to actually grace the city with his physical presence.”
The Optimate
side of the hall erupted with applause while the proposal drew jeers from the Populares. One in particular stood up to shout his protest.
“Let’s recognize this
measure for what it is, Senators, a desperate ploy to keep Julius Caesar from the position of Consul. An election he will most certainly win by a landslide, so you seek to exclude him.”
“I propose no such thing,” Pompey countered with his best effort to conceal that the man’s argument was
spot on. “Julius Caesar may still choose to run for the office, I simply seek to require he be present in the city to do so as the other candidates have done.”
“To do that, the General would need to disband his armies and enter the city as a
common citizen, subject to your prosecutions rather than a government official who is immune from such action,” the Populares senator countered.
“If his wars in Gaul are indeed legal, then he should have no fear of prosecution,” Pompey shot back.
The presiding magistrate interrupted the arguing men. “Gentlemen, you are both out of order. A proposal is on the floor and debate can only begin after someone seconds the motion. Do we have a second?”
Hastelloy raised his hand, “I second the measure.”
“Very well, the measure has been proposed and has a second,” the magistrate stated. “Debate may begin and must conclude no later than nightfall or a compulsory vote will be held on the measure.”
Debate began as the sun
hung low in the morning sky. Some thirteen hours later the sun finally touched the horizon on the west. Loyal to their star candidate, the Populares dragged the debate out as long as humanly possible. Some raised legitimate issues against the measure, but most simply stood and talked, and talked, and talked. They read random books not remotely related to the topic, others read poetry. One particularly inventive senator read the entire voter registry aloud.
While the filibuster progressed, both sides of the
aisles dispatched riders to determine where the Tribune was on his journey to the city to exercise his veto power. It was going to be close. The Tribune had already run three horses to death and immediately switched to fresh mounts in his race to the senate floor.
The magistrate broke off the monotonous debate with three wraps of his staff on the marble floor. “The twilight h
our is at hand, senators. For a measure of this magnitude we will have a vote by physical division. Those for the measure will stand on my right, those against will stand on my left and a simple majority shall carry or defeat the measure.”
The Optimates ran to the right side while the Populares slowly shuffled across the floor as if they suddenly aged
a hundred years. They shook hands with every Senator they could find in their path, and even took the time to inspect each grouted seam in the tile floor on their way to the magistrate’s left side. Anything to make sure the vote dragged on.
Out of the crowd of
straggling senators still making their way crossing the middle section of the senate floor came a man in full military dress. Sweat poured down the individual’s body in such volume that a shallow pool soon formed at his feet. Gasping for breath he labored to shout. “I am Marcus Antonius, elected Tribune of the Plebs. I hereby veto this measure as it stands against the interests of the citizens of Rome.”
Shouts
of delight and anger exploded from both sides of the room.
Hastelloy lo
oked at the Tribune. He had hoped him to be an imposter, but it was indeed Tomal and he stood on the senate floor as a legitimately elected Tribune of the Plebs with the authority to veto any proposal. He wanted to scream in frustration at the fact that his own man had disrupted his elegant plan to eliminate Caesar as a threat. Now things would get far more complicated.
Pompey lost his composure and rushed toward Tomal. “You are not fit for that office. Your vote
is bought and paid for by your benefactor, Julius Caesar. You do not represent the people, and I will not have you in the presence of great men who do.”
Tomal held his ground. “Great men should have the courage to face their opponents
with honor, not scheming like old women and hiding behind senate declarations.”
Pompey
heard enough. Before Hastelloy could stop his political ally from making a monumental mistake the man grabbed Tomal by his armored breast plate and tossed him to the ground.
Not content with the damage inflicted, Pompey punched Tomal in the face and kicked him in the ribs until a group of senators pulled Pompey away.
“You cannot touch a Tribune,” the Populares shouted, while the Optimates responded with variations of, “His vote is bought so he is not a true Tribune.”
The room descended into anarchy as the Optimates ejected the Populares and their Tribune from the senate floor and
ran him out of the city scrambling for his life.
Hastelloy cringed at the propaganda a skilled orator like Caesar would be able to make of senators attacking a Tribune for the first time in the
Republic’s history. He caught up with the instigator of the violence to have a heart to heart.
“Pompey
, my friend, that was not prudent,” Hastelloy began. “Caesar will use today’s violence to rally support from his men to cross the Rubicon River and march on the city.”
“Oh let him come,” Pompey arrogantly replied. “All I need do is stamp my foot on the soil of Italy to raise
ten times the legions Caesar commands.”
Hastelloy looked doubtful.
“I am sure you can raise the men, but remember the veterans loyal to you are retired and have grown fat and old on the lands you gave them. Caesar’s legions have spent the last five years conquering Gaul. They are loyal, they are experienced, and one of them may very well fight like ten of yours.”
Tonwen felt the
muscles around his eyes relax ever so slightly as his camel mount headed up yet another sand dune. Hours spent riding with the bright sun reflecting off the mirror like surface of the golden sand had his face pinched so tightly he feared it might be permanently stuck impersonating a prune.
Once upon a time his eyes were accustomed to the brightness, but several lifetimes spent away in Greece and Rome left him vulnerable once more. He would have given anything for a pair of shaded glasses for his eyes; but alas, the technology to manufacture tinted glass was a long way off. The other aspect of the desert Tonwen somehow managed to forget about was the heat, oh gods how he had forgotten about the heat. Thankfully though, this leg of his journey was coming to an end.
The caravan of twenty camels crested the last sand dune and before them laid an endless sea of green vegetation with water filled irrigation ditches weaving throughout the landscape. Tonwen’s eye muscles finally relaxed as the green vegetation greedily absorbed the sun’s rays, rather than reflecting them with blinding effect like the sand. Off in the distance behind the farm field, Tonwen could see the tops of three gigantic stone pyramids that stood three miles away near the shores of the Nile River. He was home, at least what he considered home on this planet.
Tonwen prompted his honor guard forward into the lush valley. It was customary for the Lazarus crew to approach their little town in the desert alone, but this time he needed some hired muscle to keep any would be bandits at bay. Not so much on the way to the village, since he carried nothing of value. The protection was for guarding the valuables he would transport out of the village.
Dotted among the farm fields were dozens of laborers with teams of donkeys and horses aiding their tasks. A woman and child working a hundred feet away were the first to notice the caravan’s arrival. The woman tried to identify the travelers to no avail as the only exposed skin on the riders was their eyes. Tonwen reached into a pouch slung over his left side and pulled out a cylinder about three inches long and one inch in diameter with a thin stick fastened to it. Extending down from the bottom of the cylinder was a tiny metal wire.
Tonwen reached into the pouch with his other hand
and pulled out a tiny glass vial separated into two chambers. He held the tiny vial between his thumb and index finger, brought it next to the thin metal wire, and then crushed the glass between his fingers resulting in a bright spark which caught the metal wire on fire. The bright flame made its way up to the cylinder and then the strange object launched out of his hands up into the sky. The projectile reached an altitude of a hundred feet and then exploded with a deafening bang and shower of sparkling, crackling purple, red, and gold. Recognition flashed in the woman’s eyes and a bright, broad smile soon followed.
As the caravan made its way down the main dirt road toward the village center, cheers and friendly waves were received from every field worker they passed. Young children ran up from out of the foliage giggling and dancing around the riders as they progressed toward the village center. Tonwen took note of how the place had grown over the centuries. What started out as six small buildings clustered around a central camp fire was now a sprawling town.
There were butcher and blacksmith shops, livery stables, multiple wells, and most prominently, a central gathering hall. Ringing the perimeter of the town were dozens of grain silos, and a ten foot high wooden wall. The defenses were enough to make an attacker think twice, but not so stout as to make anyone think something of value was protected within.
A crowd of several hundred adults gathered in front of the central hall. When Tonwen brought his camel to a stop, the rejoicing children scattered into the sea of adults and clung to the legs of those who raised them. A broad man with dark amber skin and black hair stepped forward.
“Welcome home master,” the Chieftain exclaimed. “It’s been far too long.”
It took Tonwen a moment to process the meaning of the words as they were spoken in the local Coptic language rather than the Latin or Greek he was accustomed to hearing in Rome. Finally comprehension hit home and he responded in the same tongue.
“Chieftain Badari, it has indeed,” Tonwen said as he dismounted his camel. “I see things have been kept well in hand during our prolonged absence.”
Badari’s
face lit up with pride upon mention of the town’s prosperity. “We flourish as a result of the markets you open for our grain abroad. Come. Inspect the contents of the vault; you will be pleased.”
Tonwen leaned in so his words would only fall on those of the chieftain. “The ones I travel with are decent men, but let us not tempt their good nature by displaying the riches of this town too boastfully, lest we find them motivated to return
and partake in your prosperity.”
“Understood,”
Badari quietly responded with his exuberance melting away to melancholy. He then stepped back and hollered for all to hear. “The master has returned to inspect his holdings. Let us show him we do not spend our time on his lands standing around; back to your labors.”
While the large crowd dissolved away into the fields again, Tonwen instructed his travel companions to secure two donkeys and a cart to transport some goods and materials back to the coast. Tonwen then put a friendly arm around the chieftain and headed toward a dingy, unassuming outhouse attached to the central hall. “Now, let us see that vault of ours.”
The two men opened the off kilter door and stepped into the four foot by four foot structure. A bench along the back wall had two backside sized holes that any unknowing outsider would assume served the unseemly duty of the building. Together, the two men removed the cover off the bench to reveal a narrow ladder leading to a chamber below.
Badari
descended the ladder first and lit a torch once he reached bottom. Tonwen followed and found a solid iron wall at the bottom. Other than the faint outlines of a five foot tall, three foot wide door, the only blemish to the metallic surface was a one inch diameter hole.
The chieftain pulled a necklace out from under his tunic, which carried a cylindrical artifact. The small object had doze
ns of square sections around its perimeter that looked like they would be mobile under the right conditions. Badari inserted the object into the hole and a series of soft clicks followed and the door slowly creaked open to reveal a twelve foot by twelve foot room encased in solid iron. The chamber shined bright as the desert sun as the torch light bounced off the seemingly endless piles of gold coins.
“Times have certainly been good for you these past few years,” Tonwen admired.
“Good to you,” Badari corrected. “This all belongs to you and your family.”
“Good to us,” Tonwen compromised.
The chieftain just smiled and handed the key over to his master. “I will leave you to your riches while I see to the preparations of your travel companions.”
Tonwen closed the vault door behind his man and immediately got to work. He relocated a dozen overflowing bags of gold away from the far right corner. He then placed his right hand flat against the corner and held it here until his patience was rewarded with an echoing click.
He pulled his hand away from the corner and as if magnetically tied to the movement of his hand, a three foot section of the iron floor opened up to reveal a pitch black hole with ladder rungs built into the side leading to the Nexus chamber.
Tonwen smiled to himself knowing the Nexus chamber was still completely and thoroughly protected. First of all, to the outside world this town had nothing of value so it drew little interest. Second, only the chieftain had a key to the vault. Third, even
if an attacker discovered the vault and forced the chieftain to open it, they would take the gold and assume it contained nothing else of value. Even if a robber managed to discover the tunnel, they would never be able to open the Nexus chamber at the end of the three mile tunnel inside the body of the Sphinx. The twenty million lives the Nexus housed were safe and sound.
Two hours later, Tonwen emerged from the outhouse carrying a crate full of ten clay jars,
a small bag of coins, and a burlap cloth wrapped around his right hand. He headed to the donkey pulled cart and gently placed the crate among a pile of hay and soft pillows and blankets to ensure the clay jars would not break on their cross desert journey.
He then tossed the light bag of coins to the leader of his caravan. “This operation is not working out as I had hoped just yet. This will serve as partial payment for your men, but I will have to visit my factor when we return to Alexandria to pay the rest of their wages. Ready the men, we will leave once I have adequately chastised the town’s people.”
Tonwen then entered the central hall where he saw Chieftain Badari and three men who looked quite ill. He palmed the key back to the chieftain as he asked, “What ails these men?”
“Cyrus cut his leg last harvest and has carried a fever ever since. Denay and Rasmus both suffer i
ncurable pains in their stomach,” Badari instructed. “We would be most grateful if you could see if there is anything you can do to improve their suffering.”
Tonwen pressed an unseen button
on his burlap wrapped hand. The microscopic receiver he implanted in his right eye came to life, displaying a bar chart readout that was superimposed over his usual eyesight. He proceeded to run his right hand up and down Cyrus’ leg. The scan showed a deep staff infection along with the beginning stages of gangrene. Without assistance the patient would certainly lose his leg, and most likely his life. Tonwen blinked his eye lid to progress the list of treatment options until he selected the appropriate one. The tiny handheld medical device in his hand inoculated the infection and regenerated the flesh where the wound once lingered. Cyrus stood up and bounded out of the hall a fully healed man.
Tonwen moved onto the next patient and swung his right hand over his stomach. The diagnosis was appendicitis. Again, Tonwen blinked through the options until the
inflamed tail to the intestinal track was cut off and harmlessly dissolved into the man’s body. He too bounded out of the hall with a new lease on life.
The third patient suffered from a bowel obstruction. A few blinks latter the only thing
ailing the man was a soiled pair of pants. He scooted out the front door in search of new clothes leaving Tonwen alone with Chieftain Badari.
“The healing touch your family possesses is truly a wonder,” the
man admired.
“The real wonder is that the vault contains any gold at all, let alone the copious amounts stored within,” Tonwen responded.
“Money cannot buy good health and the genuine happiness of a thriving community. Your family has provided these luxuries to use for generations. We are your honorable servants until the end of days,” Badari pledged.
“Until we meet again my friend,” Tonwen said as he grasped the man’s hand and then headed out the front door without another word.
The caravan leader helped Tonwen onto his camel and then pulled alongside with his own mount as they left the town behind. “It’s not my place, but if it were me I’d flog that chieftain as an example to the others to be more loyal and productive. This farming village of yours should be producing more income than the tiny bag of gold you handed me as payment earlier.”
“Oh I showed them in my own way what
inadequate service to me brings them,” Tonwen responded. His pilgrimage lay ahead of him, but Tonwen couldn’t resist the urge to glance back one more time at his home.