The Cydonia Objective (Morpheus Initiative 03) (13 page)

"I'm not helping you do anything."  Orlando forced his mouth to work. "You've got no leverage. Can't threaten my elderly relatives to make me comply, so why don't you just suck it, dickhead?"

In the flickering dark, the jeweled eye patch glinted and the lone eye narrowed into a feline slit that regarded him like a helpless, wounded mole. "I know you, Orlando Natch. I've spied you ever since your plane approached. Saw who you are, what you are."  His smile broadened and sickly yellow and brown teeth emerged from cracked lips. Orlando winced against the smell.

"Shouldn't go snooping, you know."

"Shut up and move, Mr. Natch. You'll help, or when I find your precious girlfriend, and I will find her, I'll make you wish you had."

Orlando winced as something prodded his ribs, and then he stumbled forward, lurching to remain in balance. For a fleeting second he thought he could make a break for it, but then he was shoved ahead, flanked by four other foul-smelling soldiers, and marched toward the Hummingbird.

#

Her real name
was Aria. And her father—Brian Greenmeyer, formerly of St. Louis, except for the past fifteen years ostensibly trying to spread the Word of God to the impoverished Afghan villagers—was in fact a deep-cover CIA agent. So deep he even fell in love, married and fathered a girl of exceptional talents. And found himself devoted to a people whose peaceful and practical existence in the face of such harsh conditions had led him to be the perfect agent. He still gave out the occasional report on Taliban and Al Qaeda activities, and ran courier information and gathered what intelligence he could from unsavory types that nonetheless trusted him, but his foremost mission in the past seven years had been to protect his daughter. To protect Aria.

Protect her from both the radical Muslims who would either kill her or use her for their own protection, and from the U.S. government. Brian knew about the history of the military's involvement with psychics, and how they had often been treated as strategic assets, not as people.

He wouldn't let that happen to her. But his options had run out. He had contacted Commander Temple, his old friend, weeks ago, after he had learned that the Eye was closing in on them in Kabul. Told Temple they were going into hiding—but for how long?

And now, his legs were broken and useless. Barely given enough food and water to stay conscious. He could scarcely think, and every minute he was awake, he could only writhe in agony in his chains, unable even to reach the cage where they'd imprisoned Aria.

The Hummingbird.

He smiled. The name fit. Some of her friends back in Kabul called her that because she liked to dart around, flapping her arms, and seemed to move faster than any kid should. Brian met her big blue eyes and he couldn't help but smile, even as his heart cracked inside.

"I'm sorry, honey. I know I said I'd protect you."

"Don't worry, father. You did it. Brought the good guys here. They're coming for me."

Good guys? 
He shrugged. "Not so sure about that, baby, but I do think they're better than who's got us now."

"They are. And they've brought others with them. Two people, like me. They'll help me, you'll see. But first, it's time."  She brought her hands up, two fingers outstretched on each, and pressed them to her temples under the tangled strands of auburn.

"Time?"

"To leave the Eye without his protection. Time to drop the shield."

"But-"

"It's so she can find me. Get ready, father."

He pulled himself up to his elbows, wincing in agony, gasping. Turned his body so he could drag himself to the wall of this tiny cul-de-sac. He glanced around the room, his mind clearing suddenly with a rush of adrenalin. He saw the oil lamp. A bunch of old rags. The water jug and bowl for their toilets. And his boots, there in the corner. Long laces still on them.

Perhaps he could rig a trap, trip the guards on their return, break the lamp and set one on fire, but then-

He was still useless to move, would never make it out, much less crawl to Aria's cage to free her. But if someone else was coming, someone who could help…

"Sit tight, honey. Just try to see. Tell me who's coming first. Everything you can see, every detail."

The Hummingbird nodded rapidly as her fingers grasped the bars of her cage. And she closed her eyes and smiled.

"The Eye… he's almost here…"

#

"Open your eyes,"
the old man whispered. Which Phoebe thought was odd, since her eyes were already open. But she tried to obey him anyway. It seemed the right thing to do, the friendly thing for one who had just saved her life.

Her eyes opened, and she had the sudden impression that everything before this instant had been a dream, one that would quickly fade.

One second Phoebe had the impression of standing in thin air, over the precipice looking down at the fabled city below her dangling feet and thinking:
this can't be real;
and the next, she was floating in space over a cratered lunar surface. The cold vastness of the void at her back, winking stars in all directions. Below...

Striated lines, deep gouges in the pock-marked gray-blue surface. A deep impact crater so deep it seemed it must reach the center and punch through.

Phobos
, said the old man's voice in her head.

And the moon turned, revolved as if in a sped-up move-frame, and a bright red glow filled her eyes, and she turned and caught her breath, dazzled at the immense, seething crimson planet looming into view. And below, directly below her feet now, lined up with the Phobos crater…

A familiar section of the planet, just north of the equator. Her mind's eye expanded and the view enlarged and there, looking back at her—

The Face.

And more… emerging from the red sands…  Enormous hands, a chest thrust outward. Two legs, the toes of massive feet. An entire statue shaking free of its dusty prison. The head was tilted back so the face was thrust toward the heavens, the eyes looking up. One arm was at its side, the other reaching, reaching… up… to her…

And then the stars rushed by, filled her view and she hurtled through space, across the millions of miles to another glowing rock, familiar sphere. The Moon's lunar surface suspended over the green, blue and white hues of Earth.

See,
came a command from somewhere close. Her consciousness rushed over the bright cratered surface, over to the wall of darkness, to the opposite side, the shrouded hemispheres, toward a crater with a flashing light, a strobe of some kind.

A beacon.

See…

And then a flash of
blue
, and everything faded.

A hand on her forehead, gently pushing her back. Back. Her feet moving on her own.

Her eyes blinking furiously, each involuntary motion elicited a vision and formed a montage. The tomb in Belize. The fall, the wheelchair… The laboratory and the unraveled Herculaneum scrolls… the vault door under the Pharos opening at her command… running on the hill with Alexander, her legs healed…  the descent into the Khan's mausoleum… reaching for Orlando, kissing his lips for the first time…

And then…

A frozen wilderness guarded by enormous ice-capped mountains, with a dazzling aurora overhead.

"You have a great destiny ahead of you, Phoebe Crowe. Much work to do, much sacrifice, but equal joy."  The pressure released from her forehead.

"But-"

"Go now."

Phoebe blinked. "Wait!"  She stood in an alcove with three exits—and what looked so out of place she didn't realize what it was at first—a door. A plain white door with a brass handle. The city was gone, the chasm, the hollowed-out valley. If it ever existed. "Was it real? Shamballa?  What you showed me?"

The man, backing away toward the shadows in the central exiting tunnel, merely smiled. "I showed you nothing. I only freed your mind for a minute, long enough for your questions to seek some answers. You saw what you needed to see."

"But who are you?  Can't you help us?"

He sadly shook his head. "On the contrary, it is you who must help us. You who are still blissfully ignorant, only you can end our suffering."

"What suffering?"

"Existence without amnesia."

"Huh?"

"Go now, that door will save your friends. It is all I can do. Go, and remember this one thing. The
Custodians
are not what they seem."

Phoebe approached the door. Pulled the old ornate brass handle, glancing behind as she did so. The old man was gone, and she stood in an enclosed cavern, her light dancing across the low-hanging ceiling formations, the rugged walls and rocky floor. One exit at the back.

Suddenly the door flew open, releasing a flood of rocks and debris. And then she heard scrambling. Muffled voices. She shined her flashlight through the door and saw arms and legs, a head. A man pushing through the cave-in.

Temple coughed up a mouthful of sandstone. Staring at the surrounding cavern, weakly shining his flashlight in the direction of the exit. "Just in time. How did you find us?"

"Not now," Phoebe said. "Get your men out, and come find me."

Temple started frantically digging. "Did you see-?"

Phoebe's eyes blinked and her focus shifted. "I can see her. The Hummingbird. She's released her shield. I have to go. Now."  And then she was off, leaving the commander to double his efforts and free his men, hoping she knew what she was doing.

#

Orlando moved on
ahead, feeling like a human shield. Wrists tied behind his back, he found it harder to walk the rough stones and navigate the dark caverns than he had imagined, especially without using his hands for balance. And the lights from his back were jolting, shifting back and forth, bouncing off the walls, then disappearing, making him feel like he was suffering a seizure, with light and dark spots alternating in his brain. The air was stifling, the oxygen thinning.

Video games never captured this part of dungeon trekking,
he thought, coughing and choking on dust that seemed to just resettle in his lungs and esophagus. Something jabbed him in the lower back and he stumbled ahead.

He glanced back into the jumble of lights, the two turban-headed fighters directly behind him, and at the rear—the taller one with the patch. Gathering his balance and his courage, Orlando tried to smile. "So, are we there yet?"

"Shut up," the Eye snapped. "It's just around the corner. Farrakh, you go first."

A hand pulled Orlando back, slowed him down, and then the other man squeezed past. He turned the corner, descended a small, slick trail, and then Orlando could see a light ahead. A dim glow from an opening, a wider aperture. But then the man's back was in the way.

Orlando closed his eyes for a second and willed a glimpse of the next chamber. And it came at once:

A cage, like for a dog. Metal bars, a bowl in the corner. But it was empty. The door open. Farrakh rushes in, shouting and slips on something slick coating the floor…

He opened his eyes and was about to call out, but instead, he dug in his feet and stopped moving forward. Someone crunched into him and drove him into the wall with a curse, but then the fighter kept running by. There was a shout, a slick, wet sound and a grunt.