The Cydonia Objective (Morpheus Initiative 03) (37 page)

"If you can't see them, then it might mean something else is acting in their vicinity. Something that's clouding your sight."

Phoebe blinked, then glanced over Temple's shoulder, to the side area where Aria sat talking to Diana.

"Something," Phoebe said, focusing on the NASA scientist, "that might be powerful enough to keep them hidden—and maybe even safe."

#

Orlando knocked, softly
at first, then a little louder. Shrugged, then pushed his way inside. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then… a squeaking, and the great bulk that was the Dove turned in his massive ergonomic chair.

"Ah, so it's to be babysitting duty, is it?"

"Uh," Orlando stammered. "That colonel guy said I'm supposed to help out here."

The Dove let out a belch. His eyes, serious and dark, focused on Orlando for an uncomfortable moment. Then he brushed crumbs off his bulging gut, grinned and pointed to a plain-looking metal chair in the corner. "Pull up a seat, amigo. Let's see what we can see."

Orlando nodded, wrinkling his nose at the smell of Cheezits, and stepped over a collection of Hostess Twinkie wrappers. "Okay, so it must be the maid's day off?"

"Cute."  The Dove clicked some buttons on the arm of his chair and the giant screen on the far wall flickered to life. And The Face came into focus, stopping Orlando in his tracks. "Never seen it that big, have you?"

"Or in that much detail. I thought we didn't have these kind of images. And the last one was all kinds of fuzzy. Looked like crap."

"Exactly like some weather-eroded three hundred million year old mountain would expect to look, right?"

Orlando nodded. He reached the chair and started dragging it back as The Dove clicked and moved a joystick, and the image zoomed in on the Face's left eye. "Of course they don't show you the good stuff, the stuff they can't understand. Everything else—everything released out to the world and to Google—all clever manipulations. Like you've probably heard from now, certain people in certain positions have known for years that something was out there long ago. Something that apparently hasn't stuck around."

"Or else it got blown up long ago."

The Dove's huge head nodded. Beads of sweat cascaded down his cheeks like he'd just come in out of a rainstorm. "That's the thought, except we all know that just like when you try to wipe out a bees' nest, you never get them all. Some are out gathering stuff or just buzzing around, and they're the ones that then go into hiding, waiting out the eons."

Orlando sat down and looked at his empty hands, then glanced around the room. "Got a spare Tablet?"

"Nope."

"Pad of paper?"

"Negative."

"Napkin and crayons?"

Another shake of the massive head. "Just take a deep breath, focus on the eye there, and go to work."

Orlando sighed. "So it's going to be that kind of day. Demoted to the Dark Ages."  He crossed his arms, lowered his head and tried not to breathe through his nose. One last peek at the rounded dark cavity on the screen, and then he closed his eyes.

And...

Nothing.

 Sighing, he kept focusing, thinking about Mars, about all that red stone, about the dust, and the winds. But something kept interfering. At first he expected the blue screen, even felt it converging a few times as his mind's eye attempted to descend into the Face's eye. Then he'd pull back and try another angle, another route. He tried focusing on recent lunar missions.
The Martian Pathfinder, the Rover. The probes...

All that technology, he zeroed in on each one in turn, but in turn he was shot down by the screen of blue.

"Not doing so hot, are you?" Came the Dove's voice. Orlando ignored him. Kept focusing, but the Dove's heavy breathing and raspy, almost snore-like breaths were breaking his focus.

"Trying, but can't get in through the eye. Are you sure-?"

"Keep at it, amigo."  A raspy snort. "I assure you, something wicked-cool is down there. It'll blow your mind."

A few more minutes, then…  Finally, Orlando shook his head. He was about to open his eyes when another particularly obnoxious grunt from the Dove sent Orlando's thoughts on a tangent.

His mind reached out tangentially to the sound, locked onto the Dove for a second and was sent spiraling off in a new direction, and all Orlando could do was hang on for dear life.

#

Flying around Mt.
Shasta, the snow-capped peaks, the dizzying precipices and sharp cliffs. Day turns to night, stars burn fiercely in the black night, then spin as the point of view circles the mountain, faster and faster.

Then: angelic lights sparkle below, snapshotting shadows past the icy ridges. Orbs that start off as golden spheres, then transform through the color chart, turning silver, crimson, turquoise, violet... The spinning stops and the lights flicker, then form a line and blast through the mountain wall, all except the last one, the violet-shimmering globe that sweeps past and collects the vision-

- and draws it inside, then propels forward. Straight at, and through the ice-blocked mountain wall.

A brief shimmer of Blue, a protective shield that closes, then scatters in the wake of the violet ball.

And Orlando's in.

He's done it: found a back way inside, past the great unbreakable door, to the very heart of the mystery.

#

The Dove licked
the vanilla icing off his fingers, then turned to regard his guest. Orlando's head lolled to one side, his body slumped almost to the point of falling off the chair. His eyelids flickered rapidly.

Wiping his hands on the front of his shirt, then on his pant legs, The Dove reached down under the right armrest. His fingers moved around, searching, searching. All the while, his attention didn't leave Orlando.

Under the chair's arm, he finally found it—a section of duct tape securing a .357 Magnum.

#

Inside the mountain.

The viewpoint magnifies, roars through crystalline tunnels. Gleaming walls of quartz and topaz, pillars of emerald, into a vast a chamber where the other colored orbs settle into alcoves, sparkle, fizzle, then fade into the surrounding shadows, revealing singular
riders
—robed, bald men and women who, heads bowed, retreat into tunnel-like structures.

Viewpoint shifts.

This orb's parking space. After the light fades, a robed man (or woman?) exits. His/her bald head from behind is indeterminate, and the shadowy quartz walls do little to illuminate any features.

Follow.

In darkness, a long corridor, finally emerging into a chamber, plain walled…

Empty, but for a single machine. A reclining seat not unlike the one Orlando has just left, except more elaborate. More… comfortable. It's on a track, a track leading forward into another glittering tunnel.

The figure moves to a wall, touches it and presses her (it's definitely a her) forehead against the smooth quartz surface. As if activated by her mind, an image appears. It's the Stargate complex interior. Phoebe and Temple are talking quietly in the main room.

Viewpoint changes: back to that lone chair. Moving in, closer.

Closer

Something out of place.

Something… left on the floor.

A piece of crumpled plastic. Lettering on the outside.

A wrapper.

With an unmistakable imprint.

#

"Twinkies!" Orlando shouted,
his eyes flying open.

He leapt out of the chair—then froze, staring at the hefty gun gripped in the Dove's unwavering hand, and pointed right at his heart.

The huge head shook slowly back and forth as beads of sweat fell unnoticed off the chin. The Dove made a clucking sound with his tongue.

"They said you were good, so I didn't really have any choice."

"You're working with them?" Orlando was still trying to process everything. "They've taken you beyond the wall."

"What can I say?  Apparently I'm the chosen one."

"Or the fool."  Orlando cleared his throat while inching ahead. "Or maybe the
tool
is more like it. What do they want you for?"

The head continued to shake. "Uh-huh. No, don't think I'll blab about it, not while others could snoop. Sorry, but you'll die without answers."

Orlando lunged just as the gun fired.

3.

Grand Princess Cruise Liner

"Room 2311," Nina whispered, looking up from the terminal. They were in the business office, and Caleb stood by the door, nodding to passing guests, keeping an eye out for security—or suspicious parties.

"You sure?" he called back.

"Sure. Easy to hack into their reservation system. A lot of unsold rooms, bad economy and all, but this one's the most out of the way, yet convenient to stairwells for an easy getaway."

Caleb looked back and met her stone-cold eyes. "If there's an abundance of rooms, we can each get one."  He smiled. "On different floors."

Nina smiled back, a catlike grin. She picked up a card, swiped it on a nearby imprinter and held it up. "Sorry, darling. Only one key. And we've got to keep up appearances."  In a flash she was up, slipping her arm in his and leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Bring me back to our honeymoon suite, darling."

Caleb rolled his eyes. "Honeymoon?  Seriously?"  His free hand tapped the object strapped to his ribs. "I've got the most powerful object, potentially, in the world under my shirt, and you want to–"

"I want to live," Nina whispered. "Long enough for us to use that thing and save the damn world."  She tugged him toward the elevators. "Now, let's move."

#

In their suite,
spacious as far as cruise accommodations went, Nina sprawled out on the bed, kicked off her shoes and pulled up a map on her smartphone.

"Okay, the next stop is at Juneau. We can charter a plane from there and–"

"No more planes," Caleb said, groaning. He was at the desk, bent over the spear point. Two lamps trained their lights on its surface, and Caleb reverently lifted it, one side up at a time, studying the markings. Every nick and scratch, every line of etched markings.