The Dark Rift: The Supernatural Grail Quest Zombie Apocalypse (The Last Artifact Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea.

“This is Galaxy Network News,
the most trusted news network in the world. Spain is reeling this morning after a string of seventeen car bombs ravage Bilbao, Barcelona, Madrid and Zaragoza. Hundreds are dead, and many more injured. As well, violent riots spreading throughout the Muslim communities of the United States and Europe. Is the war spreading into our homes? Stayed tuned for a special GNN report:
The Fist of Islam. Christendom is Burning.”

Dr. Bennington looked at the monitor mounted on the cabin wall. He was in a private jet en route to Israel, being taken there against his will. He was an older man; lean, clean-shaven, and almost entirely bald. He wore rimless spectacles and a light beige suit with a golden cravat. His demeanor was exceedingly gentle, and consistently calm, even in his current situation.

Three hours earlier he had arrived at Christian’s hotel only to be stuffed into a limousine and driven to a private airfield. Under the care of three armed security guards, Bennington had then been escorted onto Christian’s private jet, and made to wait there for an hour. No sooner had Christian arrived than the jet had taken off. As it was, Christian had disappeared into the plane’s cockpit, leaving Dr. Bennington alone in the luxurious cabin. He could not believe what he was seeing on television.

“Well, Steve,” said the expert being interviewed, “this kind of fighting is nothing new. Taking shelter in populated urban sectors allows the terrorists to use civilians as shields. For the most part, these Muslim communities are made up of wonderful, peace loving people, but like any other community of any other faith, they’ve got some bad apples in the bunch, and it’s these guys who have banded together to fight this war.”

“This war you are referring to, Mr. Peterson. Who exactly are the fundamentalists waging it against?”

“Against whoever opposes them, Steve.”

“Now isn’t that the most lovely circus you’ve ever seen, Doctor?” said Christian, returning from the cockpit.

He muted the monitor and threw himself onto a leather sofa across from where Bennington sat, reaching lazily for his glass of wine. Much to Christian’s relief, his father’s whispers had subsided after the last appearance of the Zurvanites, and he was enjoying the reprieve tremendously.

“There is nothing lovely about war and chaos, Christian,” said Dr. Bennington.

“They are a means to an end,” said Christian offhand. “The lovely thing I was referring to is the instability.”

“I do not understand.”

“Can’t you see that we’re all in great danger?” asked Christian sarcastically. “The terrorists are very terrifying, and the population needs the government to protect them.
The Enforcer of Laws
has become the new hero. He will protect us, but we have to do exactly what he tells us to do. This is war after all.”

“And what will we be told to do, Christian?”

“We will be told to comply, Doctor. The masses will soon surrender the majority of their civil rights.”

Christian lit a cigarette and returned his attention to the television. They were showing footage of a Muslim uprising taking place in Washington D.C..

“It’s all just propaganda,” said Christian, yawning. “It’s nowhere near as big as it looks. “The Muslims are as docile as lambs.”

“And how can you be so sure this is just propaganda, Christian?”

Christian gave a dry chuckle.

“Because my organization is producing these stories. We own the mainstream media, Doctor. We decide how people perceive things.”

“How can you possibly expect me to believe that?”

Christian rolled his eyes.

“I hope you’re not one of those people who refuses to believe in conspiracy theories.”

Bennington held his gaze but remained silent.

“Well, it’s time you revisited your opinions and considered the validity of at least one of them.”

“And which one might that be?” asked the doctor.

“Do you know the one about the group of cigar smoking men in the dark boardroom who are secretly
running the world?”

“Yes,” said Bennington. “That theory is familiar to me.”

“Well, the theory is true, Doctor, with the exception that all the men in that room only answer to one man, and I don’t smoke cigars, I smoke cigarettes.”

Christian took a long draw from his cigarette and smiled with self-satisfaction. Bennington shifted in his seat, crossing his legs. He had garnered very little from Christian up to this point, and he wanted nothing more than to keep his patient talking. Christian was showing every sign of megalomania, and Bennington’s professional instincts could sense tremendous turmoil behind the confident facade.

“Christian, you must forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that you are the leader of a shadow government that is secretly directing every nation in the world.”

“I direct most of them, Doctor, but not all of them. Not yet.  With regards to your doubt, consider that we’re the only civilians flying over European airspace right now.”

“I am aware that there have been restrictions made on flights,” said the doctor. “But I am also aware that given your new position, you must have certain privileges.”

“Yes, Doctor, I do,” said Christian, gesturing toward the window. “Perhaps these privileges would explain our military escort.”

Bennington rose from his seat, sliding up the blind as he bent forward. There, not fifty feet from their plane, and staggered in perfect formation, were three RAF fighter jets.

“Are you beginning to understand, Doctor?” said Christian, enjoying his new companion tremendously. “There are another three on our starboard side as well.”

“Understanding would imply knowing, Christian,” said Bennington, returning to his seat, “and I’m sure I know very little.”

“Not to worry, Doctor, because I’m going to tell you everything. I feel like I have found a very good friend in you.”

“Friends do not force their friends to accompany them to Israel by taking their wife hostage.”

Christian sat up suddenly, an anger alighting in him.

“Your wife is staying in a three-thousand-euro-a-night suite in the Paris Ritz. You would think that would be good enough for anyone. Perhaps you might show some gratitude, Doctor. I am your patient. I am in need of your services.”

“You threatened to kill her, Christian.”

“Nobody’s going to kill anybody if you do your job.”

“And what might that be?” asked Bennington. “Altering your doses to prevent hallucinations? That will not be sufficient to treat what ails you, Christian. You must talk to me. You must tell me what is wrong.”

Christian rose from the sofa and moved to the bar to refill his glass. He lit a cigarette and focused his eyes on the doctor.

“Strange things have been happening… Unnatural things.”

“Perhaps you could be more specific?”

Christian continued to stare intently at the doctor.

“I was tricked into making a pact with the devil,” he said. “I savagely murdered the man responsible. I also murdered my uncle. After I did all this, four demons appeared to me and told me that I was the son of Lucifer, destined to rule the world, but that’s not the worst of it.”

Bennington nodded slowly. It was important that Christian did not feel judged.

“What is the worst of it, then?”

Christian took a heavy draw from his cigarette and then placed it carefully in the ashtray. He took a sip of wine.

“The worst of it, Doctor, is that I believe them.”

Toledo, Spain.

An ancient hand emerged
from the shadows, unlatching the heavy gate and pushing it outward towards them.

“This is the place,” whispered Natasha into Gabriel’s ear.

She motioned towards the battered sign that hung above them.

La Bodega Del Pi

Gabriel studied the pale hand and saw that it belonged to an old woman.

“Buenos dias, Señora,”
he said. “I am Gabriel; Agardi Metrovich’s son.”

  “Indeed, you are,” came the old woman’s voice. “And an angel of hope you are as well. Come in, my child. I have been expecting you.”

Gabriel shot a puzzled glance at Natasha and entered first. Everything was draped in shadow, but the darkness was soon vanquished when a shutter squeaked open to his left. In the dusty light of the window he could see an ancient woman dressed as a gypsy might be. Her silver hair was covered in a crimson shawl, and her eyes were big and green, shimmering with mystical power.

“Come in, come in,” she said in her thick accent. “You too, Natasha. Come in. You are even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Natasha smiled politely and entered timidly, looking around her as she did so. They were in a small tavern, its walls and ceiling comprised of ancient stone masonry. Centred under a massive arch was a dark wooden bar, behind which sat dozens of open wine bottles, lined up on oaken shelves, with their corks stopped into their necks. There was a large roast on the bar, covered in a glass dome. The old woman took up a knife that was lying next to it and used it to point out two stools. Gabriel and Natasha obeyed her silent order and sat themselves down.

“You have driven a great distance,” divined the old gypsy woman, turning to face an antique espresso machine, “and at great speeds, I might add.”

She worked the machine, the smell of coffee filling the air.

“There is confusion in your minds, and your bellies are empty. This combination is not conducive to learning. I will make you breakfast.”

The old woman sliced some of the peppery pork roast and stuffed the meat into crusty rolls, pressing them in an old panini grill. She watched in silence as Gabriel and Natasha ate, speaking only when Gabriel had finished the last dram of his latte. He nodded to her in thanks.

“I sense that your father has crossed over,” said the gypsy soberly.

“Yes he has,” said Gabriel, looking down into his empty glass and turning it pensively. “He died earlier this month in a plane crash.”

“Only his body is dead, my child,” said the gypsy woman tenderly. “Now if you please. Come with me.”

They followed her to a wrought iron staircase in the corner. It spiraled up into the stone ceiling and down into the wooden floor. As the old woman approached it, she came to a stop, her ancient hand clasping and unclasping the handrail as she thought.

“My husband’s body is also dead,” she said, studying the stone wall before her. “His name was Yuri Blavatsky, and he was a procurer of ancient texts and writings. For fifty-nine years he assisted your father in his research, Gabriel. Many were the secrets that they unearthed together; secrets of wisdom and power.”

Gabriel looked over at Natasha, feeling the same curiosity he saw in her eyes. What secrets was the old gypsy referring to? Why had the Professor seemed so urgent in his note? Why had he never told Gabriel about Yuri Blavatsky?

The air was becoming increasingly cold and damp as they descended the stairs. They arrived at an old wine cellar and were soon surrounded by rack upon rack of vintage bottles, each one blanketed in thick cobwebs, and caked in dust.

“Toledo is an old woman,” said their guide over her shoulder, lighting a battered lantern as she spoke, “but as you will soon see, her womb still bears fruit.”

They had descended well into the depths of the cellar when they came upon a heavy, time-blackened rack, laden with bottles. It was built against a wall of living stone.

The old woman hung her lantern on a nearby hook and reached slowly into one of the racks, pulling on a lever hidden within it. In an instant the sound of scrapping stone gave way to a mechanical rumble of gears and counter weights. The massive rack slid aside.

“For reasons of secrecy,” she said, retrieving the lantern from where she had hung it, “no electricity has ever been installed in this room. Follow me.”

She led them through a low tunnel that opened into a perfectly rounded chamber, about thirty feet in diameter. In the darkness they could make out a few cluttered shapes, but it was not until the old woman had lit a large candelabra that they could truly see the wonders the room had to offer.

Circling the entire chamber was an unbroken line of shoulder high oaken shelves, crammed with ancient books, codices, scrolls of papyrus and vellum, and treasures of every kind. Covering its stone floor were luxurious Persian rugs, on which could be seen several leather wingchairs, and sturdy desks laden with still more books and scrolls. The room looked to be a library of sorts, but it was the stone ceiling that gave the chamber its unique character. Masterfully built, it formed a perfect semi-spherical dome above them.

“This is
The Chamber of the Sphere
,” said the old gypsy. “It was built by Toledo’s first Caliph. Here we have stored our great treasures.”

Natasha swallowed slowly and followed Gabriel into the space, her eyes wide.

“What is that?” she whispered, pointing to a strange spherical apparatus that lay glimmering at the centre of the room.

Gabriel turned to look, and saw that the device was mounted on a low wooden pedestal. Its diameter was about the size of a beach ball.

“From here it looks like some kind of optical instrument,” he said, squinting through the dim light. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

He made his way slowly forward, his eyes never leaving the strange form. Even in the half light, it shone in all the spectral colours of a prism, reflecting and magnifying the rays from the old woman’s candelabra into a million sparkling points of refracted light. He drew up to the sphere, circling it. 

“It is beautiful,” whispered Natasha, approaching behind him. “Look at how it shimmers.”

“Hand ground salt crystal lenses,” whispered Gabriel, amazed. “Hundreds of them. And just look at the work in this brass armature. By the looks of these linkages, I’d guess that the position of each lens could be calibrated to within a thousandth of an inch.”

He looked over at Natasha and then back to the sphere, his eyes straining to take in as much information as possible.

“We’re looking at a technological wonder of Islam,” he said. “The likes of which few have ever seen. They were masters in optics and mathematics, but I had no idea they were capable of building an astrolabe this precise.”

Natasha moved to Gabriel’s side, looking deeply into the crystalline sphere.

“This is an astrolabe?”

Gabriel nodded, his eyes fixed on it.

“An ancient astronomical instrument,” he said, still in awe. “They had many uses, including locating and predicting the positions of celestial bodies, navigation, astrology, surveying, timekeeping, and let’s not forget
Qibla
.”

“Finding the direction of Mecca,” said Natasha. “That was the main reason why the Muslim astronomers built them. People needed to know which direction to pray in. But this does not look like an astrolabe to me, Gabriel.”

“I know,” he agreed. “Astrolabes were normally flat instruments, but the more advanced ones became spherical in shape. I’ve never seen one like this before. It would appear to be an optical astrolabe. I had no idea they even existed.”

“This astrolabe was built by Al-Sufi,” said the old gypsy from where she stood at the chamber’s entrance.

“Abd al-Rahman al Sufi?”
asked Gabriel, turning to face her, “The famous Persian astronomer?”

The old woman nodded slowly.

“If anyone knew astrolabes,” continued Gabriel, looking at Natasha, “it was that guy. He outlined more than one-thousand uses for them back in the tenth century.”

“He built it for the Caliph of Toledo,” said the woman, approaching. “Following instructions found on a Babylonian tablet dated to 5000 B.C.”

Both Gabriel and Natasha turned to face the old woman.

“But I thought Hipparchus was the first to invent the astrolabe in 200 B.C.” said Gabriel, already doubting himself.

He was rapidly learning not to believe everything the history books had taught him.

The old gypsy woman said nothing in return, but came directly towards them with the candelabra, her time worn features shifting in the flickering candle light. Reaching over she depressed a linkage in the astrolabe’s armature, and they watched as a section of the contraption swung aside to reveal a cubical orifice directly at its centre. It too was lined with crystal lenses.

“I believe you are in possession of an artifact that will fit within this space?”

Gabriel looked over to find Natasha staring at him, her eyes wide with wonder. The niche looked to be precisely the same size as the Cube. Without a moment’s delay, Gabriel produced the artifact from his pack, holding it aloft before him so that the old woman could see.

“The Cube of Compostela,”
she whispered in awe, her voice trembling. “If only my husband were here to see it.”

“And my father along with him,” said Gabriel solemnly, handing the old woman the glowing cube. “Please, do the honours, Señora. Do it for both of them.”

The old woman handed Natasha the candelabra.

“Your lungs are stronger than mine, child.”

Natasha blew out the candles and the Cube’s blue light took centre stage.

“It casts a wonderful hue, to be sure,” said the old woman, taking hold of it. “I have never seen its like.”

With a remarkably steady hand she inserted the Cube into its slot, carefully closing the armature door over it. The effect was instantaneous. With the Cube now installed in the centre of the astrolabe, its dim light had magnified itself tenfold, creating a spectacular cloud of glowing light that surrounded the contraption like an atmosphere around a planet.

“It is beautiful,” whispered Natasha. “It is as though I could touch it.”

“It looks like some kind of hologram,” said Gabriel, “but what’s the purpose of it?”

“The Cube’s light is not sufficiently bright,” said the old gypsy. “This is not the effect that the ancient scribes spoke of.”

“I think we can make it brighter, Señora,” said Natasha, smiling naughtily.

Gabriel turned to Natasha with a questioning glance, only to feel her arms wrapping around his neck. An instant later she had stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed him fully on the lips. The nature of the kiss took them both completely off guard. It was indescribably thrilling; a chemical reaction so encompassing that it was only the gypsy’s cry of surprise that broke them from its spell. When they opened their eyes they saw what their kiss had done to the Cube.

Hair-lined streams of blazing blue light were shooting through the artifact like tendrils of plasma. They were pulsing and building in intensity with every passing second, magnified and refracted by the astrolabe’s innumerable lenses. An instant later their light reached a critical point, exploding through the crystalline instrument in a blinding detonation, and causing them all to cry out in surprise.

A glittering atmosphere of shimmering light was being emitted from the sphere now, reflecting off what looked to be tiny polished stones that had been concealed within the dome’s structure. The result of this optical interaction was a brilliant hologram that filled the entire space, surrounding the three awestruck observers, so that it appeared that they themselves were a part of the projection.

“Is it a galaxy?” whispered Natasha, moving her hands through the illusion.

“It’s
our
galaxy, by the looks of it,” said Gabriel, his eyes wide with wonder.

The projection was a perfectly scaled replica; an exact shimmering recreation of the Milky Way in all its entirety. What was more, it appeared to be in motion, its bright core and many arms orbiting a fist-sized, black sphere at its centre. It was being projected directly above the astrolabe itself. Natasha was the first to notice it.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to it.

“It’s what astronomers would call a super-massive black hole,” said Gabriel, pushing back his messy hair as he studied the thing. “It sits at the centre of our galaxy, and has the density of about a trillion stars.”

The old gypsy woman stared into the black hole.

“The ancient astronomers of Sumer knew more of this black hole than all our scientists combined,” she said. “Watch and see all their fears confirmed.”

“What do you mean, Senora?” asked Natasha. “What fears?”

In answer to her question, the old woman pointed to an arm of the galaxy. There was a magnified section there, glowing within its own shimmering sphere.

“That is our solar system,” said the gypsy. “Draw closer to it so that you can better see its precarious position.”