The Fifth Codex (17 page)

“Your creators, dear friend, are a species who own the coldest of hearts … the most cunning of minds.”  Apadimex’s breathing grew heavy and his tone turned dull and raspy.  Each word now seemed as if a chore.  “To do this might at first seem wise,” his voice began to fade, “but is
entirely
out of the question.”

Apadimex sunk into his chair and closed his eyes.  Ovahdya lifted his right limb and carefully wrapped his talons around Apadimex’s exposed left arm.  The colder it became and the closer it appeared his master would pass into the next world, the tighter Ovahdya gripped him.  Apadimex shivered more and more with each passing moment.  His last words were but whispers with long pauses in between.

“Obedient, submissive …
most
important.  To learn
any
different
, a most dangerous path to wander … to wander down … lies before you.  To reach … to reach the lone destination at the end, but one outcome … but one outcome … is …
possible
.…”  Upon a final exhale, Apadimex’s soul was no longer his.

“No, Master, no,” Ovahdya sobbed, “please don’t leave me.”

Despite the horrid cold now cloaked around him, he laid his head in Apadimex’s lap.  Through his tears, he looked at the lifeless fingers that would never again stroke his silver mane.  After many cries, many fond memories, and many moments, Ovahdya lifted his head up and stood, but kept his eyes blurred with tears to the black as pitch granite floor.

These grand tales to answer his questions had ended with an enigma:
What outcome?

The last words Apadimex had spoken to him now bounced about his mind.  They did so not in the frail voice spoken at his master’s end, but in the deep, calm tone Ovahdya recalled from his own beginning.  He still remembered and always would until his own end the times Apadimex whispered into his ear when he was just a blind, helpless cub.  He of course knew nothing of words then, but just the sound of them soothed him.  Having spent countless days teaching Ovahdya of the world and its ways, he would insult his master’s memory if, after all this, he was not clever enough to finish the last sentence Apadimex ever spoke.

Ovahdya paced fretfully.  As he did so in a tight circle, he kept his eyes pointed to the stone floor.

“A dangerous path to wander down …” he whispered to himself.  “We are submissive, but to learn
any different
, this path lies before us.  This
dangerous
path – why is it dangerous if we are not submissive?  If we are not submissive … are we no longer obedient?”

He thought some more and continued to pace.  His dead master was never more than a couple of pike lengths away as he did so.

“But one outcome, but one outcome – why just
one
?” Ovahdya continued to whisper again.  “Freedom, freedom … Master talked of Gryphons someday wanting freedom.  For this
one
outcome, would we need to want freedom as well?”

Ovahdya stopped suddenly and stared at the traces of blood on the floor.  Somehow, he had not noticed this until now.  The stunned Gryphon then followed this trickling of blood until the floor became the legs of the chair Apadimex’s soulless body now slumped in.  The blood was as if a narrow stream that led up cream-colored robes and pooled at the bare arm Ovahdya had gripped with his talons.

He now raised these bloodied talons; with wondrous eyes, Ovahdya inspected each one as if seeing both them and their might for the first time.  He then did the same to the rest of his body.  A Gryphon outweighed a Sapien many times over, owned crushing jaws – and these talons!

Could one swipe of untamed talons tear the skin off a Sapien’s back?  And upon doing so, could the next swipe then rip the spine clean from his or her body?

These were truly horrid thoughts, yet Ovahdya could keep neither them nor his whispers at bay.

“More a lion than a lamb upon realizing such strength … no longer obedient … wanting freedom … native instincts unleashed … a path stepped onto and a lone destination at its end reached … but
one
outcome possible….”

Ovahdya gasped.  Great anguish swept over him.  He had lost his beloved master and now suddenly realized that the future of his kind would someday become the greatest of struggles.  With his beak to the ceiling of the repository, he let out a load roar that ended in a piercing screech.  The walls of the grand library shook and those who would send his master on his final journey would soon come.

Ovahdya then hung his head low and closed his eyes to keep in his tears, but could not do so tightly enough.  Both eyes shed these tears as if waterfalls onto the stone floor and his heart began to hurt.  A great shame swelled inside him for thinking of the one word he would never dare speak, but that now pounded away at his mind as if trying to inflict on him the worst beating of his life….

REVOLUTION!

It is now evening in the CIC, yet probably only I realize it.  A symphony of hums that emanate from assorted computers and other equipment is all I hear.  As if sculptures, thirteen men sit in silence … thirteen men sit motionless.

Having revealed such grandeur from late morning until now, my lips twist into a devilish grin.  None of the men grins back, but how can they?  Dumbfounded, delightfully stupid stares grace every face.  So much so, I feel it is near criminal that learned men should suffer such goofy looks.  For just a moment, I consider the devious path my grin dearly begs me to set them on: These thirteen practically zombies; I very easily could command each one to strip down to his skivvies, slip on pink tutus, and march into the desert cold more than willing to freeze every bone.  Alas, to be alone in such a harsh place is almost as horrid a fate.

To give the room a much-needed jolt, I leap up and run my fingernails along the map ready for the pieces with which I had earlier teased Dr. Leitz.  With a wobbly start, the men begin to exit from their trances.  The premise simple, but my purpose sweeping: I need those around me to agree to catapult our story thirty centuries ahead from where we just left off.  And if so, they will then be privy to what I have gamely kept hidden.

“Now …
my friends
,” I whisper in an almost pleading way.  “These codices tell of a world brimming with so much more than just mystic Sapiens and servant Gryphons.  As such, I must now ask a most pressing question: Do we wish for just a good story or do we truly seek to understand the civilizations that once existed so far beneath our feet?  And if so, if we really want to learn all these scripted plates can teach us, then we must move ahead,
far ahead
, into the future of the past.  To when wonder filled each new day, to when
every
kind of intelligent being these five codices speak of were the masters of their own fate.  Just say the word and we will travel to the dawn of the apex of this world.”

My hopeful face begging them to agree is not just for show.  It foresees the protests to come next.

“But the Sapiens, the Gryphons –
why stop now
?” Victor pleads.

“Something about a revolution, we
cannot
skip that!” Alistair tells me.

“We are fine this way –
continue on
!” Major Sinclair declares.

Agreeable café trolleys unexpectedly greet our bickering.  Perfect timing to quiet the protests – dinner has arrived.  I forcefully let out the breath I have been holding in for nearly a full minute in thanks for this.  But then I see something that strikes me as odd: Those who have just delivered our food and drinks hurriedly depart as if an invisible hand shoos them away.

Most certainly more in anger than hunger, the men attack the trolleys, spitefully slurp their drinks, and snatch up every morsel of food cowering on silver trays.  Seated once again, they fire a number of annoyed stares in my direction.

“Do not worry one bit!  Many amazing events inside these thirty centuries will be revealed, I promise.  We will meet Queen Gorgynna again, the Arachna and Gryphons never leave us, Mermaids and Centaurs finally join us, and we
just
may meet a Yeturi.”

Grunts and groans follow.  The
second
time today I have mentioned the savage Yeturi and not a single question asked about the brutes; for now, fitful anger overrules their curiosity.

After another fifteen minutes or so of failing miserably to explain my reasons for wanting to leap ahead ––

I hear the vacuum doors to the CIC open….

Slippery steps now slither about my ears….

Even before they come into view, I can smell their stench.  A line of men dressed in black suits with white shirts stream in and now stand as a smug group in front of our shocked faces.  As if their presence has suddenly cast a shadow over the CIC, the lights dim.

My lower jaw drops so far that, for a split second, I fear it might fall out of my head.  Just when I had convinced myself that, for once, these soulless spies would sit this adventure out – here they are.  Put off by the sight of them just as much as the others; I am, however, in no way surprised by their arrival.

The other seven soldiers frozen in place, Major Sinclair withdraws his handgun and points it in their direction.  The spies barely seem to notice and appear to care even less.

“It is
always
just a matter of time,” I hiss, “before you scheming serpents clothed in the finest cobra-skinned suits corruption can buy show up!”  I motion for the Major to lower his weapon and then unleash my sternest glare at Admiral Vanderbilt.  “Isn’t that right,
Grandfather
?”

The Admiral’s stammering lips search for words, but find not a one.

The shortest, scrawniest member of this grimy group of nine snickers as he steps forward.  His show of unwarranted confidence, bulging eyes, slicked back, greasy hair, and elevator shoes a supermodel would trip in, makes certain we all know he is undoubtedly the leader.

“Blaming Admiral Vanderbilt for our arrival will do you no good, Dr. Rothschild.  Do you think it was
he
who assigned himself here?”  Director Gaunt pauses as if he awaits a response I have trouble thinking up.  My tongue tied as if in a bow, his forked one flickers on.  “A third star, my good Admiral, is going to look awfully good at your retirement ceremony.”

“Who’s the mini-spook?” I hear Saddlebirch whisper to Dr. Leitz.  Both stand directly behind me.

“Not just any spook … ‘The Man’,” Alfred whispers back.

“Him?  ‘
The
Man’
?  Seriously?”

“
Ja
…
ihn
.…”

“I was not aware cockroaches could survive Antarctica!”  As neither my scowl nor sarcastic tone wipes away Gaunt’s smug grin, this reply is nowhere near as biting as I intended.

“Every time we cross paths,” Gaunt chimes after a deep chuckle, “you are simply more charming than the last.  I believe you referred to me as a ‘cloaked leech’ during our last encounter.”

Chance struggles to hold in his laughter at this.  These giggles give me confidence I do not particularly need any more of, but comfort me nevertheless.

“Despite your insults,” Director Gaunt continues, “I remember each visit fondly as nearly every one of them seems to find something our governments desperately seek …” he pauses just long enough to flash another smirk, “and very often take away.”

“Unlike in the past, I am not feeling so charitable these days,” I spit back.  Just as I wonder when they would, the others finally join in.

“What is your purpose?” Dr. Korzhak demands.  “Who are you?”

As if Victor had just dumped trash on Gaunt’s shoes, he throws him the dirtiest of looks.

“Just what
is
your business here?” Dr. Ravensdale growls.  This tone nowhere near his normal television voice, Alistair sounds more like a grizzly bear than a world-renowned geophysicist.  How the Director dismissed Korzhak’s questions with nothing more than a chortle and rolled eyes has obviously angered him.

Gaunt takes a moment to look back at the other spies and his fake cheeriness returns.  “My true name is not your concern, but who I represent is.  I am the Director of a shadow agency that oversees both the NSA
and
CIA.  Under my watch, those here with me,” he motions behind him, “work diligently to mold our world into what we wish for it to become.  And as we do so, the masses do little more than plod aimlessly about it.  This suits us perfectly well, of course.  We are everywhere, in plain sight; yet nowhere, impossible to see.”

“Never heard of such a silly thing,” Saddlebirch drawls.  Chance’s tone sounds confident, but how he looks warily at the spies makes clear that this is a ruse.

And how could he feel anything but?

Unlike Admiral Vanderbilt, Dr. Leitz, and me, the other three have not a clue as to the true nature of these snakes.  My men, of course, have seen plenty, but keep perfectly silent.  Despite nearly two dozen bodies gathered in the CIC, there is still a good amount of open space – but the temperature is rising fast.  Beads of sweat dot every face aside for Gaunt’s own face and mine.  Truth be told, I would rather die than show him even the smallest hint of weakness a first drop of sweat would reveal.

“And you never will,” Director Gaunt pushes back.  “You will not find my name, my picture, or even a reference to me splashed about online or in publications for one simple reason: I do not exist.  I, Dr. Saddlebirch, am the one who makes the hard decisions when my president – the
visible
leader of the free world – is too afraid to do so.  When I sleep well at night, so does the world.”

I despise this vile scum of a man.  I hate Gaunt not just because of what he is, but because the world I so desperately love needs him and his slippery ilk.  That our lives intertwine to the point one probably could not survive without the other – this simply makes it worse.  More than once, I had one foot firmly on Hell’s doorstep because of these spies and their schemes.  And just as many times, they saved me.

Despite his lack of height, skin a snake would swoon over, and thinning hair, Gaunt owns a skill no one else I know possesses.  On a stage not of the theater, but of the world, he sees events unfold that others cannot see until it is too late.  As do many, Gaunt plays chess at a world-class level, but only
he
has the courage to do so with pieces that have a pulse.  The Admiral and I are not mere pawns, more like bishops or rooks, but we are not the king.  Only Gaunt is and he knows it.  And just like a king on the board, he needs others or else he will die.  But even if alone, as long as he has a gun and bullets, he would not meet his own end without a fight.  According to Admiral Vanderbilt, Gaunt might not be the best marksman in the world, but he is certainly in the conversation.

“
C’est ridicule!
[18]
” I call out with a sneering laugh.  Hands thrown into the air proceed to say as much as my mouth does.  “You are nothing more than the slipperiest of shepherds leading your sinister flock of sheep!  Stealing about the world to seek out fresh, unspoiled fields of discovery in which to sow your wickedness – careful, Gaunt … you just might find that the grasses in
this
field fight back.”

Sudden silence shrouds us.  No one says another word; all barely breathe.  As I keep watch of the other eight, I begin to pace in a tight circle around the Director.

“All the usual suspects accounted for.…”  Both my speech and pace are purposely slow and sarcastic.  “MI-6 … CIA … Aussie SIS … and my personal favorite, Mossad.  The only ones brave enough to not hide behind an acronym.”

A rambling chatter quickly erupts between the other scientists.  Fidgeting a bit and his eyes darting about, it is obvious that Director Gaunt very much wishes to regain control.

“Perhaps we can work toward a fragile peace between us … an olive branch of sorts ––”

“Ha!  An olive branch?” I mock with feigned disbelief.  “Dripping in poisonous vomit and coated with anthrax, no doubt!”

As for why I can spit such spiteful words at so powerful a man, it is only because my father, a former officer of the Armée de l’Air, once saved Gaunt.  Shadow wars leave many dead behind who are never
officially
included in the body count and one had almost done the same to the Director.  Father, however, would not allow it.  And when I was a prisoner in Angola nearly two years ago, neither would Gaunt.  A gauntlet of meat cleavers at my head; surrounded and too exhausted to fight the mob of prisoners off anymore; the prison guards laughing wildly – these guards opened fire.  Every prisoner around me shot dead, only I still stood.  The prison yard more of stone than grass now a slaughterhouse, my soldiers hurriedly scaled the outer wall of this prison and ‘stole’ me away.

A Mossad agent had paid off the guards and waited to greet me on the other side.  This same man now towers over his fellow spies in the shadows ten meters away from me.  At Director Gaunt’s insistence, he had disavowed a direct order from his own Defense Minister to save me.  The furious Minister then confronted Gaunt personally.  Scandals, a line of mistresses a block long, and a flurry of corruption charges to come next – punishment followed soon after.  A plumb cabinet post suddenly open, the
former
Defense Minister would continue to rot inside his jail cell long after another filled his old post.

“
Come now
, Dr. Rothschild … Vanderbilt – enough tit-for-tat.”  Gaunt’s mannerisms and voice border on pleading.  By far, this is the closest to begging I have ever heard from him.

Perhaps it really is time to temper my tone.  Besides, I have run clean through my list of prepared insults.  Recalled suffering of the past suddenly makes me thankful for the present.  I am alive, my men guard all five codices, we are in the process of translating them, and I possess both the crimson gem I arrived with
and
its infinitely more powerful sibling.  In short: WE HAVE WON.  My shrugged shoulders and weak nod giving in to him, I let out a heavy sigh.