Return of the Ancients (28 page)

‘I know it.’

Each frame of the image feed had been cleaned up and enhanced – every pixel had been illuminated, magnified and scrubbed so that a detailed analysis could begin.

Harper and Takada had been ordered to attend a meeting at an unmarked base just outside of Chicago. When the black helicopter that had been sent to collect them touched down at Fermilab, Harper had a sinking feeling that his project was suddenly not so much
his
anymore.

A briefing room had been set up, and a dozen stony-faced men and women sat at a long table and watched as selected images were projected onto a large screen. It seemed that the images from the probe had already preceded them. Now it was expected that Harper and Takada would explain them.

Takada stood nervously beside the images. When he spoke, his voice sounded tight in this throat. ‘The being is approximately six and a half feet tall. And . . . we firmly believe that it is not wearing a mask.’ The physicist paused and let the small audience take this in.

There were murmurs among the group, and one sat forward clearing her throat. Her green jacket had numerous stars pinned to the collar and her face was hard as the table in front of her. ‘How can you be so sure?’

Colonel Marion Briggs looked around at the others. ‘Does anyone else here remember that young Chinese guy who wore the old man mask onto the plane? It looked so real, he managed to get right through customs and immigration. Even fooled the person sitting next to him for several hours.’ She jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘So, how can we just rule that out?’

Takada cleared his throat, already wilting. He turned to Harper, who nodded and got to his feet. Harper signalled to a technician at the back of the room, and immediately the screen showed five pictures lined up next to each other, creating a time-sequence panorama. They were all of the face of the lunging beast, the images only milliseconds apart, and only changing fractionally in angle from first to last. Following enhancement, they were brutally clear, right down to every single hair follicle and fold of flesh.

Harper look at Briggs, then the others. ‘Look at the eyes – notice anything?’

There were a few shrugs.

‘We went from night vision to white light – only for a second, but we lit the forest up like a stage. Note the contraction of the pupils; if the subject was wearing contact lenses, there wouldn’t be any. Those eyes are real, ladies and gentlemen. Now, in humans, light can be reflected back from the eye as a red glow – the bane of wedding snaps the world over.’ No one laughed. ‘In any case, that’s due to the light reflecting back off a blood vessel layer behind the retina. But in wolves, the retina has a reflective layer behind it called the
tapetum lucidum
. This layer acts like a mirror, reflecting light at the back of their eyes. It’s what helps them in the dark. It’s also what gives their eyes that silver shine.’

Warming to his lecture, Harper paced around the table. ‘We’ve analysed every life form image we were able to isolate, and not a single one matches any of the known genera, family, species or order we know or understand. Sure, there are things that look like birds, like squirrels, but they’re not. We might be looking at a new dimension, a new planet or time – pick any, or all of them, and you could be right. But if someone were to ask me . . .’

He signalled to the technician again. The screen changed to a background shot of Arnold Singer – he looked haggard and frightened, and there were bruises over his face and deep marks around his neck.

‘Mister Singer here is either in these creatures’ care, or being held as their captive. But the thing is, he’s alive. Does anyone know the odds of finding another habitable planet in our universe? I’ll tell you: it’s about 0.01% over 4,000,000,000 years. And the young man just happens to fall onto one? I think not.’

He turned back to the screen. ‘I think Arnold Singer is right here, in this country . . . In this state. The big question is:
when?
’

Colonel Briggs stood up and placed her cap under her arm. ‘Good enough for me. The doorway’s still open, we can survive there without suits, the indigenous defence technology is primitive . . . and of course, Mister Singer is still alive and needs to be rescued . . . if we can find him. I’ll recommend to the general that we mount a mission.’

Harper raised his hand. ‘Wait. We need to find him,
and
the diamond. Without it, we may not be able to shut down the anomaly. There’s also the scientific imperative to do more research. This is a pristine environment; we can’t barge into it with modern technology.’

Briggs clicked her tongue. ‘Who said we want to shut it down? Besides, you said yourself, Harper – it’s already our world. And how can our technology be modern when they’re the ones from the future?’ She smiled without humour. ‘More importantly, if we don’t claim it, someone else will.’

She strode towards the door, and then paused. ‘We’ll be needing some technical advice, so you, or one of your science team, will be coming with us.’ She glanced at Takada, who visibly paled. ‘The team will be operational and prepared to go in twenty-four hours. Be ready.’

The door slammed behind her.

*****

Harper slumped down into his chair, his mind spinning. The lights had come up and the rest of the room had filed out, not giving the two scientists a second glance.

He thought about what the colonel had said, and despite himself felt a thrill of exhilaration coursing through his veins. Though he didn’t like the idea of culturally polluting a pristine species and environment, the thought of an expedition made him shake with excitement.

He was mentally ticking off what he’d need to take with him, when reality sank in. He wasn’t a linguist or cultural specialist; not having either specialisation wasn’t a deal breaker, but the real kicker was that, if anything went wrong there, he was really the only one who could diagnose and rectify the problem – and for that he needed to be behind a console.

He sighed. How many scientists get to go and meet a whole new race? Or maybe meet a whole new species? He turned to Takada.

‘I envy you.’

*****

In the long black car that silently sped along the freeway, Colonel Briggs kicked off her shoes and spoke slowly into the phone.

‘Yes sir, a Type A environment – indigenous personnel warlike, aggressive, but in my judgment, limited in offensive and defensive armaments.’

She paused, a smile spreading across her face. ‘Yes sir, I agree. Just a look-see for now. Maybe bring back a few . . . specimens. One team of Green Berets should do just fine, sir.’

She ended the call and tapped her driver on the shoulder. ‘You know how many colonels will be bringing the President a whole new conquered world this year?’

The driver knew better than to answer. She laughed and leaned back in her seat.

‘Just one, I think.’

Arn shivered in the cold darkness. Vidarr had led the three of them deep below the castle through a number of tunnels that were fast turning from excavated passageways into natural caves. Glistening limestone columns of lilac and mineral green danced and shivered as the tongues of flame from their burning torches flickered in the dark.

From time to time, plate-sized fungi growing from moist grottos intruded across their path, and Vidarr stopped to tear loose a chunk from one of the largest stalks. He took a bite.

‘Like meat,’ he said, holding it out. Arn shook his head, understanding now where the pervasive mushroom smell came from.

The next tunnel opened out into a cavern, and in every nook and cranny there was an overflowing chest or table piled high with debris that was rotting down to sparkling orange dust – small mountains of wood, metal, stone and waxed paper.

Vidarr stopped and shifted uneasily in the darkness. ‘It has been many, many years since I have had reason to venture this far down.’

Arn laughed softly. ‘So much stuff . . . It’s endless.’

Vidarr hummed his agreement, and held up his torch. ‘Items accumulated since the dawn of Valkeryn. From time to time a traveller will have something strange to trade – and if it is of interest, then it usually finds its way to me.’

Arn noticed that the old archivist kept looking over his shoulder to some of the darker areas of the caves. Arn held out his own flame and squinted, taking a dozen or so steps away from the group. He noticed that this passage ended not with a rock face, but instead with heavy bars set from floor to ceiling.

Vidarr answered his unspoken question. ‘The deeper caves are home to all manner of things.’

‘I’ve met them.’ Arn grunted. ‘The jormungandr.’

‘Yes. And . . . others.’

Arn recalled his arrival deep below ground, and the glistening thing in the dark that had looked like a giant hairless rat – and most disturbingly, had giggled.

Vidarr shuffled off, and Eilif came over to take Arn by the hand, pulling him along. He looked back once more to the bars sealing off the deeper caves, and thought he heard sniggering away in the darkness.

They followed Vidarr, ducking through various passages, around pillars, and soon entered a cathedral-sized opening that swallowed their torchlight. Even though the ceiling was hidden in the blackness, there was a sense of openness, of hugeness, which staggered Arn.
They could hide an army down here
, he thought.

Vidarr lit the torches that were protruding from rings embedded in the rock, before finally placing his own into an empty holder. He turned and opened his arms wide, and walked out towards the centre of the cavern.

‘And now . . .’ He turned to them, his breath steaming in the chill air. He motioned to the mountains of artefacts piled, stacked and bundled everywhere. ‘. . . Now it would help if you knew what it was you sought, young Man-kind – a thing, a word, or even just a thought – down here, I can help.’

‘We’re looking for clues.’ Eilif nudged Arn, and winked at him as if sharing a secret. He realised she was still holding his hand, and he gently extricated his fingers from her warm grip. Once free, she immediately began pulling things from among the piles of artefacts. She stopped, frowned and held something up to sniff.

‘What’s this?’ She held up something that might once have been metal. Now it was an L-shaped lump of rust and verdigris that weighed heavily in her hand.

Arn took it from her, and rubbed away some of the corroded crust. He snorted softly. ‘It is . . . It
was
a gun. A small weapon of sorts.’

Vidarr took the gun and held it out, sighting along the barrel. ‘Ah yes – the pistol. I believe it expels a metallic pellet faster than the eye can see, which could penetrate any armour known to Wolfen-kind. A small weapon, but one with formidable power.’ He registered Arn’s surprise. ‘As I said, Arnoddr-Sigarr, I have studied these objects and scraps of history my entire life. I know what they are, and where they are, but unfortunately how they could ever work is still a mystery to me.’ He held the gun out to Arn. ‘Perhaps that is where we can help each other?’

Eilif snatched the pistol and brandished it like a club. ‘Imagine if we had some of these – the Lygon would be sent straight to Hellheim in a blink!’

‘Does it help you?’ Vidarr folded his bony arms into his robe.

Arn looked around. ‘Sort of. It tells me that my people were here, but at a different time. And now they’re gone – at least, from this part of the world, as far as we know . . .’

Vidarr nodded slowly. ‘It’s true that the dark lands hold their own secrets, and adventurers who have entered those realms tell of all manner of strange beasts living there, but . . .’

Arn stepped closer. ‘But?’

‘But nothing. Legends upon myths upon tales. You must realise that you are the last of your kind, Arnoddr-Sigarr.’

Arn turned away, feeling deflated. Balthazar placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Arn, but
we’re
glad you’re here. Tell us what we’re looking for.’

Arn realised that he didn’t really know. He’d probably recognise it if he saw it, but he needed their help as well if he was going to make any headway.

‘Something with writing on it, I guess. If it looks interesting, set it aside in a pile, and I can look it over.’ He picked up what appeared to be the handle of a cutlass, its blade long since disintegrated. ‘Are the artefacts organised in any way?’ It didn’t look to Arn as though they were.

‘Yes. This room contains all the most modern pieces. Everything you see here comes from the periods you call the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. After that, there is nothing. But for before that . . .’ He pointed down a dark tunnel. ‘. . . We will need to go to another chamber to look at the eighteenth and nineteenth century items. And then—’

‘Wait.’ Arn stared in alarm at the old archivist. ‘The twenty-first century is the last era of my kind that you’ve come across? But that’s my era! Is that when we were wiped out?’

Balthazar shrugged. ‘Or departed. Remember the legends, Arnoddr.’

Arn frowned. A memory was surfacing – Edward, or was it Beescomb or Dr. Harper, talking about the possible dangers of using the accelerator . . . A disquieting thought bubbled up in his brain, but he tried to push it down, squeezing his eyes shut. Once again, he heard the mocking whisper that had tormented him on his trek through the wastelands.
Was it you? Was it your fault? Did you kill them all when you fell through the wormhole?

‘Here.’ Balthazar pulled back some dusty oilskins to reveal several wooden chests that were as large as bathtubs. He grabbed the metal lock of one of them, but it fell to red dust in his hands. Wiping the residue from his fingers, he grabbed the lid and swung it back – instead of opening smoothly, the lid crashed to the floor as its hinges broke apart. ‘Oops.’