The Cydonia Objective (Morpheus Initiative 03) (9 page)

"Of what?"

"The end of the world."

Calderon nodded, with a light dazzling in the darkest centers of his pupils. "I may not be psychic, but that's one vision I've seen as well. Many, many times…"

6.

"This is crap," Orlando said with a groan about thirty minutes later. He thumbed through the papers, the small-print, the few photographs of the region, the caves seen from a distance, some satellite maps, and a blurred-out picture of a little girl working in the fields with what may have been her parents.

"I agree."  Phoebe snatched up the last photograph, unclipped it from the folder's edge. "This here, this is all we need. The other stuff will only cloud our thoughts. Focus on her, and let's get this over with."

"But there's a lot of that 'other stuff' in here. If this is true, Jesus. She's only ten! The daughter of an American missionary and a Bamian native woman. Watched her mother butchered before her eyes."

"Stop," Phoebe insisted. She closed the folder, tossed it on the floor. And with a scornful glance at their sleeping companion, she reached into her pack and pulled out a scrapbook. Two pencils. Offered one to Orlando and ripped out a sheet of paper.

"I'll use… damn. No laptop."

"Sorry to bring you back to the Middle Ages, but just grab a damn pencil."  She took a deep breath, leaned back and grasped her pencil lightly between her finger and her thumb. In a moment, as Orlando watched, her eyes rolled back, her mouth opened and her arm shook.

Orlando sighed. "All right then. Don't wait for me."

#

First: a full
vision of Blue. Deep and tranquil like the depths of the Caribbean. Close, and yet impossible to grasp, like the sky.

Phoebe struggled. Pulled back. Sent her questions away from the depths, toward more solid ground. Toward the past…

Blue again. But this time, the pure infinite blue of the Afghanistan sky. Down to the great cliffs of the Kohebaba range. A rock wall pockmarked with caves, ridges and steep grooves beside an immense hollowed out niche. Its smaller twin far to the right.

Pull back…

The fields. Dust and sand. A few straggly juniper bushes. A goat here and there. In the blistering sun, a crowd of villagers stand in the center of a loose scattering of adobe shacks. A lone rusty well sits untended and unused at the edge of the village, and scrawny buzzards perch on its rotting boards.

Riding horses, three men carrying AK-47s are keeping the villagers together in a group. Forcing them to remain. To watch.

A mujahedeen fighter, all in black astride a white horse, unravels the sash from his face. A single eye glares at the villagers; the other—the left, is hidden behind a black patch with jewels embedded in the cloth. He raises his gun and shouts toward the cliff wall, addressing the seemingly empty caves. "Bring her out!"

The walls are silent. The largest niche, holding only the rubble now of the largest statue ever built, trembles slightly as if the earth had  just rumbled.

The man known as The Eye shouts again. "Bring her out, infidels!  Or the will of Allah will fall upon your friends."  He makes a motion with his left hand, a nonchalant waving in the direction of a bewildered young man standing by himself.

Another fighter on horseback rides up behind the youth and with a ululating cry, brings down a scimitar, silencing the boy's sudden cry of fright. A spray of blood across the sand, and the other villagers erupt in shrieks and cries.

"NOW!" the Eye shouts again to the hills. In a moment, he points to another villager, a huddled old woman.

But then, motion in one of the caves. A man and a woman emerge, heads bowed. Dressed in tattered clothes.

The Eye holds up a hand restraining his men. Gallops ahead a short distance. "Show me the girl!"

The man's shoulders slump as he steps away from the woman, letting a small girl walk into the sunlight. Blinking, shielding her eyes, she walks to the edge. Trying to appear brave, she raises her dirty face to the sky and spreads her arms as if they're tiny wings.

And the villagers murmur to themselves. Some drop to their knees, others whimper.

"Enough!" hisses the Eye. He motions to his men. "Bring her down." And as they gallop toward the base of the giant niche in the cave-riddled mountainside, he stares at the girl, not more than seven or eight. And he finds it difficult to look at her, despite the grime and dust covering her face and hair, her shredded clothes.

She's glowing, reflecting the painful brilliance of the sun.

But in minutes, the three of them are down, herded like wayward sheep into the clearing.

The Eye dismounts and stands before them.

"You gave me a good chase, girl."  She refuses to look up at him. Her eyes—bright blue like the sky—stare only over at the headless young man at the edge of the clearing. Her father squeezes her hand tight and her mother clasps her other hand.

The Eye considers the three of them, then tells the girl, "You have the look and the stink of your American father about you."

"Leave her alone," the father says, daring a tone of defiance. "We don't know why she can do what she does, but it's not evil. It's not-"

"I know that, infidel." The Eye grins, and taps his jeweled eye patch. "She is a gift from Allah. A gift I was meant to find. And use."

"No, please-" the mother starts, and tries to pull her daughter back.

At a motion from the Eye, one of his men yanks the woman away. He pushes her to her knees and pulls out the same bloody scimitar that had just seen action.

"No!" her husband yells, but he too is restrained, dragged away from the girl until she stands there, arms splayed, hands empty.

"You're my gift," the Eye says. "But you must understand that I have to ensure your compliance. I leave the choice to you, Hummingbird. Your mother or your father. Which would you have stay in this world?"

She turns to him, and now meets his cold one-eyed stare.

"No," the father yells. "You can't make her choose. Take me, kill me." He struggles, almost frees himself but then the butt of a rifle slams into his back and pins him to the rocky sand.

"Choose," the Eye repeats, stepping closer so his hulking shadow envelops the girl. His robes flow and whip in the rising winds and sand devils blow around them both.

"Please don't…" the mother whimpers.

The girl looks over to her, a cry on her lips. "Mother-"

"Good enough for me," the Eye says, and nods to his man. The woman's head scarf is tugged back. Her neck exposed and then torn in a jagged, swift cut as the blade digs deep. Flesh and muscle parting, blood escaping. Her eyes go cold with surprise and then… acceptance.

The Hummingbird turns away, an unvoiced cry in her throat.

The father whimpers his breath into the rocks.

And the girl focuses not on the object of her hatred, but on a lone boy standing in the crowd. A grime-faced curly-haired boy her own age. A boy trembling with fear, but whose eyes hold such emotion. He struggles against the clutches of his parents, who hold him back from running to the girl…

-His one friend.

The Hummingbird shakes her head slightly at him as if to say, 'not now'.

"It is done," the Eye says matter-of-factly. He points to the girl's father. "Break his legs, bind him and bring him with us." Then he kneels down, takes the girl's chin in his hands and uses a dirty thumb to wipe a tear from her eyes. "You'll do as I say from now on. You keep us safe, and your father lives. These villagers live. Fail me, and they all join your mother."

With a flourish, his black robes whipping around, he scoops up the Hummingbird, sets her on his horse and climbs in the saddle behind her. With a joyous shout, he races toward the cliffs.

"And now, my sweet. You will help us navigate the tunnels, and when we have found a place of safety deep within the mountains, my brethren will join us, and our work can truly begin."

Into the cavern, darkness covering them. A seeping of blue forms around the edges of the vision. Closing over the sparkling reality of everything in the center. The white of the horse's mane, the thickness of the leather harness, the saddle, and the shaking little hands that hug the horse's neck, drawing comfort from petting the magnificent beast.

"You will sleep," the Eye says, "only when I let you. When I am in slumber you must cloud our presence—in the past, the present and the future—as I know you can do. Just as you hid yourself and your parents from me for months. You will do all this, and your father will live."  He strokes her hair as the veil of blue encircles the entirety of the vision. And his last words follow Phoebe out of it…

"The Eye and the Hummingbird. You and I, child. We will be unstoppable."

#

Complete BLUE.

Phoebe pulled back. Twitching, eyelids fluttering. Dimly aware of the plane descending, the pressure tightening in her eyes.
Stay in it,
she thought.
Focus… retreat, find something…

Back in the clearing. The villagers disbanding, returning to the fields. Tending to the dead. Saying prayers and moving on.

Except for one.

The curly-haired boy.

He slips away from his parents as they go to mourn and prepare the funerals. Scrambles toward the wall of caves, the place that holds such mystery for him, even though for others the caves are used merely for shelter, for makeshift homes.

He follows the tracks of the one-eyed man. Enters the cavern and quickly makes his way after them. Descending deep into the mountainside. Coming to a branching trail, narrowing passageways.

He follows the light ahead, dimming. But he sticks to the shadows and creeps along.

#

Blinking, Phoebe stirred
and opened her eyes. Yawned and popped her ears.

Gotcha,
she thought.
The boy is the key.

And then she noticed Orlando, eyelids moving rapidly. His hand, wielding the pencil, was a blur of motion, creating a series of lines and diagrams, twisting trails through a maze.

"You're seeing it too," she whispered, but Orlando kept drawing. His lips were dry, cracked, and his face slick with sweat. Phoebe couldn't help but smile. His face, so scrunched up tight, muscles in his neck taught. His curly unkempt hair falling over his face. Before she knew it, she found herself touching his hair, brushing it with her fingers as he dreamt.

"Sweet and productive dreams, my prince."