The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption (46 page)

“Area 51, Nevada, United States, Terra,” Spud
recited as he continued his Ergal study. “However, we do not seem
to be able to communicate with Earth Core, nor Luna Outpost.”

John cursed under his breath. “How’s your
Somalderis? Still there?”

I felt under my blouse. Yes, the Somalderis
was still wrapped around my chest, intact. But there was no Nephil
Stratum within our sights.

Spud shook his head. “I did not expect that
she would be making the trip back with us.” He sighed, and snapped
off his Ergal. “Well, our historical records are of no assistance.
We are on our own. I propose we start ambulating towards the main
base structures, which, I recall, are approximately 2.69 miles from
the transport portal.” He pointed beyond a grove of bushes. “There
is a dirt path over there.”

As I squinted in that direction, John ambled
over behind me and rested his arms on my shoulders. “I don’t see
it. Where?” he said, as we saw Spud heading off ahead.

Spying a narrow trail in the distance, I
raised a finger to show him. “Ow!” The arm holding my Ergal was
twisted back, and I lost my grip on the Zygan tool. I tried to spin
around, but John’s other arm had trapped me in a tight hold. “What
are you doing?” I cried.

Struggling to get free, I felt John’s arm
reach into my blouse and pull on my Somalderis. His strength now
far surpassed mine, thanks to Anesidora. “Spud! Help!” I cried.

John cursed as he dragged me towards, towards
the portal, while trying to manipulate my Ergal that he’d caught
with his free hand. “Just stay still. I won’t hurt you,” he
muttered. “Now!”

I saw Spud turn and start running towards us.
And then one eye saw flashing light and the other morbid darkness.
John’s arm floated away in pursuit of his legs. My own limbs were
somersaulting in orbit around my nose.

A sharp thud, and I felt the warm grass under
my supine body once again. A second thud and John lay next to me,
panting as I was, catching his breath.

I flung open my eyes, and saw an ashen Spud
standing over us, glowering at my brother.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” John joked as
he sat up with a grunt.

Neither Spud nor I were laughing. “You should
be aware that transport requires both the fleece
and
a
functioning Ergal.” Spud picked up my Ergal from the ground next to
John’s feet and shook it. “Neither of our Ergals are able to
provide the necessary power in their current state.”

“Dammit, John. We could’ve been killed!” I
was furious. “For your stupid, stupid obsession.”

John rubbed his eyes, and didn’t meet mine.
“Benedict and the Syneph are on the brink of a journey that no
living human has been a part of, Shiloh. The chance to visit
Heaven, Level 3, without the curse of death. How could I just walk
away from that?”

“Nephil Stratum wouldn’t have sent you back
with us if she wanted you on that voyage.”

John spun to face me. “And who appointed
her
God?”

“Who appointed
you
God?” I
returned.

A harrumph next to us. “As a Deist, I find
this conversation fascinating. As a traveller in what is now an
even stranger land than your America, however, I suggest we
postpone this discussion until we can deduce why this Nevada is no
longer a desert, but resembles the Canadian tundra.”

John seemed poised to shoot back a reply, but
held his tongue, murmuring, “You’ve got a good point there.” His
brows knitted together. “If the topography of this region has
changed so much, we’d better be ready for other changes. These
Ergals don’t work, so we don’t have any weapons, right?”

Spud picked up a large branch from the brush
and held it towards us like a cricket bat. “Better than nothing.
Just in case we meet any other hikers on the path.”

We did the same. John used to be a Little
League champion, and took the opportunity to practice a few swings
with a thick cast-off. I could feel the wind brush past my face as
he swung high and strong. I bet he could still hit a home run.

“What’s your name again? Ascot?” he growled
at Spud.

“William Escott.” Spud’s tone was ice
cold.

“Well, William Escott, I say we don’t take
any chances. Do you have any evidence we’re even in the same
century we left? What if we have to fight off rifles, spears, bows
and arrows? Or go back even farther—dinosaurs? My batting skills
won’t stand up to a T. Rex.”

“The date on my Ergal is one day after our
transport to Benedict’s brane,” Spud said. “Even with a global
catastrophe, there would not be enough time for our Jurassic
ancestors to reclaim their lands in one day.”

John rolled his eyes. “I meant we should keep
hidden. Parallel the path, but make our way through the woods.
Let’s see them before they see us.”

Maybe my arms crossed over my chest gave my
feelings away. John lowered his voice. “I had to try, Sis. It
didn’t work. It’s over, okay?” He favored me with a hint of a
smile. “We’re on the same team.”

“We were,” I grumbled. Clutching my makeshift
club, I nodded at Spud to lead the way. Would that I could trust
this, this
stranger
standing by my side. Another one of
John’s favorite phrases was resonating in my memory.
Patience is
the champion’s best tool.
Was John just biding his time until
we could get our Ergals working, and he could try again to escape
back to Benedict’s lair?

I watched my brother set off after Spud, and
tried to swallow down the lump in my throat. I’d spent the last
three years dreaming every night that I’d see John again. Where was
the John of my dreams?

Chapter 11

New World Braves

We followed John’s advice and kept a low
profile among the trees on the path, using Spud’s Ergal compass and
the sun as a guide. Aside from some scurrying wildlife, there were
no signs of habitation; human, at least.

After two hours of trekking, we had long
passed the location where the Area 51’s offices, warehouses,
hangars, and other buildings should have been. The mountains
surrounding our valley looked little different than they had when
we’d left, except for the tall pines that blanketed them in a coat
of green. Far off to the northeast we could catch the first
glimpses of a shimmering lake.

I was grateful for the hearty breakfast of
“Eggs Benedict” in Valholler this morning, but eager for some water
to quench my thirst. “How about we head that way and get some
H-two-oh?” I suggested. “Doesn’t look like the base commissary is
open.”

Ten minutes later, we had reached the water’s
edge. I carefully swept a few ounces of the lake’s clear liquid in
the palm of my cupped hand and sprinkled it my dry mouth. No side
effects. I nodded, and we all ladled the liquid down our parched
throats.

Spud sat on a flat boulder checking his Ergal
as I splashed water on my face and neck. John, gripping his branch,
kept a lookout on the horizon.

“Groom Lake,” Spud informed us.

“Really,” John said, sounding surprised.

“Huh?” I was just as confused. Wasn’t Groom
Lake a
dry
lakebed? “How could it be so, well, wet?”

“It is only a theory, but I surmise
that—“

“Sas filoxenoume, xenoi!” a voice interrupted
from behind.

We all spun around to see a tall, smiling
man, whose dark curls framed his sharp features, extending both
arms to welcome us. He was wearing a flowing white garment that
covered his shoulders and ended just below his knees. His legs were
tanned and muscular, his feet wrapped in green sandals, toes
peeking through the straps of cornsilk. He continued to talk. We
continued not to understand a word he said.

“Nai, irthame apo makria,” Spud suddenly
returned. He tapped his lit Ergal to explain his fluency—apparently
the internal translation banks were working.

Dubious, I activated my Ergal. Was this
language in its data banks?

“A combination of ancient and modern Greek,”
Spud whispered in English before continuing in hybrid Greek, “We
are seeking food and shelter.”

“That is the right of every man,” the man
answered, as our Ergals translated, “and so we shall provide.” He
pointed at a trail off to one side. “Please join me.”

We looked at each other, hesitant. John
shrugged and returned the man’s smile.

“You will not need your walking sticks,” the
man added, eyeing our branches. “We have assisted
transportation.”

O-kay. I glanced at my companions again. Spud
jumped in, “A good walking stick is hard to find. Perhaps you would
allow us to keep ours for the rest of our journey.” Spud smiled as
well. “I did not catch your name.”

“I am Heron of Nea Alexandria,” the man said,
nodding at our weapons. “Alas, that is not possible. However, I can
hold them and return them to you after you depart our town.” He
waved a hand toward a three wheeled vehicle resembling a triangular
golf cart that appeared parked behind a cluster of trees. How
convenient. The cart had seats for four, three in the back and one
in the front.

“Solar panels,” John said as we neared. “Look
up top.” I could see the cells that absorbed the sun’s rays on the
cart’s roof.

Heron took our sticks and stowed them in a
vault under our seats. We sat, as directed, crowded together in the
back, while Heron slid into the solitary seat in the front behind a
notebook-sized screen. Heron then pressed a button on the cart’s
dash and the screen lit up, looking—ha--like a colorful 2 D nav
holo.

Heron’s fingers tapped several buttons on the
display, and our cart lurched forward, its wheels crunching leaves
and branches along the bumpy path. “Electric,” John relayed to us,
“No engine noise.”

Less than a mile down the road, the cart
steered onto a paved track, and we felt our seats jiggle and rise a
few inches. “Maglev,” Spud inserted before John could open his
mouth. “See the magnets lining the track there.”

I stifled a giggle at the sour expression on
John’s face. Then my head shot back once again as we accelerated,
sans wheel crunching, to a speed that rivaled John’s motorcycle on
I-70. Without traffic. “Woo-hoo,” I ventured, but only the wind
could hear me.

Giant windmills, tethered to the tallest
trees, lined our way, and stretched for miles and miles on either
side of us, their blades twirling as we whistled past. Every mile
or so, a leg of the track would branch off in a different direction
and disappear into the woods, a concrete spider web invading the
forest. At each intersection, a small sign in the Greek alphabet as
well as a few pictograph symbols identified the destination for
each branch. The Greek letters on one sounded out as tł'iish Kóh,
which my Ergal translated as “snake water” in Apache. Apache?
Another sign read SháHashtaal in what my Ergal said was
“Nabaxo”.

In minutes we reached a clearing and could
see a settlement appearing on the horizon, shaded by luxurious
maple trees. Our cart began to slow down, and I was able to hear
our driver. “Nea Alexandria is only another twenty decastadia.”

Spud raised an eyebrow and did some
calculations with his Ergal, as John and I focused on the landscape
before us. “Is that a river?” I asked our host.

“Yes, the Amargosa. Our town is nestled
against the bay.”

Another eyebrow from Spud. A quick glance at
his Ergal showed he was following our trail on one of our maps. I
shook my head. No point in trying to find our location on a world
that clearly was not the one we’d left.

“And here we are,” Heron said as the cart
exited the maglev track and, back on electric power, slowed to a
stop in front of a tall stucco wall and polished brass gate. After
we hopped out, the cart, wheels down, rolled by itself to a parking
area filled with carts of various sizes and took an empty space in
the lot.

“Where exactly is that?” John asked.

“Nea Alexandria is one of the larger
Koinotist communities in the USA,” Heron boasted.

My question about the label Koinotist was
trumped by my elation that we were in the US. Maybe we weren’t that
far from home after all.

But Spud did have to pierce my balloon of
hope. “The USA?”

“Yes, the Utopian States of Anatolia, of
course.” Heron indulged, raising an eyebrow in Spudian fashion.

Double Doomed.

* * *

Nea Alexandria, USA—present day?

We had walked for what seemed like miles,
winding through a network of paths paved with a spongy material
that put a literal spring in our step. Lining the walkways were
small one-storey cottages, each unique in its shape and color, but
similar in size. The tree-lined streets of Nea Alexandria were
filled with people, some tall, some short, some beige, some brown,
some young, some old; most dressed like Heron, in toga-type clothes
and sandals. Almost everyone smiled and greeted Heron as we passed.
To our surprise, they also greeted us with the Greek version of
“Welcome, Visitors”.

A few of the residents were using motorized
scooters or wheelchairs to get around, but we saw no carts or
larger motor vehicles inside the town. All that walking seemed to
keep everyone fit, I noted, as the pedestrians seemed to radiate
that trim, healthy glow that makes most of my fellow actors in
Hollywood the envy of Middle America. I didn’t see any fast food
restaurants around, so…

“I’m hungry,” John said after a half hour on
foot. “Is there a place here we can get something to eat?”

Another eyebrow and patronizing look. “Of
course,” Heron finally replied, “Luncheon service should begin in a
few minutes.”

I glanced at Spud. A faint shoulder shrug
came back at me, which meant “go with the flow”. We did.

Heron guided us to a large auditorium which
was filled with tables and chairs—and Nea Alexandrians. “We can eat
now and then you can help with the clean-up,” he said, gesturing
for us to sit. “Visitors usually find it the easiest
contribution.”