The Atlantis World (The Origin Mystery, Book 3) Page 3

  The screams stopped. Dorian halted.

  Another wail erupted, and he turned a corner, then another. They were coming from behind the double doors directly ahead.

  Dorian leaned against the wall and waited. Answers. Ares had promised him answers, the truth about his past. Like Kate Warner, Dorian had been conceived in another time—before the First World War, saved from the Spanish flu by an Atlantean tube, and awoken in 1978 with the memories of an Atlantean.

  Dorian had Ares’ memories, and those repressed recollections had driven his entire life. Dorian had seen only glimpses: battles on land, sea, air, and the largest battles of all, in space. Dorian longed to know what had happened to Ares, his history, Dorian’s past, his origins. Most of all, he longed to understand himself, the why behind his entire life.

  Dorian wiped away another bit of blood from his nose. The nose bleeds were more frequent now, as were the headaches and nightmares. Something was happening to him. He pushed that out of his mind.

  The doors opened, and Ares strode out, unsurprised to see Dorian.

  Dorian strained to see inside the chamber. A man hung from the wall, blood running from the straps cutting into his outstretched arms and the wounds on his chest and legs. The doors closed, and Ares stopped in the corridor. “You disappoint me, Dorian.”

  “Likewise. You promised me answers.”

  “You’ll have them.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  Dorian closed the distance to Ares. “Now.”

  Ares brought his straightened hand across, striking Dorian in the throat, sending him to the ground, gasping for air.

  “You will give me exactly one more order in your life, Dorian. Do you understand? If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t even tolerate what you just did. But you are me. More so than you know. And I know you better than you know yourself. I haven’t told you about our past because it would cloud your judgment. We have work to do. Knowing the full truth would put you at risk. I’m depending on you, Dorian. In a few short days, we will control this planet. The survivors, the remainder of the human race—a race, I remind you, that I helped create, helped save from extinction—will be the founding members of our army.”

  “Who are we fighting?”

  “An enemy of unimaginable strength.”

  Dorian got to his feet but kept his distance. “I have quite an imagination.”

  Ares resumed his brisk pace, Dorian following at a distance. “They defeated us in a night and a day, Dorian. Imagine that. We were the most advanced race in the known universe—even more advanced than the lost civilizations we had found.”

  They reached the crossroads where an enormous set of doors opened onto the miles of glass tubes that held the Atlantean survivors. “They’re all that’s left.”

  “I thought you said they can never awaken, that their trauma from the attacks was too great for them to overcome.”

  “It is.”

  “You got someone out. Who is he?”

  “He’s not one of them. Of us. He’s not your concern. Your concern is the war ahead.”

  “The war ahead,” Dorian muttered. “We don’t have the numbers.”

  “Stay the course, Dorian. Believe. In a few short days, we will have this world. Then we will embark on the great campaign, a war to save all the human worlds. This enemy is your enemy too. Humans share our DNA. This enemy will come for you too, sooner or later. You cannot hide. But together, we can fight. If we don’t raise our army now, while the window exists, we lose everything. The fate of a thousand worlds rests in your hands.”

  “Right. A thousand worlds. I’d like to point out what I see as a few key challenges. Personnel. There are maybe a few billion humans left on earth. They’re weak, sick, and starving. That’s our army pool—assuming we can even take the planet, and I’m not even sure of that. So a few billion, not necessarily strong, in our ‘army.’ And I use that term loosely. Up against a power that rules the galaxy… Sorry, but I don’t like our chances.”

  “You’re smarter than that, Dorian. You think this war will resemble your primitive ideas about space warfare? Metal and plastic ships floating through space shooting lasers and explosives at each other? Please. You think I haven’t considered our situation? Numbers aren’t our key to victory. I made this plan forty thousand years ago. You’ve been on the case three months. Have faith, Dorian.”

  “Give me a reason.”

  Ares smiled. “You actually think you can goad me into giving you all the answers your little heart desires, Dorian? Want me to make you feel good, whole, safe? That’s why you came to Antarctica originally, isn’t it? To find your father? Uncover the truth about your past?”

  “You treat me like this—after all I’ve done for you?”

  “You’ve done for yourself, Dorian. Ask me the question you really want to ask.”

  Dorian shook his head.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What’s happening to me?” Dorian stared at Ares. “What did you do to me?”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?”

  “Of course there is. You’re human.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m dying. I can feel it.”

  “In time, Dorian. I saved your people. I have a plan. We will establish a lasting peace in this universe. You don’t know how elusive that has been.” Ares stepped closer to Dorian. “There are truths I can’t reveal to you. You’re not ready. Have patience. Answers will come. It’s important I help you understand the past. Your misinterpretation could sink us, Dorian. You’re important. I can do this without you, but I don’t want to. I’ve waited a long time to have someone like you by my side. If your faith is strong enough, there’s no limit to what we can do.”

  Ares turned and led them out of the crossroads, away from the long hall that held the tubes, toward the portal entrance. Dorian followed in silence, a war beginning in his mind: blindly obey or rebel? They suited up without another word and crossed the ice chamber beyond, where the Bell hung.

  Dorian lingered, and his eyes drifted to the ravine where he had found his father, frozen, encased in ice within the EVA suit, a victim of the Bell and his Immari lieutenant, who had betrayed him.

  Ares stepped up onto the metal basket. “The future is all that matters, Dorian.”

  The dark vertical shaft passed in silence, and the basket stopped at the surface. The rows of pop-up habitats spread out across the flat sheet of ice like an endless flow of white caterpillars dug into the snow.

  Dorian had grown up in Germany and then London. He only thought he knew cold. Antarctica was a wilderness with no equal.

  As he and Ares strode toward the central ops building, Immari staffers clad in thick white parkas scurried between the habitats, some saluting, others keeping their heads down as the winds hit them.

  Beyond the caterpillar habitats, along the perimeter, heavy machinery and crews were building the rest of “Fortress Antarctica” as it had become known. Two dozen rail guns sat silently, pointed north, ready for the attack the Immari knew would come.

  No army on Earth was prepared to wage war here—even before the plague. Certainly not after. Air power would mean nothing in the face of the rail guns. Even a massive ground assault, with cover from artillery from the sea, would never succeed. Dorian’s mind drifted to the Nazis, his father’s successors, and their foolish winter campaign in Russia. The Orchid Alliance would face the same fate if, or more likely, when, they landed here.

  Soldiers greeted Dorian and Ares inside central ops and lined the hallways, standing at attention as the two leaders passed. In the situation room, Ares addressed the director of operations. “Are we ready?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve secured the assets around the world. Minimal casualties.”

  “And the search teams?”

  “In place. They’ve all reached the specified drill depths along the perimeter. A few had trouble with pockets in
the ice, but we sent follow-up teams.” The director paused. “However, they haven’t found anything.” He punched a keyboard, and a map of Antarctica appeared. Red dots littered the map.

  What’s he looking for? Dorian wondered. Another ship? No. Martin would have known, surely. Something else?

  Ares stared back at Dorian, and at that moment, Dorian felt something he hadn’t in a long time, even in the corridor below, when Ares had struck him. Fear.

  “Have they lowered the devices I supplied?” Ares asked.

  “Yes,” the director said.

  Ares walked to the front of the room. “Put me on base-wide comm.” The director punched a few keys and nodded to Ares.

  “To the brave men and women working for our cause, who have sacrificed and labored toward our goal, know this: the day we have prepared for has arrived. In a few minutes, we will offer peace to the Orchid Alliance. I hope they accept. We seek peace here on Earth so that we can prepare for a final war with an enemy who knows no peace. That challenge is ahead. Today, I thank you for your service, and I ask you to have faith in the hours to come.” Ares focused on Dorian. “And as your faith is tested, know this: if you want to build a better world, you must first have the courage to destroy the world that exists.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Dr. Paul Brenner rolled over and stared at the clock.

  5:25

  It would ring in five minutes. Then he would turn it off, get up, and get ready—for nothing. There was no job to get to, no work to do, no list of urgent matters to get through. There was only a broken world grasping for direction, and for the last fourteen days, that direction had nothing to do with him. He should have been getting the best sleep of his life, yet something was missing. For some reason, he always awoke just before five-thirty, just before the alarm rang, ready, expectant, as if today everything would change.

  He threw the covers off the bed, shuffled to the master bathroom, and began washing his face. He never took a full shower in the morning. He liked to get to the office quickly, to be the first there, getting a head start on the staff who reported to him. He always hit the gym after work. Ending the day that way helped him relax at home, helped him separate. Or try to. That was tough in his line of work. There was always a new outbreak, a suspected outbreak, or a bureaucratic mess to handle. Directing the CDC’s Division of Global Disease Detection and Emergency Response was a tough job. Contagions were only half the problem.

  And then there were the secrets Paul kept. For the last twenty years, he had worked with a global consortium, planning for the ultimate outbreak, a pandemic that could wipe out the human race—a pandemic that came in the form of the Atlantis Plague. All his years of hard work had paid off. The global task force, Continuity, had contained the plague and finally found a cure—thanks to a scientist he had never met, Dr. Kate Warner. So much about the Atlantis Plague still remained a mystery to Paul, but he knew one thing: it was over. He should have been overjoyed. But mostly, he felt empty, without purpose, adrift.

  He finished washing his face and ran a hand through his short, black, wiry hair, patting down any signs of bed head. In the mirror, he saw the empty king bed and briefly considered going back to sleep.

  What are you getting ready for? The plague is over. There’s nothing left to do.

  No. It wasn’t entirely true. She was waiting for him.

  His bed was empty, but the house wasn’t. He could already smell breakfast cooking.

  He crept down the stairs, careful not to wake his twelve-year-old nephew Matthew.

  A pot clanged in the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Paul whispered the second he crossed the threshold of the kitchen.

  “Morning,” Natalie said, tipping a pan and letting scrambled eggs flow onto a plate. “Coffee?”

  Paul nodded and sat at the small round table next to the bay window that overlooked the sloping yard.

  Natalie set the plate of eggs down alongside a large bowl of grits. The bacon completed the buffet. It was covered with foil, keeping the heat in. Paul served their plates in silence. Before the plague, he usually watched TV while he wolfed down his breakfast, but he much preferred this—having company. He hadn’t had company in a long time.

  Natalie added a dash of pepper to her grits. “Matthew had another nightmare.”

  “Really? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I got him calmed down around three.” She ate a bite of eggs mixed with grits and added some more salt. “You should talk to him about his mother.”

  Paul had been dreading that. “I will.”

  “What are you going to do today?”

  “I don’t know. I thought about going to the depot.” He motioned to the walk-in pantry. “We could run out of food in a few weeks. Better to stock up now before the Orchid Districts empty and there’s a run.”

  “Good idea.” She paused, seeming to want to change the subject. “I have a friend named Thomas. He’s about my age.”

  Paul looked up. Your age?

  “Thirty-five, for the record,” she said with a small smile, answering his unspoken question. She focused on her food, the smile fading. “His wife died of cancer two years ago. He was devastated. He kept the pictures up around the house. He never really got better until he talked about her. For him, that was the key to moving on.”

  Did her husband die? In the Atlantis Plague? Before? Is that what she’s telling me? Paul was an expert at unraveling retroviruses, or anything in a lab for that matter. People, especially women, were a real mystery to him. “Yes, I agree. For anyone who has… lost someone, I think talking about it is very healthy.”

  Natalie leaned in, but across the room, an alarm rang out, piercing the moment. Not an alarm, a phone. Paul’s landline.

  Paul rose and picked up the phone.

  “Paul Brenner.”

  He listened, nodded several times, and tried to ask a question, but the line was dead before he had a chance.

  “Who was it?”

  “The Administration,” Paul said. “They’re sending a car for me. There’s some kind of problem in the Orchid Districts. ”

  “You think the plague has mutated? Another wave of infection?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  Natalie was the only remaining member of the Continuity research staff—the team that had coordinated the global efforts to cure the Atlantis Plague. Before that, she had been a researcher working in a lab at the CDC. She likely couldn’t add anything research-wise, but for some reason, Paul did want her along. But there was a more important issue. “I need someone to stay here with Matthew. I can’t ask you—”

  “You don’t have to. We’ll be here when you get back.”

  Upstairs Paul dressed quickly. He wanted to get back to his conversation with Natalie, but he had to admit: it felt good to be getting dressed for work, to be needed, to have somewhere to go. He heard a horn honk outside. He glanced out the window and saw a black sedan with tinted windows, idling, sending clouds of exhaust into the cold, barely lit morning.

  At the front door, he jerked his trench coat out of the closet. On the opposite side of the foyer, a small table held a picture frame with a wedding photo of Paul and his wife. Ex-wife. She had left four years ago.

  Is that what she thinks? That my wife is dead?

  Of course. All the pictures were still up, scattered around the house.

  Paul had the irresistible urge to set the record straight before he left. “Natalie.”

  “Just a minute,” she called from the kitchen.

  Paul glanced at the wedding picture again. The last conversation with his wife ran through his head.

  “You work too much, Paul. You’re always going to work too much. It just can’t work.”

  Paul had sat on the couch—ten feet from where he now stood—staring at the floor.

  “Movers are coming tomorrow for my things. I don’t want to fight.”

&nb
sp; And they hadn’t. In fact, he still held no hard feelings. She had moved to New Mexico, and they had stayed in touch over the years, but he hadn’t taken the pictures down. It had never even occurred to him. For the first time, he regretted that.

  Natalie’s voice interrupted his memory. “In case they don’t feed you.”

  Paul took the brown paper bag. He motioned to the picture on the table. “About my wife—”

  The horn rang out, a long blow this time.

  “We can talk when you get back. Be careful.”

  Paul began to reach for her but hesitated. He reached for the door instead and trudged toward the car. Two Marines exited, and the closest opened the door for him. They were off several seconds later.

  Paul turned and looked back through the rearview window at his two-story brick home, wishing he’d had more time there.

  CHAPTER 6

  Orchid District Beta

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Paul Brenner stared out the window of the fourth floor conference room, trying to understand. Rows of people lined the streets. Medical staff processed the lines, taking readings and directing people to different buildings, where they wandered out exhausted. It was almost as if everyone were undergoing a physical.

  “What do you think, Paul?”

  Paul turned to find Terrance North, the new Secretary of Defense, standing in the doorway. North was a former Marine, and although he wore a close-fitting navy suit, he still looked like a soldier, his face lean, his posture rigid. Paul had met North several times via video conference during the Atlantis Plague but never in person, where he was certainly more imposing.

  Paul pointed to the street below. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”

  “Preparations for war.”

  “War with whom?”

  “The Immari.”

  “Impossible. The Europeans crushed them in Southern Spain. They’re in shambles, and the plague is cured. They’re no threat.”

  North closed the door behind him and activated the large screen in the conference room. “You’re talking about organized warfare. A war that resembles any past war.”