THE SWORD OF FOREVER

'Alternatively I could have your wife and daughter arrested.

Conspiracy, heresy... I understand you think very highly of

them. I understand your daughter is very beautiful. I do not

understand beauty, sir knight. I understand only mathematics.

Only balance. I trust my meaning is clear?'

De Chalons summoned the strength to spit at the diminutive

man before him.

De Nogaret's expression did not change. 'Do you find the

sight of me such a distraction then?' To the gaolers arranged

beside him, de Nogaret ordered, 'Take his eyes that he may

suffer no more such distractions, then bring him to me while

the pain is still fresh in his mind.' As de Chalons was

dragged from the chamber, de Nogaret said quietly, 'And

bring his family as well.' To de Chalons he added, ‘I had

hoped for an easier road but now I will set my mind from

such a course. You have chosen the road, sir knight, and now

together we will travel along it: two humble men sharing a

single horse; a single destination: the truth.'

T

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THE SWORD OF FOREVER

Jim Mortimore

First published in Great Britain in 1998 by

Virgin Publishing Ltd

332 Ladbroke Grove

London W10 5AH

Copyright © Jim Mortimore 1998

The right of Jim Mortimore to be identified as the Author of this Work has

been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and

Patents Act 1988.

Bernice Summerfield was originally created by Paul Cornell

Cover illustration by Mike Posen

ISBN 0 426 20526 X

Typeset by Galleon Typesetting, Ipswich

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Mackays of Chatham PLC

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real

persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the

publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other

than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Then

And the Lord God said, ‘Behold, the man is become as

one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put

forth his hand and take also from the tree of life, and

eat, and live forever.’ And He drove out the man; and

placed at the East of the Garden of Eden Cherubims

and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep

the way of the tree of life.

Genesis, 3: 22-24

Now

Mankind’s two most dangerous inventions, I submit,

are language and the movie camera.

Grant Morrison

The Invisibles, Volume 2/14

PROLOGUE

GUARDIANS OF FOREVER

1

EGYPT: 1287

The desert festered under a dazzling, cloud-girdled sun.

Ripples like those on the surface of a pond rose from the

dunes, meshing the ground to the sky so that the only thing

by which they could be separated was the subtle graduation

between glaring white sand and burning white sky. Even the

thin clouds seemed to ripple, white upon greater whiteness.

Everything here took its shape and texture from the endless

curve of the desert; only the pot-bellied sun defied the eternal

iteration of shape.

Hughes de Chalons scraped his filthy fingers through his

unkempt beard and prayed for water. It was hard to

remember the sight and taste of open water, harder still to

remember the proud curve of an oak or birch, the colourful

spray of leaves. De Chalons scratched, digging beneath his

armour to get at the ironically sun-starved flesh beneath.

Beside de Chalons his companion, Henry LeCroix, cast a

leer as heavy as his armour-sheathed belly. ‘You stink, my

friend. You stink worse than a camel.’

De Chalons managed a toothy smile. ‘My brother, we all

stink in the sight of God. We fight for him and we stink for

him. What a shame He is not here to join our merriment and

muck out our cages!’

‘It is a shame his priests could not arrange for better

armour, of that I am sure. But take care with your words.

God hears all, my friend, and He will strike you down if He

desires it.’

De Chalons waved his arms and allowed himself to topple

on to the sand. ‘My Lord, methinks He has already struck!’

LeCroix pulled de Chalons to his feet and the two men

bellowed with laughter. The laughter sapped energy in the

dreadful heat but de Chalons did not care. He simply

continued to place one mailed foot in front of the other and

plod steadily across the shifting dunes, LeCroix beside him,

both men leading a single stolen camel laden with enough

looted gold to sink a small barge.

The knights continued to walk - plod, rather - into the

white glare of noon. Their shields and helmets had been

abandoned days before, their swords fastened to the camel

with the packs containing the gold. It had been a long time

since the attack - and things before that were more than a

little hazy. It was as if the sun had driven a huge torch

through the top of de Chalons’ head to erase the memories of

a life prior to this apparently endless experience of burning

sand and burning sky, stinking camel and clatter of booty.

The attack had been a surprise, he remembered that much.

Turks. Muslims. Egyptians. He could not remember, but the

result was the same: four of their party - what were their

names? Edward? Francis? It did not matter; they were with

God now - left for dead and as many wounded. Only de

Chalons and LeCroix had escaped - by the simple expedient

of grabbing the first camel and running into the night. They

had planned to ride the camel; they had not realized it

still carried looted treasure. Now they had to walk, for the

thought of losing the treasure had become as abhorrent to

both of them as the unwashed smell of their own bodies - an

odour which came through wearing armour continuously for

the weeks and months of the Crusade in which they had

until recently fought.

The attackers - he wished he could remember who they

had been - had followed them of course. Three of them on

horseback. LeCroix had killed two, de Chalons the remaining

one. One of the horses had broken a leg as it fell and the

other two had bolted. They had left the corpses to rot in the

sun. It had seemed too much effort to bury them. And

anyway, the enemy were heathen and did not deserve a

Christian burial.

Now... well, some time had passed. Enough for de

Chalons to have forgotten the faces and names of his fellow

knights as easily as he had forgotten the smell of fresh water,

the shape of an oak leaf, the wild joy of the hunt, the

sensation of a full belly, the scented touch of wenches and

the worried obedience of servants. All that remained now was

white sand and sky, gold sun and camel. White gold. De

Chalons was sure it would be the last thing he saw.

And then - unexpectedly in this land of relentless

monotony - something changed.

De Chalons became aware he was sitting down on the cool

sand, allowing the sweat to dry on his face, his eyes slowly

cracking open as the light level fell. Slowly, his mind reached

an understanding of what had happened to him.

In this land of eternal fire, he was sitting in the shade.

The shape looming above the sand was carved from a block

of sandstone to resemble a creature combining the features

of a man with the body of a lion. It was as big as a small fort.

Beyond it, three artificial hills divided the sky into

contrasting wedges, their sides steep and impossibly regular.

De Chalons stared dumbly up at the group of objects and

tried to understand how anything so strange could come to

be.

His musings were interrupted as LeCroix, abandoning the

camel, wrenched his sword from his pack and ran screaming

towards the huge lion-like construction. In truth, he

staggered and his voice was little more than a moisture-

starved whisper but his intent was clear enough. ‘They mock

our Lord and Master. Our King! They mock the Lionheart

with this abomination! I will – ulp!’

LeCroix fell over suddenly and lay gasping in the shadow

of the stone beast, so weak from exhaustion and thirst that

his own sword was now too heavy for him to lift.

De Chalons crawled laughing to LeCroix. ‘You cannot...

you cannot attack a stone monster with a sword... let alone

a sword you cannot even lift.’

‘I will kill the damnable thing ere I die!’

‘But it is not alive!’

‘Not alive?’ LeCroix’s voice affected a puzzled tone.

‘No. It is simply stone. Carved stone.’

‘Not alive?’ Indignant anger now joined the puzzled tone.

‘No, Henry. And neither is the Lionheart. He died when

your grandfather was but a boy.’

‘He did?’

‘My brother, I fear this heathen sun has scrambled your

wits like hen’s eggs.’

‘Oh.’ LeCroix’s indignant frown split into a grin. ‘Well then,

I suppose we had better see if there’s any heathen wine to be

had with these heathen eggs of which my mind is composed.’

‘And any heathen meat to go with the heathen wine, eh?’

‘And heathen women to go with the heathen meat!’

De Chalons sighed. ‘My friend, if bad jokes were good

deeds you would surely rest eternal in God’s Heaven.’

Laughing weakly, LeCroix staggered to his feet and the

two men moved unsteadily towards the nearest wall of the

vast stone shape looming above them.

The front limbs of the stone creature spread out around

them as they came closer, like an enormous cat toying with

the lives of kitchen rats. It was not a pleasant thought. But

neither was dying of thirst. They had to find water.

They continued towards the wall and there, at the base of a

statue positioned between the great stone paws, and

apparently carved to represent an ancient king, they found a

door.

The door was of carved stone, heavy, apparently

immovable. But such was the engineering skills of those who

had built this ancient monolith that the slightest pressure of

a hand caused the wind-scoured portal to swing open,

revealing to the startled knights a darkened passage leading

at a sharp angle downwards into the earth.

Once inside the passage the air became dry and cold. There

was no light. The passage arrowed deeper into the earth.

Then it stopped and abruptly doubled back, descending even

more steeply. But now there was light. Just a glimmer but

enough to awaken eyes close to sleep, minds close to death.

The light was flickering. Candles? Torches?

Reflections.

From water.

From a pool of water.

Only after they had drunk their fill and rested did de Chalons

think to study the chamber in any detail. It was large. The

roof was supported by rows of columns. It was like being in a

stone forest. Stone flagging coated every surface. There was

no ornamentation or covering of any description. The

chamber was plain, faced sandstone. There was no clue to its

age or function.

The pool from which they had drunk was rectangular,

some forty paces by sixty. Steps led into the water, which

was jet black and apparently bottomless. A stone platform

within the pool and completely cut off from the chamber by

the water held a maze of columns between which dim

torchlight illuminated a further raised platform.

On the platform was a stone box.

LeCroix eyed the box acquisitively. ‘Treasure?’

De Chalons nodded. ‘What else would be hidden from the

sight of God so far beneath this hellish land?’

‘Then we’ll take it?’

‘For glory and God!’ De Chalons stripped off his armour

and waded into the pool. A moment later LeCroix followed

him.

The platform was very large, though it apparently served

no purpose other than that of a resting place for the box.

The box itself was without ornamentation, with proportions

which matched the platform and the pool, and the chamber

beyond. De Chalons had a brief impression of patterns within

patterns but the moment passed without further insight. ‘We

must beware heathen traps,’ de Chalons muttered as he

studied the box.

LeCroix’s interest was more pragmatic. ‘Does it have a

lid? Can we open it?’

‘Fetch your sword and we will see.’

‘All the way from the surface? Why make that effort when

a dagger will suffice?’ LeCroix set the blade of his dagger to

the seal of the lid and began to explore the join.

A moment later the lid fell off. LeCroix leant forward

eagerly to see within but his eyes never beheld the contents

of the box. Instead he fell to the ground, eyes blank, a

juddering sigh the only sign to mark his sudden death.

De Chalons whirled - staggered would have been a better

word - only to find himself at the bloodstained point of a

sword held by the figure of a knight.

He took in the figure in a second - the armour was old

and dented, bearing the scars of ancient combat, the figure

stooped and obviously old - but nonetheless able and willing

to dispatch de Chalons to whatever hereafter his brother

knight had already arrived at.

The figure moved forward. De Chalons backed from the

sword, only to find himself pressed up against the unyielding

side of the stone box. The sword dug painfully into his chest.

In his weakened, state there was no possibility of escape.

Then, the sword stopped. The knight hesitated. The point

of the sword moved to examine the Templar seal which hung

about de Chalons’ neck on a chain of fine gold. The seal was

of plain design, two poor knights riding a single horse. It

stood for charity and justice.

The sword lowered. De Chalons gauged his chances of

escape by fleeing. They were slim.

‘At last.’ The knight’s voice was old and weary beyond

measure, but unmistakably that of a woman. ‘The new

Guardian. The new Guardian of Forever. And not before

time.’ The knight removed her helmet and shook out long

strands of wispy grey hair. She scratched her neck.

‘Wretched armour.’

De Chalons blinked stupidly. He was delirious. This was

impossible. A woman. In armour! And - he now noticed -

wearing the seal of the Knights Templar.

He studied the woman more closely. Her face was ancient,

lined with experience and combat scars. Yet her eyes were

bright, though whether through life or madness, he could not

tell. And it seemed to de Chalons as if an infinite weariness

had been lifted from her at the sight of him, the realization of

what he was.

He struggled to his feet, casting a look sideways at the

body of LeCroix, awkwardly heaped beside the stone box,

one foot draped over the stone platform and dangling in the

water. He wanted to speak but there were no words.

The knight saw his hesitation and frowned. ‘I left the door

open for you. It’s been open for years. I’ve been waiting here

for years. Why are you so late?’

De Chalons felt his mind spin. ‘Is there to be no apology

then? No explanations for your words of madness? How can

you know of our presence here when we did not know

ourselves? And I demand that you explain the presumption

of wearing the Templar Seal or as God is my witness I will

take your miserable life with your own sword!’

The knight smiled. ‘If you had worn the armour God

provided you with as you are sworn to I’d have known who

you were. As for the Seal’ - her voice deepened - ‘I do not

wear the Templar Seal. Rather you wear mine.’

She pointed at the stone reliquary. ‘Forever waits in the

box. It is yours now.’

De Chalons stared into the box. It was full of scrolls.

Ancient papyrus tubes each sealed with dusty wax and a

single drop of LeCroix’s blood.

When he looked up the knight was gone.

He never saw her again.

2

ARGINY: 2562

The woman with mismatched eyes held out her hand

impatiently.

‘Journal.’

Her voice was dry, impatient, slightly distracted. She did

not look at her companion, trusting that he would simply

obey her demand. Instead her gaze was focused on the

hybrid landscape beyond the hill on which they stood, a

rolling jungle of alien blues and scarlets as well as the more

normal terrestrial greens and browns.

Eyes which had studied human and alien historical relics

alike narrowed suddenly, darting to follow a swathe of

movement within the jungle canopy. Animals screeched. A

mind which had for five years eavesdropped on the whispered

secrets of the earth, now wondered how many of those

sounds had never before been heard by human ears.

‘Was that one of the trees?’

Her companion nodded as he dug an ancient leather-bound

book from his backpack and handed it to her. ‘Tiger-willow.

Solo hunters. We have to beat them back regularly with

napalm. It’s the only thing that’ll touch them. Sonics are

useless.’

‘Mmm.’ A lean hand grasped the diary, lifting it towards

the narrowed eyes. One callused fingertip traced the seal of

the Knights Templar chased into the leather in tarnished gold

leaf. ‘It’s been a while, Guillaume.’ Her voice was soft, the

intimate caress of a lover. ‘Twelve hundred years. But I’ve

got you right where I want you now.’

Fingers crisscrossed with hundreds of near-invisible rock

scars flipped open the stiff pages, riffled the crackling vellum,

halted at a particular page. There were drawings here: a

sketch of a landscape, a building long since vanished into

antiquity.

‘Arginy.’ Her voice was now little more than a breath, a

whisper borne out from her lips on the wind gusting fitfully

around the granite outcropping which held them so high

above the jungle - the last wall against which, even now,

evolution was propelling a myriad unclassified terrestrial-

alien hybrids. ‘The Castle of Arginy. The Finger.’

Benny Summerfield lifted her eyes from the diary. She

watched the hybrid jungle break repeatedly against the wall

of the Massif Central like a sea and wondered how long it

would be before even that immense wall broke.

Before her the Rhone Valley festered under a wine-

coloured sun. Perhaps festered was the wrong word - but to

her it seemed appropriate. Interplanetary war had left Earth

a changed world - and the changes were hardly subtle.

She carefully rewrapped the diary in its oilskin cloth and

handed the ancient book back to her companion. ‘We set up

camp here. Place the sonic projectors to the east and set

them for thrash-metal - bloodweeds hate thrash.’

As her companion complied, unpacking a tent and hunting

through his pack for some appropriate music, Benny stared

at the checkered map of Europe spread out before her.

Sunset lay at their backs and the hills cast long shadows

across the schizophrenic landscape to the east. Anything

up to a century before Rhone had been famous for idyllic

European scenery and the production of medium-poor

wine. Now the valley was famous for death. Missiles had

rained down upon Europe for nearly a month during the

heaviest part of the war. It wasn’t until a decade later that

the retroviruses lying dormant in the missile casings had

been discovered. The war had been well underway by then,

humanity with the upper hand. But the viruses had been

spread - ironically - by a military hungry to investigate the

alien technology. And the legacy of the conflict grew, seeping

undetected into the air and the water, insinuating itself into

the food chain, producing the first of a series of changes

which, by the time they were discovered, were unstoppable.

Even sterilization by nukes or antimatter would not have

worked. By the time of their discovery the retroviruses

inhabited 68 per cent of terrestrial DNA across more than 40

per cent of the globe. Most of them seemed harmless -

physical changes affected only a small proportion of those

infected. But no one knew when the next changes would

begin or what they would be, or what species they would

affect. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that they

would be spectacular.

As spectacular as those already wrought within the Rhone

Valley - one of many places on the globe where evolution

had apparently gone wild, producing a hundred, a thousand,

species of mutant terrestrial strains, or hybrid terrestrial-

alien strains of plant, animal and human life.

The more outspoken voices of government had wanted to

go ahead with sterilization anyway - so perhaps it was

fortunate that Earth itself was still in a political and

economical recession. More moderate voices - in Benny’s

opinion just as daft - thought the alien incursions into the

biosphere were merely a psychological tactic by a defeated

enemy, designed to show the collective mind of man what it

was like from the other side of the fence. Prosecuting a racial

war against non-terrestrial life became a moot exercise when

you could no longer tell whether the life on your own world

was strictly terrestrial any more. How could you kill the

aliens if you might be one yourself?

Either way there was no solution and, in any case, Benny

wasn’t looking for one. She was looking for something far

more important. Together with her fellow, slightly reluctant

expedition member, Daniel Beaujeu, eldest son of the current

Count of Arginy, Benny was conducting her own search

among the mutated forests and herds and tribes of Rhone: a

crusade to find the long-abandoned Castle of Arginy where it

was rumoured the Holy Finger of John the Baptist had been

hidden, along with a whole yummy mountain of Templar

loot, more than a thousand years before, sometime in the

thirteenth century.

Benny had her twenty-two-year-old sights firmly fixed on

qualifying for her doctorate with a serious A-plus, an early

fellowship and residency on a planet where the summers

were warm, the ice-cream cool, the cashflow was good and

the damnable Military couldn’t make her sign away her life

to the next tiresome interstellar conflict. The Finger of John

the Baptist would get her all that and more.

Four weeks, seventy-three miles and one sprained wrist

later she set eyes for the first time on the crumbling remains

of Castle Arginy and for the first time had an inkling of

precisely how large was the gulf between her dream and

reality.

Castle Arginy stood atop a hill, smothered in hybrid

vegetation, the stone of its walls peeling away at the insistent

touch of time and the elements. Getting in would not be

hard. Holes gaped in the walls where snakevines had torn

nests. Bones littered the ground. No, getting in would not be

hard. But getting out again. That would be the trick.

Beside her Daniel stood quite still. He seemed awed but

Benny knew that was not the case. Daniel was a quiet man

but that did not conflict with his determination or the basic

untameable nature of his spirit. It was why she was attracted

to him, of course. That and other reasons. Like his willing-

ness to ‘borrow’ the de Beaujeu journal from his family

without their knowledge. Well, without their consent, any-

way. Now he spoke and his voice was quiet, deliberate, his

words sparse and precisely chosen. ‘There will be traps.’

‘Of course.’

‘Lethal guardians designed to prevent looters gaining

access to the treasure.’

‘I know.’

‘We could be killed.’

‘Are you scared?’

‘Of course. You are not?’

‘No. Traps set by human mind can be overcome by human

mind.’

‘You are optimistic, Benny Summerfield.’

‘I am practical.’

‘Is that why I love you?’

She looked sideways at him. ‘Do you love me?’

‘You doubt it?’

‘You never say it as a statement of fact. You always ask it

as a question, inviting response.’

‘It is my way.’

She shook her head, running one calloused hand through

her hair. ‘You men, you love to be mysterious.’

He smiled. ‘But you women, you love a mystery. You love

to plumb our depths, to steal our secrets, to take our hearts

home for booty. You loot us as you loot antiquity.’

She smiled. ‘That’s not very romantic.’

‘Do you believe in romance?’

‘And not entirely true, either,’ she added, avoiding the

point. ‘I am a scientist. A historian and sometime

anthropologist. An archaeologist. I love this work.’

‘And like all lovers, you inevitably destroy that which you

love.’

She hesitated, listening to the sound of the jungle moving

around them. ‘I’ll tell you what I believe in, Daniel.’ She

shouldered her pack and, using her bowie knife, began to

hack a path through the jungle towards the summit of the

hill. ‘I believe in an early start and a serious knees-up

afterwards. Just the three of us. You, me and the Finger that

grassed up Christ.’

‘Fingers can’t drink.’

‘Oh really?’ She smiled. ‘In that case, I suppose it’ll have

to be just the two of us then, won’t it?’

And once again, using the bowie knife and a determination

which was at least as sharp as the blade, Benny Summer-

field began to hack her way up the hill towards the dark

enshrouded walls of Castle Arginy and an uncertain future.

3

PARIS: 1307

The most embarrassing part of the whole issue, de Chalons

told himself as he was chained to the dungeon wall, was not

that agents of King Philip of France had arrested him on

suspicion of heresy but that they had found him in the

flea-ridden bed of a cheap local whore. The charge he fully

expected would be quashed within the hour - the gossip

would take longer to live down.

Now, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and his

ears to the dank silence, de Chalons found himself not to be

alone. Other men were chained in the dripping dungeon. Men

whose voices he recognized.

‘LeFevre? They have you too?’

‘They have us all, de Chalons.’ The voice was weak,

steeped in pain as a good brandy might be steeped in herbs,

but without so charming an effect.

‘I don’t understand.’ De Chalons tested his chains. They

were unbreakable. ‘Cannot Monsigneur de Molay arrange for

our release?’

A bitter laugh. ‘Even the Grand Master of our Order is

powerless against the King. Monsigneur de Molay has been

arrested along with the rest of us, my friend. King Philip

is taking no chances today. He means to see our Order

destroyed. Humbled and destroyed.’

‘He is insane! Mad to think he can get away with this.’ Rage

filled de Chalons’ head. ‘I’ll see him swing for this,

king or no!’

Another cracked laugh from LeFevre. ‘When they have

taken your eyes as they have done mine, you will be unable

to see anything, my friend, no matter how richly deserved.’

De Chalons felt an unfamiliar feeling stir in his breast. It

was a feeling he had last seen upon the lips of Henry LeCroix

as he lay dying in a reliquary beneath the Great Sphinx in

Egypt. But that had been twenty years ago. A lifetime. De

Chalons had never expected to feel the touch of fear himself.

The treasure they had found had been too important, the

station it had brought him in return for its delivery to the

Templar Order too great. Now, for the first time since child-

hood, de Chalons knew the meaning of fear. Knew its

belly-shaking intimacy. Knew its ineradicable certainty, its

utter finality.

Once before he had feared he might never again see his

beloved fields of England. Now he knew this fear would

undoubtedly come to pass.

Death was the certainty now. The only questions were how

it would come and when he would meet it.

De Chalons remained prisoner long enough to hear LeFevre

go mad from infection and starvation before he himself was

taken, half blind and half dead of malnutrition, by sealed

carriage to another dungeon at least a day’s travel away.

There he was chained and held in obeisance before a slip

of a man who proclaimed himself civil servant to the King.

‘My name is de Nogaret. Guillaume de Nogaret. I will

waste no time with negotiations, pleas for clemency or other

irrelevancies. I am here to extract from you certain

information which I hope you will surrender without undue

fuss.’

De Chalons found the strength from somewhere to lunge

forward. The chains brought him to his knees an arm’s

length from de Nogaret. The clerk did not flinch. ‘You have

just exercised the single luxury I will permit you. Know this,

de Chalons. There is no possibility of escape and no hope of

rescue. You are already forgotten, as is your rather dubious

Order. No one knows you are here. I could kill you now and

the matter of your life would come to a neat conclusion.

However, the ledger would remain unbalanced. For there is

one thing you currently possess that I intend to divest you of

and that is the certain knowledge of the Templar Treasure.’

‘You ask me to betray God and my Grand Master. You

must know I will never do such a thing. You may torture me

until you drive the last breath of life from my lips but I will

say nothing!’

‘Brave words but ultimately futile. You see, in this matter I

fear you have made a mistake. A critical error of judgement. I

truly am not a torturer. They are crude lumbersome fellows

who take pleasure in their craft and I have no doubt that you

could outwit one such fellow easily in the manner of your

own death. I, as I have previously stated, am a simple clerk.

With a clerk’s dedication to the facts and, much as it pains

me to utter the fact, a somewhat pedantic predilection

towards the balancing of books.

‘You are a book, de Chalons, a ledger, a matter for balance,

nothing more. Your claim to manhood ceased the moment

you were brought here. Now you are an object. An object for

which I have no compassion, an object whose only function

will be to surrender the truth before being filed neatly with

those others I have already... balanced.’

De Chalons said nothing.

‘Our beloved King Philip is under the impression that your

Order has within its grasp a great treasure. A thing from

which your almost limitless wealth flows - and something

which has the ability to confer such power as only kings

dream of. The King feels that you may have some knowledge

of this treasure. In my own humble way I must agree. I very

much desire you to tell me of this great treasure. Of its

location and of what it is comprised.’

De Chalons managed a weak laugh. ‘As God is my witness

I have sworn to protect the details of my Order against all

who would threaten the security and balance of our world. I

could no more tell you God’s secret than I could the King

himself.’ Another cracked laugh. ‘If only you weren’t the

people you are, if only you were authorized to hear my

words.’

De Nogaret considered. ‘You know we hold your Grand

Master, Jacques de Molay, together with the Preceptor of

Normandy, Geoffrey de Charnay.’ It was not a question. The

clerk’s voice softened. ‘I can gain whatever authorization is

necessary for you to release the information to me.’

‘Can you talk to God then, on your own private messenger

service? For He alone can authorize the dispensation of His

secrets.’

De Nogaret shrugged. ‘Alternatively I could have your

wife and daughter arrested. Conspiracy, heresy... I under-

stand you think very highly of them. I understand your

daughter is very beautiful. I do not understand beauty, sir

knight. I understand only mathematics. Only balance. I trust

my meaning is clear?’

De Chalons summoned the strength to spit at the

diminutive man before him.

De Nogaret’s expression did not change. ‘Do you find the

sight of me such a distraction then?’ To the gaolers arranged

beside him, de Nogaret ordered, ‘Take his eyes that he may

suffer no more such distractions, then bring him to me while

the pain is still fresh in his mind.’ As de Chalons was

dragged from the chamber, de Nogaret said quietly, ‘And

bring his family as well.’ To de Chalons he added, ‘I had

hoped for an easier road but now I will set my mind from

such a course. You have chosen the road, sir knight, and

now together we will travel along it: two humble men sharing

a single horse; a single destination: the truth.’

The sound of his shoes clicking faintly against the stone

corridors of the dungeon as he left was like the sound of

thunder ringing in de Chalons’ ears and, if he was honest, in

his heart as well.

4

ARGINY: 2560

It was the flood chamber that took Daniel from her. The third

trap. She couldn’t bear to listen to him die so she ran, hoping

the shock of her feet crashing against the stone-floored

tunnels would smash the memory of his face, his broken

body from her mind, but knowing instinctively that the

image would instead haunt her for ever.

There were nine traps noted in the journal - one each for

every hour that Christ hung upon the cross. They were not

linear in nature; their order was determined by the path

taken

through the labyrinth. The Mountain of God. The Well of

Spears. They had detected and avoided both these traps. It

was easy once the keystone of the journal had been

translated and deciphered - for with God nothing shall be

impossible — the fact that de Beaujeu and the other Knights

had designed this place to reflect the stories of the Old

Testament, seeding the labyrinth of tunnels with traps for the

unwary, the greedy but, more specifically, the religiously

ignorant.

The application of intelligence and observation - the

scientist’s approach to history - that was what had brought

them safely through so far. Any fool could go running around

in the dark with a big gun and a penchant for fist fights. She

was different. She thought her way around obstacles which

would have defeated a mere adventurer.

At least, that was what happened to begin with.

Then, after three hours underground, came something she

could not have foreseen - at least that was what she would

tell herself in the nightmare-filled years to come - something

she could no more have avoided than she could avoid

breathing: an accident.

Castle Arginy had been built at the confluence of three

rivers. The rivers burrowed under the hill on which the castle

was situated. The dungeons became a warren of tunnels and

flood chambers. According to the de Beaujeu journal, the

Templar Treasure was buried somewhere at the heart of this

labyrinth. And with it - the Finger of John the Baptist.

Erosion had caused land slippage in the tunnels. Flood

chambers were scattered randomly throughout the labyrinth

- chambers whose walls had been mined by de Beaujeu to

create drowning holes. The triggers were ingenious, but de

Beaujeu and his fellow knights had not reckoned on someone

with Benny’s determination, ingenuity - and the thousand-

year head start she had on both the Templars’ way of

thinking

and their technology.

But overconfidence had brought disaster. In her haste

Benny had forgotten a simple truth; something passage

through the hybrid jungle should have taught her: time was

at work here as well. Time kills stone as surely as it kills

people - in the eyes of deep time the deaths are not all that

far separated.

They had worked out the task the Knights had set the

unwary looter so many centuries ago, and Daniel had entered

the chamber. At once stone doors had rumbled shut across

the two entrances to the chamber and water had been

diverted in through another channel. It covered the floor

quickly, reaching knee height moments later. Daniel knew

there was a trigger mechanism on the floor somewhere, a

stone platform whose dimensions exactly mirrored that of the

Ark of Noah. But the waters were rising quickly; soon it

would be covered.

The test was simple: all he had to do was lay enough rocks

on the platform to tip the trigger and close the flood gates.

The complication was he had to remember how many rocks

of each size would do the job. Because although the unclean

among the animals had entered the Ark two by two, the

blessed of God, and the birds, had entered by sevens. Well,

Daniel knew that. They’d done the maths and worked out the

number of rocks; then added a number to represent Noah

and his family. Then subtracted two to represent the Raven

and the Dove who had been packed off to search for dry land.

Easy.

What they hadn’t foreseen, what she hadn’t foreseen, was

that the rocks within the chamber, the trigger rock

especially, had been eroded by water in the many centuries

since its installation. The shape of the rocks - and therefore

their weight - had changed. Now no amount of stones would

be the correct weight to tip the trigger and reset the trap.

Bernice had used an excavating probe to try to cut through

the rock and rescue Daniel. All that had happened was that

she had caused a flood, a cave-in, and barely escaped with

her own life.

And Daniel was gone, swept away into the labyrinth,

probably drowned. The thought screamed in her head all the

way back through the maze of tunnels and out of the castle.

Dead. He was dead. It was her fault.

Now Benny lay outside the castle walls, head full of

lightning, fingers locked around the Templar journal, mind

locked on Daniel’s last panicky yell, half swamped by water

as he was carried away by the current.

She only became aware she was screaming when the

fifty-ton tiger-willow stalking her ambled away into the

jungle in search of quieter prey.

She staggered to her feet, stuffed the journal into her

pocket and began to walk. She was caked with mud from

head to foot, her clothes soaked, but she didn’t even notice.

The last thing she did was rip out the cosmetic contact lenses

she normally wore and throw them away. She prayed that

she would never again have to see what she had seen with

those eyes.

Somehow she knew her prayers would not be answered.

5

PARIS: 1314

Hughes de Chalons did not feel the sun on his face for seven

years, and then it was only when they burnt him at the stake

for crimes against King and God.

Grand Master Jacques de Molay and Geoffrey de Charnay,

the Order’s Preceptor of Normandy, burnt with de Chalons.

None gave voice to a single plea for clemency or mercy from

this life to the next.

With the deaths of the three men, the world’s wealthiest

and most famous organization had been brought to an end.

Their secrets remained hidden for more than a millennium.

PART ONE

A MAP OF SKULLS

1

ANTARCTICA: 2595

Bernice Summerfield pulled herself deeper inside the gutted

sea-lion and tried not to think of being warm.

She didn‘t have to work too hard. She was five hundred

kilometres south of the Ross Ice Shelf, the temperature was

down to minus thirty and her body was slipping quietly,

without any fuss, into thermal shock. The effect made her

drowsy, forgetful. Fire was a will-o‘-the-wisp, glimpsed fitfully

through sleep‘s blizzard. Even the stink of the dead sea-lion

seemed easy to dismiss in the lazy haze the cold brought to

her.

Somewhere deep inside, Bernice tried to remember how

she got here, what she had been doing here. The images were

jumbled. She remembered a book. Shattered fragments of

bone. A desiccated body. A map. A man... no, a boy. Or had

that been somewhere else? Another planet? Perhaps another

time? Dellah? France? She couldn‘t remember. Or rather, she

remembered too much, each image a jumbled mess derived

from the one before, an endless iteration of meaningless

form, a seven-lane pile-up of life-changing moments.

Water. Thrash metal. Cornflakes. Journal. Love. Death.

Fear. Regret.

- ran every red light down memory lane –

Shivering, she drew the snow-crusted edges of furred flesh

more tightly about her body. Even swathed in thermal

clothing she was bitterly cold. A deep, bone-numbing cold

that sapped her strength and will. She knew her fingers were

turning black, she had seen them as she had worked to gut

the gigantic animal which only hours before had tried to kill

her. That was when she‘d taken off her gloves so she could

hold the knife and do the job she wanted without running the

risk of slicing herself as well by accident. Some of the glove

material had stuck to her skin. Or had that been the other

way round? It looked a bit of a mess but at least it no longer

hurt.

That was the problem, Bernice told herself. It would be

wonderful if it hurt. For then she would know life was

returning to her body instead of being slowly leached away

by the flesh-melting cold of the ice.

But she knew. Knew she was... well. She knew some-

thing. What did she know exactly? Something important.

Something about... well... something, anyway. At least

she knew that much. Didn‘t she?

Didn‘t she?

Didn‘t she what?

Trying to remember was simply too much bother. Instead,

Bernice slept, her skin cooling, her heart slowing, her mind,

ever the explorer, drifting along enticing pathways, further

and further from life.

The journey from Dellah had been a nightmare. Even the

comfort of High Passage, bought for her by the University

Governing Body, hadn‘t eased the memories brought to the

surface by the arrival of the journal. At least Low Passage -

riding cheap, as frozen baggage - at least that would have

kept her mind from obsessively burning up the weeks to

Earth, though she doubted it would have stopped the

dreams.

The dreams had begun again shortly after the start of

summer term, occurring with dreadful regularity. Dreams of

France, of Daniel. Dreams of death.

Her teaching had suffered. The easy repartee established

between herself and the students in the spring mutated into

bitter sarcasm, until by the end of term she had accused all

but one of them of inattention and sloppy work. The truth

was, it was her work which had been sloppy. Heaven knew,

summer should have been a time for forgetting.

And somehow she had found herself one lunchtime in the

campus coffee-and-cake parlour, ordering from the wrong

menu, consuming too much of the chefs special - Chocolate

Skunk - and telling Stephen all about it. About Daniel. The

journal. Arginy. The castle. Daniel‘s death.

And Stephen had listened.

And somehow she found herself crying.

And then, inexplicably, she found herself in bed with

Stephen - and crying for a different reason.

But even that had gone bad. Stephen‘s casual assumption

- to redirect her mail to the Sz‘Enszisi Chateau - had come

at the same time as the package containing the Templar

journal and a brief telegram from a French solicitor informing

her of the death of Daniel‘s parents during a ghost hunt in

the Rhone Valley jungle, on far-away Earth. Now only

Daniel‘s cousin Sara survived of a family she had loved,

betrayed and ultimately destroyed.

And so she had applied for leave, been granted an

extension, left Dellah and come to Earth.

She had spent so much of her life here, immersed in a

whirlpool of different times and cultures... Now she hoped

to take comfort from her presence here. Make it a kind of

homecoming. It was an optimism she could not quite

convince herself of. In any case it did not happen. Bernice did

not go to France. Instead, flipping a three-headed Martian

penny whilst still transiting Downbelow Station, she took

passage on the first trans-orbital whose booking clerk would

accept payment by her antique AmEx Platinum card.

So she had come to find herself here - nearly two thousand

kilometres from the nearest baked chestnuts, huddled

freezing inside the corpse of a giant sea-lion, her shivering

limbs wrapped tightly around the mummified husk of an

eighty-million-year-old fossil that was probably worth more

money than she could earn in a lifetime - while the lifetime in

question ticked quietly away.

2

PARIS: 1314

Jacques de Molay awoke from a dream of fire to the sound

and smell of water.

Dank, awful wetness, crawling with rats and insects.

Still, compared to the dream it was heaven.

The last Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templar,

one of the richest men in the civilized world, rolled naked on

to his back. He moved carefully, wary of scraping open the

sores on the scalloped stonework digging into his flesh. The

pain did not bother him so much. Not now. It had become a

way of life. A service to his Lord. A service he knew was

nearing its end.

His dreams of fire were proof enough of that.

He coughed — produced dank wetness marginally less

awful than the conditions in the dungeon. The sound echoed

from rough walls, and began a spate of coughing from other

prisoners. Coughing. The clink of chains. Groans of despair.

Sleep-lost prayers for death. If there was a hell his God and

Master was letting him experience its delights.

Something dug him in the side. Not a rat - their attentions

were familiar enough. A stick.

A voice grumbled irritably, ‗You there. A visitor.‘ Another

poke. De Molay jerked, tried to get to his feet, slumped in

exhaustion on the floor.

‗Uncle.‘ A familiar voice.

‗Guillaume? Is that you, my boy?‘ The words were uttered

in a broken fit of coughing.

‗Uncle, what have they -‘ A change of tone. ‗Guard. Open

these gates immediately.‘

‗No.‘

‗I am paying you enough, am I not?‘

‗No.‘

‗Guillaume.‘ De Molay‘s voice whispered out of the

flame-shot darkness. ‗You came.‘

‗Yes, Uncle. I came. But... these conditions. They are

appalling. Not fit for an animal. I will petition the King. They

cannot do this to you.‘

‗No. Guillaume. Listen. To me. I have dreams. Of fire. Of

cleansing. The fire of heaven will cleanse me of this hell;

though I have no eyes now to see it, I shall feel its purity.

God is ready for me, Guillaume. But. There is something that

must first be done.‘

‗Uncle. You must listen to me. You must keep heart. The

nobles are drawing up a petition -‘

‗A petition. A worthy document. Five years‘ worth of

signatures. Tell me on what bold stallion do you expect to

carry this weighty tome?‘

‗Uncle, you mustn‘t speak like that!‘

‗Guillaume. Listen. I have seen the future. It is written in

fire. Written by a finger. A holy finger. Do you understand? I

would read this future before I die. Do you understand? Do

you?‘

Quiet. Dripping. Scuttle of rats. Gnawing. A scream. ‗My

finger! No! It is mine not yours to eat! My finger! Bring it

here!‘

De Molay uttered a sigh, felt the diseased breath rush to

escape his ruined body. ‗De Chalons. I fear his mind has left

this world.‘

‗Uncle, I -‘

‗Listen to de Chalons, Nephew. Listen. For in his madness

he speaks the truth.‘

‗Uncle, your friend is mad! Raving. He speaks of fingers

and-‘

‗Listen, boy! Listen. And do as de Chalons commands.‘

A moment, the ramblings of one insane then, finally,

understanding.

‗Yes, Uncle. I will obey.‘

Satisfied he could do no more, de Molay returned to

fear-clouded sleep. He dreamt.

Dreams of fire.

And fingers.

3

ANTARCTICA: 2595

Bernice felt movement. Movement all around her. She tried

to open her eyes - they wouldn‘t work. All she could see was

veined darkness. But the movement continued. And now

there was sound. A voice. A man‘s voice. Muffled, as if by

distance. Light bloomed behind her eyelids. She heard the

sounds of tearing flesh. She felt hands touching her, wiping

her face. She felt herself being lifted, moved, then laid, still

curled foetally, on to a flat surface.

When she finally managed to open her eyes - it felt like a

million years after she closed them - the first thing she saw

was an ambling mountain of a man with Eskimo features

and blond dreadlocks.

‗Yeah.‘ The voice was mountainous too, the slow, deep

rumble of tilting icebergs.

Bernice tried to lick her lips. It was agony. ‗Do what?‘

‗Yeah. You alive.‘

‗Oh.‘ Now her hands were beginning to feel like she‘d

immersed them for an hour in scalding water. ‗Good.‘

‗Not unless you got insurance. You got insurance? I find

you, sure, but you inside mutant sea-lion. Gut bacteria all

over protein stores. Maybe twenty tons infected. I save you.

You pay for damage. So if you got insurance, then alive is

good - if not, well, alive is not so good.‘

Bernice tried to get up, failed, lacked even the strength to

fall over gracefully. ‗My bones. Where... are my bones?‘

‗Yeah. You got bones. You cuddle monster. I keep for

analysis. God knows what bacteria monster has.‘

Bernice blinked. Things were getting out of control. ‗Me

Benny, Tarzan. Who you?‘

The mountain smiled a grizzled smile. ‗Me Butterman.

World Food Surplus Storage Clerk. You nearly die in Larder

of World.‘

Bernice smiled - her lips cracked and she nearly screamed.

‗Tell me something, Butterman. How can you tell if there‘s

an elephant in your fridge?‘

His eyes lit up with a crafty gleam. ‗Is easy. Blinking great

footprints in -‘

Bernice slept.

Bernice did not have insurance so she gave Butterman her

AmEx card. She warned him the credit was low but

suggested he might get a better price haggling on the web

with one of the many dealers in antiquities of the long-

defunct mess of states once called America.

Butterman accepted as gracefully as a walking mountain

could, and allowed Bernice to stay in the World Surplus

Food Storage Facility, a gnat‘s whisker shy of the South Pole.

(‗They put surplus on South Pole so not lose, I think.‘ ‗Oh

really? When was the last time anyone dispensed any food?‘

‗2098.‘)

It took Bernice a month to recover completely. As she later

observed - at least she didn‘t want for anything to eat.

During the weeks of her recovery, Bernice learnt about

her host. Conversation wandered butterfly-like from history

to anthropology, pre-destination to penguins and sea-lions.

Geographical feature he may have resembled, but Ikvor

‗Butterman‘ DeLongPre was widely read and liked to think.

Almost as much as he liked to talk.

One afternoon - an arbitrary designation made only by

their watches, local twilight having been steadily deepening

for some three weeks - her host brought up the subject of

Bernice‘s relic.

‗You cuddle monster when find. You tell Butterman. You

weird? Suicide? You tell Butterman. How find?‘

Bernice frowned. ‗It‘s not a monster - it‘s a raptor. I don‘t

remember how I found it.‘

‗You very cold. Your mind not remember yet.‘

‗That‘s right.‘

‗Tell Butterman. What of monster?‘

‗Well, I‘m not sure... As far as I can tell it resembles

similarities I‘ve seen of Utah raptor - though what it‘s doing

out here in Antarctica I‘ll never know. Anyway, it‘s bigger

than Utah raptor. And proportional to its size, its brain pan is

enormous.‘

Butterman‘s eyes lit up in the by-now familiar child-like

fascination. ‗I read this in books. You think dinosaur smart?

Like people maybe?‘

Bernice shrugged, pleased she could now do so with-

out suffering pain. ‗Well. That I won‘t know until I can

examine the body more thoroughly in a lab. Certainly its

eyes are forward facing to give stereo-vision, and it seems

like it might have had unusual dexterity in the digits of the

forelimbs. What interests me the most are the stomach con-

tents. Scraps of bone. Human. Homo sapiens. Modern man.‘

She carefully forgot to mention the marks on the bone

fragments. The inscription - the Egyptian Ankh symbol.

Butterman considered. ‗First proto-human exist only four

million years ago. How explain difference? How come four-

million-year-old bones in eighty-million-year-old fossil?‘

Bernice shrugged again. ‗Blowed if I know, guvnor.‘

Once again the frenetic glow of interest. ‗Oh wow.

Baboushka. This cool. Like FictioNet. Smart-raptor. I like!

Time travel. I like! You want lab? I call one. He come now.‘

‗You have a lab?’

‗No. But expedition is. Five hundred klicks from here.

Mobile lab. Survey of post-war life changes. Speak to

biologist, Dottie Mars. My web-pal.‘

‗You have the web?’

Two days later an ice-skimmer hove to at the Facility dock.

The storm-scarred metal hull was emblazoned with the seal

of the Terran Congress and logos for Nike and Coca-Cola.

The skimmer disgorged a tall figure with ice-green eyes

and a jet-black flat-top. His Eurasian face was mottled a

gorgeous Hawaiian sea-blue with ringskin - a fashionably

expensive form of bio-accessorizing. Not the sort of conceit

Bernice would normally have taken notice of for a pico-

second, let alone be impressed by.

Let alone be attracted to.

‗Marillian,‘ he said. ‗Got your message. Thought we‘d pop

by and say hello.‘

‗Yeah,‘ she said with a dazzling smile. ‗I‘m Benny. The

lump here is Butterman. Hear you got a top lab. What‘s it

going to cost me to rent some time in it? Oh, by the way, I

haven‘t any money.‘

He was independently wealthy, he was director of the Future

Foundation Research Group, he was here with a biological

expedition to chart Antarctic life changes and the price for

renting one of his very well equipped labs was dinner. Five

star. Penguin steaks and all the bolt-on extras. Bernice wore

her best sea-lion fur and tried not to dribble at the sight of

almost completely pure parsnips.

She eyed the penguin steaks with interest.

‗Help yourself, they‘re very good.‘

‗Normally I wouldn‘t. Vegetarian. Thing is, it‘s easy to

preach when you can pop down to the local corner shop for a

tin of tofu. When you‘ve been stuck on the ice with nothing

to eat but mutant sea-lion, well... let‘s just say you tend to

re-examine your ideals a little more closely.‘

Marillian nodded understandingly. ‗I sympathize. Moral

dilemma. Never a fun thing. But look on the bright side.

You‘re alive. You could go back to being a vegetarian.‘

‗I know. Somehow it feels... hypocritical. Silly, isn‘t it?‘

‗Not at all. Everyone falls sometime.‘

Bernice picked up on the phrase. ‗As in falls from grace?

You‘re religious?‘

‗Does it bother you?‘

‗No.‘

‗Do you have a faith?‘

‗No. I have... some curiosity.‘

He smiled. ‗Standard answer. Well, let‘s not talk about me.

Tell me how you came to be on the ice.‘

She sighed and put down her fork. ‗Usual story. Mid-life

crisis, lover half my age, needed a bit of a getaway. Place to

think and all that.‘

‗Why Earth? Why here?‘

‗To be honest, I‘m not sure. Earth has always felt like a

second home to me. I just needed... to come home, I

suppose.‘

‗But not all the way home, right?‘

‗What do you mean?‘

‗Well, you‘ve clearly never been to Antarctica before.

Alone, unprovisioned, badly equipped. Still, you managed to

survive all right.‘

She laughed. ‗Yes. It was a bit of bad luck for the old

sea-lion, wasn‘t it? Still. It was him or me for breakfast and I

tell you what, I‘m glad it wasn‘t me.‘

Marillian smiled. ‗So am I, Bernice. So am I. Very glad.‘

He raised his glass. Bernice joined him in a toast.

‗To survivors. And to livening up what thus far has been a

very mundane expedition.‘

She smiled and drank.

Not only was Marillian beautiful but he was smart. And

connected. In the aftermath of the wars the political climate

on Earth had turned stormy to say the least. At least three

countries no longer existed and the power vacuum was being

filled by a rugby scrum of pretenders. As the skimmer logos

suggested temporary Congress had been set up to oversee,

ratify and otherwise cloud the issue of who had most direct

claim to the presidency. Congress comprised the companies

who had the most power - and therefore money - and that

meant Nike, whose line of infantry footwear drove all com-

petition into the limb-spattered mud, together with Coca-

Cola, whose government-sanctioned inclusion in their recipe

of the drug for which their product was originally named had

ensured the unswerving support of Joe Public throughout the

course of the war.

Marillian exerted a magnetic fascination on Bernice. She

thoroughly enjoyed his company for the week it took his

science team to begin the analysis of her find. And when the

inevitable pass came, Bernice came so close to saying ‗Yes‘

that both parties mimed a Chaplinesque gulp of surprise

when the word ‗No‘ came out instead.

It was Dottie Mars - slim, elegant, with eyebrows and nails

Bernice would have at least considered committing GBH to

possess, together with a penchant for performing Debussy‘s

‗Snowflakes are Dancing‘ on a modified snakecharmer flute

and harmonizer combo - who provided conclusive evidence

that both the raptor mummy and its H. sapiens stomach

contents were genuine artifacts. What she couldn‘t do was

explain the temporal anomaly inherent in the findings. Or

why the relics had been discovered here, just a minim and a

crotchet from the South Pole.

As she said, if it was a fake, it was akin to the lads who

devised the Piltdown Man hoax hiding the skeleton they had

made on Mars instead of in a muddy field in England.

It went without saying that no one, least of all Bernice,

could come close to explaining why - or even how - a broken

line of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics had come to be

inscribed upon the fragments of the human skull in question.

That together with symbols which clearly depicted the

Sphinx.

As far as Bernice was concerned there was only one way to

sort it out. Translate the inscription. Check out the Sphinx.

Her only regret was that, as far as she knew, penguin

steaks and non-hybrid parsnips did not form part of the

staple diet anywhere in Egypt.

4

PARIS: 1314

Guillaume de Beaujeu watched from the edge of the crowd as

Jacques de Molay was brought from the prison cart and

bound tightly to a rough wooden stake. His companions of

seven years, Hughes de Chalons and Geoffrey de Charnay

were already bound. De Molay was the last. The last of an

Order. The last of a society within a society. De Beaujeu had

had seven years to prepare for this moment and still found

himself unready. The ride from Paris to the Temple had been

hard - he had ridden two horses into the ground - and

another two to return with the relic of which his uncle had

spoken so cryptically. Now, instead of getting more

information, de Beaujeu realized, he had arrived just in time

to witness his uncle‘s death.

Now he clutched a leather sack containing the relic, a

small crystal sphere, and cursed his feet and his horses for

being too slow.

He worked his way through the crowd. People were

throwing fruit, rotten vegetables, screaming and cursing.

Overhead the sun glared curiously down on this

unimportant, somewhat absurd human spectacle. The

sunlight rippled. No, de Beaujeu realized, it was tears. His

tears were making the sunlight ripple.

He moved closer, the sackcloth jerkin he wore to disguise

his station rubbing painfully at his shoulders. As he drew

level with a black-clad guard, the fellow threw out a leg and

tripped him, then spat on him as he fell. De Beaujeu rose to

his knees and crawled quickly away. There were times to

move openly and times to move secretly, and this was

definitely the latter.

Keeping his head bowed de Beaujeu managed to get

within twenty feet of the wooden trestles to which the stakes

and their human kindling were fixed. Faggots were piled in

heaps around the stakes. The three men were turning their

sun-starved faces to catch the warmth of the slightest ray of

sunlight.

Guards drew sack-cloth helmets across the heads of the

three men as the last rites were delivered. Then the slight

form of Guillaume de Nogaret begged each man individually

to recant his evil.

The crowd were silent at this point - but they began to rant

again soon enough when all three men refused to speak.

De Nogaret shrugged, a slight gesture, and signalled the

executioner to light the fires. None of these men would

renounce their beliefs or admit to their crimes; therefore none

would receive the benefit of strangulation before immolation.

As the flames spread, the screams from the crowd grew

louder and more frenzied. De Beaujeu crept closer.

‗Uncle!‘ He pitched his voice to rise above that of the

crowd. ‗I have done as you instructed, I have the Relic!‘

De Molay‘s body was now immersed in smoke and flame.

His clothes were burning; his skin beginning to blacken. The

stink of burnt meat filled the air. De Chalons and de Charnay

were already beginning to scream, their voices ragged and

intermittent as the fire gnawed like an animal at their chests

and throats.

‗Uncle! Uncle!‘

De Beaujeu despaired. His uncle was near death. He would

not be able to render any useful words.

But de Beaujeu was wrong.

Almost with his last breath, de Molay uttered a sentence.

Two dozen words that would change the course of the world

forever. ‗The future of our world - the Templar Order - lies

in my Master‘s tomb. The Finger that identified Christ shall

once again point the way!‘

The last word dissolved into a scream, a sound which

lingered in de Beaujeu‘s head long after his uncle‘s body had

crumbled into ash and smoke and been scattered to the four

winds.

De Molay‘s dream of fire had become a reality.

5

EGYPT: 2595

When Herodotus visited the Pyramids four and a half

centuries before His son was a mote in God‘s eye, they were

already more than two thousand years old. The next

millennium was to wreak yet further dramatic sea-changes

upon the inscrutable stone-faced monuments.

There had been the minor incidences throughout history of

course - for example, the political skirmish in 2234, when

Heironymous Basquiat, a fashionable French artist with

conveniently unverifiable ancestral connections, had first

tried to wrap the Sphinx in holly-and-snowball-motif

Christmas paper, and subsequently attempted to buy it. He

was escorted off the Giza plateau by a number of uniformed

gentlemen carrying old-fashioned uzis.

A more or less direct result of this incident was the

ongoing petition from major governments that all the

remaining wonders of the world be sprayed with a layer of

clear glassite to protect the structures. Over the next half

century this debate became fashionable with the movers and

shapers, spawning no less than thirty-seven specialized

companies tendering for the contract if and when it should

ever be agreed, twelve economic debacles, two minor wars, a

pilot episode for All Our Yesterdays 2 and a best-selling

independent comic.

The debate was settled to no one‘s satisfaction when war

broke out. The Leaning Tower surrendered to the inevitable

when Pisa was hit by a poorly directed half-ton asteroid.

Suddenly the economic focus was on weaponry and

transport, and the national monuments fell into a poor

second place.

Now, once again, the windswept contours of Giza were

calm and peaceful, even if surrounding Cairo had increased

in height by eighty storeys and the peace was due to

protection from the elements by the city dome and several

well-armed park wardens. And if the monuments now resided

in a rippling ocean of lush meadow rather than arid sand,

then at least the beauty still remained for the viewing public -

subject to the regular weekly scrub with lichen remover.

Bernice sat crosslegged on the camel and hoped to God it

wouldn‘t spit dribble at her when she tried to get off. One

thing about Cairo that hadn‘t changed over the last five

centuries was that the guides still tried to sell you the

camels. It must be a hereditary thing, she supposed, passed

on from family to family much like a carpenter‘s toolkit: the

need to scam the viewing public out of every last penny

before giving them a moment to realize there was no way you

could get a camel on a commercial transport, let alone afford

its upkeep once you got it home.

No, Bernice was sitting on this camel for one reason and

one reason only : because the only man who had shown the

slightest sign of being able to smuggle her into the Sphinx

insisted that she sit upon one so that he could photograph

her.

Zayad Hafiq stood in front of her now, a little man with a

wiry body, bright button eyes and a sour complexion. A

minor incursion - possibly a childhood infection - had

resulted in a snakelike bulge across his upper back and

lower neck. The ends of the bulge moved occasionally,

beneath his filthy clothes. Once Bernice had seen a

disconcertingly human eye peering curiously from beneath

his collar.

He skipped quickly around the camel, his movements

eager, if somewhat unbalanced by the weight attached to his

body. His eyes flickered brightly as he moved from angle to

angle, an ancient Box Brownie, whose value as an antique he

could have comfortably retired on, with his family, for the

rest of his life, if he‘d chosen to sell it to the right dealer,

clutched in his weather-beaten hands. His eyes glowed. His

mouth moved silently, no doubt figuring the cashflow these

pictures would get him after Bernice had left Cairo - or been

arrested for posing naked at midnight in front of the Pyramid

of Khufu, she added silently to herself.

‗Left a little... no, right now... now lift the knee...

yes!‘ Snap snap snap. ‗And now the arms... if you could

uncross them please... Ah, such loveliness!‘ Snap snap

snap snap snap.

Bernice tried not to grin. Bribery was hardly the

undiscovered country.

‗Hey, Zayad. You know how many people tried to get me

to do this before?‘

‗I think many. You are beautiful. You do for living?‘

‗No.‘

‗Most peculiar. You pose like pro - good pro. Tell me why

- and tilt your head please - so.‘ Snap snap. ‗And now your

right leg, please -‘

‗It‘s a novelty. It‘s a laugh. And the leg stays where it is

until you tell me how we‘re going to get inside the Sphinx.‘

The little man froze, an expression of alarm masking his

delight. ‗Not here. No. Too many ears. They hear us. Not

legal. They arresting come, big guns, yes?‘

Bernice laughed as the fellow‘s English disintegrated,

tapping the camel with her bare toes. ‗And this isn‘t?‘

A moment and then, in a calmer voice, ‗There are those

who will take bribes.‘

Now it was her turn to get excited. ‗There are? It‘s news to

me - and I virtually camped out in Government Central

for a week.‘ Bernice wrinkled her nose as a hint of the

camel‘s breath reached her. ‗Tell me where I can find these

mythological creatures.‘

‗Oh no. No bribe will get you into Monuments. Scientists

and government have all woven together.‘

‗Stitched up.‘

‗Yes. Stitched. Your leg, please? Please?‘

‗Zayad, hand me my clothes. And then help me down from

this wretched lump of an animal. We‘re done.‘

‗No... the leg, please! I make much money from one so

beautiful.‘

‗The Sphinx.‘

‗The leg!‘

‗The Sphinx.‘

Zayad licked his lips and stacked another photographic

plate into a rough leather satchel. ‗All right. I tell. Then take

photograph. But only to make money for my sick daughter,

you understand.‘

‗Uh huh. Last time it was your son.‘

‗I have both.‘

‗And I have a face that launched a thousand ships.‘

‗Is true. Have many beautiful children. Government

incentive scheme pay well for increasing population.‘ A quick

smile, then, ‗I know of jackal run. Under wall of park.

Through wall of Sphinx.‘

Bernice reached out one hand impatiently for her clothes.

‗Oh yeah? How come no one else knows about this run?‘

‗You know what jackal run smell like? They brick up,

forget. Not on park-keeper system any more. Anyway.

Egyptian government not want anyone in Sphinx. Not for

centuries. Not since Uphaut IX robot go berserk in ‗05. Start

eating walls.‘

Bernice considered. ‗All right. I‘ll buy it.‘ Bernice moved

her leg into an arguably more artistic pose. ‗You get one shot

at this Zayad, so don‘t -‘

Snap snap snap snap snap snap snap.

Stone quiet. Dark still.

Bernice breathed dusty air and wondered how old it was.

Her feet scuffed loose stone - remnants of minor tremors.

Her hands touched the ancient walls, her palms Hat, the old

electric thrill of the past reaching out to grab her. Funny.

She‘d been in more impressive monuments on alien worlds

halfway across the galactic spiral arm. None ever hit her like

this. Perhaps Earth would be the homecoming she sought

after all.

The tunnel was dark, choked with dirt, and lichen coated

the walls. The footing was hardly dangerous - each booted

step sank half an inch into mulch.

Lucky there’s no sunlight down here — I’d be up to my neck

in weeds.

A hundred metres in the tunnel became dry rock. And it

stayed that way until she hit the reliquary chamber.

Smoothly fashioned stone, pillars supporting a cracked

roof, a rectangular gully - very deep - which may once have

held water. Now it held something else: the legacy of fifty

years of terraforming.

Worms. From about five metres down the trench was full

of worms. They glistened wetly in the light from her torch.

Bernice blew out her cheeks. ‗Nice.‘

Looking up, she continued her examination. Within the

area bounded by the gully, a glimpse of something curious,

even wondrous to an archaeologist long denied permission to

delve into this most compelling of places.

She stood quite still, wondering how long it had been since

anyone had come inside here.

Last week probably. The Egyptian government had always

been notorious for withholding permission to excavate

beneath the Sphinx, even when echo soundings had located

a number of possible rooms. No, said five hundred years‘

worth of spokesmen, what the soundings revealed were

nothing more than fissures in the bedrock, and they‘d backed

their arguments up with smartguns just to make sure the

theory stayed uncontested.

Well - even the jackals knew better now.

Bernice studied the stone platform bounded by empty

space and wondered how to reach it. She moved from side to

side, peering through the nests of pillars, her torchlight

revealing tantalizing glimpses of artifacts, of history.

A stone box in a forest of stone columns. A suit of armour.

Shreds of bone.

Answers to a puzzle posed more than a hundred million

years ago on another continent - no, not answers, but

perhaps the complete question.

But how to reach them?

Bernice drew a leather pouch from her money belt and took

from it the scraps of human skull found in the stomach

of the mummified Utah raptor. She shone her torchlight

on the bone fragments. The hieroglyphics were incomplete,

indecipherable. But the map, well, that seemed clear enough.

It revealed this chamber, the platform, or part of it anyway.

And what looked like a tunnel, leading away from the

chamber. If her orientation was correct the map seemed to

indicate a connection between the Sphinx and the Pyramid

complex.

Bernice felt a familiar fire rush through her. She felt elated.

The hell with teaching, this was what it was all about.

Digging into history, seeking the motivation, examining the

remains. Trying to understand, to know. Better to be the

student than the teacher - especially when the teacher was

the process of history itself.

Bernice moved around the edges of the chamber, two

circuits, one quick, an attempt to detect superficial signs of

tunnel egress. When this proved fruitless she made a more

careful study. Those who had built these monuments - and

there was evidence in the form of rainwater erosion to

suggest that the Sphinx was at least twelve thousand years

older than the Pyramids - had been notorious in their ability

to disguise the function and placement of the obvious. Now

Bernice worked her way carefully around the chamber, using

a portable echo-sounder and a coarse brush to examine the

walls and floor, and, wherever possible, the ceiling.

Nothing. Apparently the chamber was built into solid

rock.

Another puzzle.

Bernice put away her tools and switched off the torch.

Taking a candle from her toolkit she lit it and moved once

more around the chamber. The flame flickered almost

constantly. The air was moving down here. But was it due to

her own movements, or to a passage so well concealed that it

couldn‘t be found even with modern technology?

Bernice fastened the candle to the stone floor with a blob

of soft wax, then sank into the lotus position beside it. Using

the flame to focus her thoughts was something she hadn‘t

tried for many years. And there were no distractions now.

Bernice let her mind range backwards over the oddity of

the Egyptian dynasties... four thousand years of almost

contradictory cultural references. As a student, Bernice had

been attracted to all things Egyptian. The puzzle of a

language which had apparently sprung into being fully

formed at the time of the most ancient dynasties - and then

proceeded to become corrupt and less efficient as the

centuries progressed - was what first attracted her to the

culture. This puzzle led to another: the application of

building techniques. Egypt was home to many pyramids, an

attempt by the ancients to emulate the night sky and rereate

heaven on earth. This had been clear since Beauval and

Hancock had first shown that the course of the Nile was

intended to represent the course of the Milky Way, and that

the three pyramids at Giza were precise representations of

the stars in Orion‘s belt. What was still very much unclear

was the fact that it was the earliest pyramids which had best

survived the ravages of time. It was as if, like their language,

the Egyptians had been gifted early with a knowledge

of architecture they could never reproduce for themselves in

the following dynasties.

The candle flame guttered gently and flickered out.

Bernice heard footsteps.

Lots of footsteps.

‗Bernice Summerfield.‘ The voice had Cairo Government

stamped all over it. ‗You are trespassing on privately owned

property. Come out now and we will not make you suffer the

embarrassment and expense of arrest.‘

Bernice heard guns cocking.

Scratch government. Read: assholes.

Offering a prayer of thanks that her torch was switched off,

Bernice scrambled quickly to her feet. Packing her satchel as

she moved, she ran quickly and quietly around the chamber

to the far side of the trench. Now she was out of sight of

anyone entering the chamber by the same passage she had.

But she still had to get out. The problem was she hadn‘t been

here long enough. Not even part way long enough to solve

the puzzle posed by the Antarctic relics.

By now the marching feet had entered the chamber. Arabic

voices muttered in low syllables. Torchlight speared through

the nest of pillars separating Bernice from her would-be

jailers.

And then the first voice again. A guttural sentence in

Arabic.

‘Weapon fire will be heard. Use knives only.’

Knives? Since when was anyone ever arrested with knives’!

Bernice felt another familiar thrill surge through her - the

thrill of fear. It wasn‘t the first time anyone had tried to kill

her, but it was the first time she had been trapped in a stone

chamber with no other exit by several large men with knives

when it happened.

Why would the government try to kill her?

Why would they issue the instruction in Arabic when she

had spent the past week arguing fluently with government

officials in that very language?

Why would they worry about being heard?

Answer: they wouldn‘t. Therefore these men weren‘t

government. Therefore they must be bandits.

Zayad had sold her out.

They weren‘t here to plunder the monument - they were

here to plunder her wallet.

Bernice thought a nasty word to herself.

Keep quiet. Maybe they’ll think you’ve gone already.

An eager shout. Footsteps. A flickering light.

The candle. They’ve found the candle.

Bernice thought another nasty word.

All right. There‘s only one way out of here and - hm.

That‘s not actually true, is it? According to the map there

was another egress. Another passage. But where is it?

Bernice backed away from the voices, creeping within the

shadows, exploring the walls with her hands. It had to be

here somewhere.

Now the voices were silent. But she could still hear

footsteps. And the torch beams were spreading out slowly

around the chamber, exploring the many alcoves between

each set of pillars one by one. Slow. Deliberate.

They were going to find her.

They were going to —

No.

Not if she jumped. Across the trench. Only someone

insane would do that in the dark. Maybe they really would

think she had already gone. If they didn‘t hear her. And let‘s

face it, she had searched the walls thoroughly twice already

and found no sign of an escape route. If there was another

passage it debouched from the central platform.

The torch beams speared the darkness, closer and closer.

Feet scuffed rock. Sharp metal glinted in the darkness. A

moment from now and they‘d be round the corner.

Bernice knew she had little choice. It was fish or catch

worms.

Tightening her pack straps, Bernice ran towards the edge

and -

crashed into the man waiting there in the darkness.

- torch. No torch. Trap! Must have heard me. Waiting

without his -

Bernice scrambled away as the man came for her, knife

glinting, cold lunar edge in the torch-split dark.

- facing? Where’s the trench which way am I -

A touch. The burn of metal. She fell. A shout. Hers?

The shout became a scream, ending suddenly in a thick

gurgling splash, no, slithering, no -

- he‘d fallen into the trench.

Drowned in worms.

But the shout had been heard. Running footsteps. Torch

beams. Shouts.

Thunder. No - gunfire. Bullets whined and scattered

across the chamber.

Bernice scrambled to her feet and without thinking hurled

herself across the trench.

She landed on all fours, fell, rolled, fetched up against a pillar

with a grunted exhalation.

Without waiting she scrambled to her knees and crawled

deeper into the maze of pillars supporting the roof above the

reliquary platform.

Bullets chased her, a maze of lead ricochets dancing

between the pillars. Stone chips slashed at her exposed face

and hands. Flame-coloured light flickered everywhere.

‘Stupid! I said no shooting! Now they come as well! We

must get her now!’

Bernice crawled across the reliquary chamber, her target

the stone box she had seen briefly. A moment passed. The

bandits were arguing about who should jump across the

trench first. They obviously thought she was trapped. Well -

maybe she was. Where was the box, the figure she had

glimpsed from the edge? The pillars were set close together, a

maze. She could see nothing. She dared not use her torch.

She kept crawling.

Shouted instructions. The sound of running footsteps. A

moment of silence. A scream cut off in a turgid splash. More

arguments.

Bernice grinned coldly. Another Olympic failure. At least it

had bought her some time.

Her outstretched hands banged against stone. Flat, not

curved. The box! Further exploration brought her hands into

contact with grimy armour: the remains of a human corpse

placed on top of the box.

Quickly she groped for the lid of the box. A lever, a stone,

something to push. Anything. A trapdoor, a way out of this,

now!

Nothing.

More bullets. The flash of gunfire. She rolled across the

box, fell, the armoured corpse falling on top of her as more

bullets hunted the sound, more flashes split the darkness.

Something fell against her cheek. A medallion, etched by

gunlight, two knights riding a horse. The Seal of the Knights

Templar.

The same seal which appeared on de Beaujeu’s journal!

One bullet whanged against the armoured helm a

handspan from her face. The helmet clanged hollowly as the

bullet punched through, the visor falling away to reveal a

grimy skull, lit by flashes of gunfire.

Gaping sockets... grinning teeth...

. . . and lines, etched into the bones of the skull! A map!

Another map!

Bernice grabbed the skull and wrenched it from the helmet.

She felt the bone begin to crumble between her fingers.

Groping in her satchel she grabbed a can of aerosol fix and

sprayed the bone. A few seconds later the relic was encased

in a molecule-thick glassite sheath.

-the map there’s a map on the -

Bernice cupped her hand across her torch and tried to read

the engravings on the skull.

A shout.

-my torch they’ve seen my -

More gunfire. She ducked. Bullets tugged at the corpse,

ricocheted from the stone and punched holes in the

armoured

figure above her. Dust and bone fragments fell on to her face.

Bernice grabbed a wax crayon and a sheet of impression

paper from her satchel, and began, frantically, to take a

rubbing from the skull.

More gunfire. Something tugged at her hand; a breeze

brushed her cheek.

The skull shattered.

She looked at the rubbing.

The tunnel where was the damn -

-trench, the tunnel egress is in the —

Shouts. Running footsteps. A grunted exhalation and crash

as someone leapt across the trench and fetched up against

one of the stone pillars.

A torch beam speared the darkness.

More footsteps. Another jumper. Now two bandits were

hunting her.

Bernice tried to work out which way she was facing.

According to the map she had made, the passage she was

looking for was in the outer trench wall. But the depth. That

she could not determine.

She worked her way away from the box, towards the edge

of the chamber. She heard footsteps following her. Torches

were zeroing in, bouncing through the maze of pillars.

Bernice stuffed the map into her blouse, licking her lips.

This was it. But she couldn‘t see any tunnel - just an

undulating mass of worms.

A noise behind her, the sound of a gun cocking.

Bernice whirled, dived away, the bullet singing across her

head. Somewhere across the trench came a yell of pain.

‘Stop shooting!’

Bernice scrambled to her feet as the man drew his knife.

‗Time to blow this scene, baby.‘ She turned and ran towards

the edge. She heard the cloth of the man‘s sleeve rasp as he

drew back his arm to throw and imagined the blade tumbling

through the air towards her back as she

fatherwhoartinheavenjustgetmethroughthisandiswearillgive

upanydamnthingyouwantjustsaytheword

closed her eyes and

exceptboozeand

leapt headlong into space.

There was an instant of suffocation, a panic attack, when she

hit the worms, but by then her fingers were scraping down

the opposite wall. She fell into the tunnel egress, eyes tightly

closed, feeling the breath driven from her by the fall; she let

out a yell, found her mouth full of wriggling flesh,

surrendered to panic and spent precious seconds learning it

is impossible to swim through worms.

The touch of rock beneath her hands and knees, together

with the overwhelming need to draw breath, told her to crawl.

* * *

Bernice collapsed on to dry rock smeared with lichen and

gulped air until her throat hurt. She tried to stand - banged

her head on a rocky ceiling, got back on to her hands and

knees and continued to crawl. The passage was very long

and sloped steeply upwards. At some point the floor became

flat. Shortly after that the ceiling became high enough to

walk upright. Bernice stood up, muscles straining, leant

against the wall and shuddered. After a while she continued

to walk.

The passage remained arrow straight until it turned back

upon itself, continuing to climb. Bernice kept walking. The

air was dry by now, but the quality had changed somewhat.

The walls were now smoothly jointed. Blocks. She was

inside something. A building.

The passage ended at a barred gate. Bernice picked the

lock with a magnetic hairclip and opened the gate. She found

herself twelve metres up the side of the Great Pyramid of

Khufu. It was still night. Cairo rose around her into the

umber sky, spotlights spearing softly from the taller buildings

to illuminate the Pyramid complex.

Bernice sat heavily on the stone facing.

‗I think you come here.‘ Zayad. He was pointing some-

thing at her. It wasn‘t a Box Brownie.

Bernice sighed. ‗Why didn‘t you just rob me earlier?‘

‗Not want to rob. Want to protect.‘

‗Aren‘t you pointing that in the wrong direction then?‘

‗Not protect you. Protect relics. Protect eternity. I let

you in. You try steal. I kill. You just vanish. No one any

wiser.‘

‗One more missing tourist. I see.‘

‗You give me relics now.‘

Bernice frowned. ‗You stupid... Your gun-happy-chappies

in there blew away the damn relics! There‘s nothing left but

dust!‘

‗You lie like pro - like good pro. You give now. Maybe I

let you live.‘

‗And pigs‘ll fly.‘

He shrugged. ‗Oh well, not important. I kill you then take

map anyway.‘

‗All right.‘ Bernice reached into her shirt. Zayad grinned.

Bernice grinned too. Then grabbed a handful of worms and

threw them in Zayad‘s face.

A moment later she was holding the Arab at the point of

his own gun.

‗All right. I‘m tired and bleeding and covered in worm-

juice - so tell me who you‘re working for or I‘m afraid I‘m

just going to have to shoot you now.‘

‗You not shoot me.‘

Bernice shrugged and took a step closer. She placed the

gun against his eye, forcing him to close it. ‗You want to bet

your life?‘

‗No.‘

‗OK then. Talk.‘

She could see him shivering. Trying to decide. He opened

his mouth. ‗OK. I tell you. I -‘

A single gunshot shattered the silence. Zayad sagged

against her.

‗I-‘

He blinked once and died.

Bernice jerked in delayed surprise. Lights stabbed down at

her - a skimmer. Police? Government? No. She could see the

Nike-Coca-Cola emblems of Congress across the side.

Zayad slipped to the ground. Something moved beneath

his shirt. A glint of metal in the darkness. On impulse

Bernice grabbed at the thing she could see. A medallion on a

gold chain. A tiny emblem.

Two knights riding a single horse.

Bernice shoved the medallion into her pocket as the

skimmer drew closer. A hatch opened to form a loading

platform and a figure stepped out.

‗Benny. Move it.‘

A man. Marillian. She didn‘t move.

‗How did you know I was here?‘

‗Bernice, the government‘ll be here in moments and they

don‘t deport you for murder.‘

‗I didn‘t kill him.‘

‗Bernice, there‘s no such thing as diplomatic immunity!

Now jump!‘

Bernice frowned, disentangled herself from Zayad‘s body,

shook a mess of worms from her hair and leapt on to the

loading platform of the skimmer.

6

PARIS: 1314

Without dismounting, de Beaujeu hailed the Temple Guard.

‗Do you know who I am?‘

‗Guillaume de Beaujeu, my lord.‘

‗And these good nobles who ride with me?‘

‗I know them not by name, but only by reputation, as your

companions.‘

Now de Beaujeu dismounted. He stood several inches

taller than any member of the half dozen guards. ‗An

intelligent man, then. Can you tell me what we nine bring

here to the Temple of the Order of God this day?‘

‗I cannot, my lord.‘

‗But you could guess.‘

‗No, my lord.‘

‗Then I shall tell you. We bear the coffer in which rests the

ashes of the last Grand Master of the Order of the Knights

Templar, my uncle, to be interred here by special order of

King Philip of France‘ - may God rot his syphilitic bones -

‗and now, unless you can think of a reason to bar us, I

request again, humbly, that you allow us entry to my uncle‘s

final resting place.‘

The guard considered. ‗You have authorization, of course.‘

‗A letter from the King himself. You can read?‘

The guard shuffled uneasily. ‗No, my lord.‘

De Beaujeu smiled. ‗I have more - appropriate -

authorization.‘ A large bag of gold coins changed hands.

The guard weighed the bag, considering. De Beaujeu

allowed his hand to fall to the hilt of his sword, apparently to

rest there. The guard reconsidered. Stood aside.

‗I bid you enter.‘

Within the temple, sepulchral silence. Ghost beams of

sunlight marked time across marbled slabs and intricately

carved flagstones. Fluted columns supported an arched roof.

Stained glass glimmered intimately, dappling the stonework

with rainbow patterns. Shadows and dark alcoves beckoned

beyond the light, fingers of night loose among the day.

The nobles moved slowly, as befitted a funeral procession.

Two carrying the coffer, four flanking, de Beaujeu walking

before. Two remained with the horses.

The sounds of their mail echoed distantly, rippling in the

hollow darkness like water in an underground cavern.

Their measured steps struck firefly dust from the stone-

work. Their breath hung in the beams of sunlight with their

own flickering shadows.

The nobles progressed with measured pace to the reliquary

chamber. There, de Beaujeu bade the nobles set down the

coffer they carried.

The men looked around in awe. The chamber was

enormous, stretching, if the eyes were to be believed, almost

beyond the confines of the temple walls. A place which

seemingly existed beyond the confines of the real world. A

place even the King dare not touch. A high, vaulted ceiling

topping row after row of arched alcoves, each filled with

coffers. Many hundreds of coffers. Coffers beyond number.

‗So many.‘ The voice beside de Beaujeu was humbled by

the immensity of the chamber. ‗How are we to find the

correct one?‘

De Beaujeu glanced at the coffer now firmly seated upon

the stonework. ‗Would that you had been more specific with

your dying breath, Uncle,‘ he whispered.

The noble beside him ventured, ‗You said that the Master

uttered the words: ―The Finger that identified Christ shall

once again point the way!‖‘

De Beaujeu hesitated. ‗The last words of a dying man.

LeFevre, it is possible my uncle was mad before he died.

Seven years in the dungeons can do that to a man. I venture

that we put little stock in mystic thought, and more in the

truth - that the Secret of the Order lies within one of these

coffers. A secret we must recover and keep safe from the

Holy Inquisition. A message for the future. Of our Order and

the world.‘

‗But how are we to determine which coffer to take?‘

‗My uncle mentioned the Secret was interred within the

coffer of his Master. We should therefore seek the coffer

of the Grand Master who preceded my uncle: the Master

William de Villaret. You nine shall then ride to the four

quarters. I shall take the coffer to a place of safety. If you are

followed or captured and interrogated, you will have no

information to surrender - and the secret of our Order shall

remain inviolate.‘

The nobles nodded acquiescence.

‗Then quickly, let us find that which we seek. The future

calls - and God calls us to his service.‘

7

LONDON: 2595

If Cairo was a city built on the premise of change, London

was an architectural hall of mirrors. Tower Bridge resembled

the Crystal Palace; Britannia‘s stone face glowered down

from twenty-five metres above the Royal Observatory at

Greenwich; the Royal Pyramid at Shooters Hill had finally

been demolished to make way for a dry ski-slope. Parliament,

a medium-rated target during the war, was gone,

replaced by the Republic Museum of Social and Political

History. In keeping with the new political ethic, government

had decentralized into a number of computer-nodes

held at secure locations throughout the country and

connected by the PolitNet to the Mother System within the

re-coagulated Russian Federation - strictly on a need-to-

know basis. Speculation was rife about just who needed to

know - but then of course no one needed to know that

either.

London had become a museum, an icon of history, a city of

mirrors sealed beneath a pyramid of glassite. Business

centres were a thing of the past, relocated to glass-ceilinged

vaults beneath the detoxified, homogenized River Thames,

itself now stocked with tropical species from the Pacific

whose genetic purity rendered them endangered species.

Replacing the offices were galleries, museums, a number

of religious institutions, including the redesigned St Paul‘s

Cathedral, as many as twenty churches, parks, pools and

entertainment centres.

Access to the various amenities and cultural centres was

by application, generally birth-rating linked and strictly

limited to those who could prove a genetically pure human

lineage.

Population was in the region of thirty thousand, one four

hundredth of what it had been in the Crush of the twenty-

first and twenty-second centuries. The elite of the world lived

in London. The rich. The powerful. The fashionable. As far as

poverty and hybridization was concerned, there was a simple

rule of thumb: out of sight, out of mind.

Bernice sat with Marillian in a restaurant with a perfect view

of the river and watched a sandshark and a squid battle it

out for the privilege of becoming the main course for a party

of five Russian business executives.

Bernice studied her dinner companion over the menu.

Tonight he wore nerdy wire-rimmed spectacles. On him

they looked amazing. And his ringskin was reacting to her

presence, the bio-patterns evolving serenely across his face

as she watched.

She shook her head and took a sip of expensive wine. A

big sip. ‗Tell me about yourself. You live in London?‘

‗Yes.‘

‗Whereabouts?‘

He laughed. ‗I‘m sorry, you misunderstand. London is my

home. I own it.‘

‗Oh.‘

‗Yes, that‘s right, I... well, I am independently wealthy.‘

‗And the survey? The work?‘

‗I have connections with the British Museum. I sometimes

do some work for them.‘

‗I shouldn‘t have thought you need to work.‘ It was a

challenge and he knew it.

‗You could say I do it for love.‘ A direct stare. ‗Shall we

order?‘

Bernice frowned, deciding a change of subject was in

order. ‗How can you eat from a menu like this when you

know there are hundreds of tons of food going to waste in

Antarctica?‘

Marillian considered, ‗How can you wear a dress like that

when you know three hundred Somali women could be

clothed for the same cost?‘

Bernice bit back her answer. ‗How did you know I would

be there?‘

‗You told me you were going to Cairo.‘

‗But the Pyramid. That face, that exit. At that time. To

know -‘

‗- that you needed help?‘ The hands holding the menu did

not waver. ‗That you were being held at gunpoint by a mad

Arab? I imagine that takes a special... empathy.‘

Bernice sighed. ‗That‘s just my point. I wasn’t being held

at gunpoint. I had the gun on him. I was in no danger.‘ She

waited for a response; Marillian let his eyes drift back to the

menu. ‗And yet you shot him.‘

‗Yes.‘ Still no eye contact.

‗Why?‘ Push him. Take control.

‗What do you think of the whale mousse? I think it sounds

delightful.‘

Bernice waited. ‗Why is it so important?‘

Bernice put on her best poker face. ‗Look. You‘re attractive.

I like you. But if you keep on talking like a berk I‘ll

have to slap you like one.‘

Marillian looked up then, and smiled. ‗You are very funny,

Benny. I like that.‘ His expression did not change. ‗Yesterday

I shot a man. I have only ever done that once before. It is a

horrible feeling. I shot him for you, because I was frightened

for your life. Is that a good enough reason?‘

Bernice felt the power of his eyes and recoiled. ‗All right.

Tell me about the inscription.‘

‗No. I want to forget about such painful things for a while.‘

He reached across the table and took her hand. ‗I want to

skate with you on the Thames by moonlight -‘

‗- the hieroglyphics on the skull -‘

‗- or hunt with you in the body of a Serengeti lion -‘

‗- and the map? What about the -‘

‗- I want to sailbarge with you across the Himalaya

Desert, hunt Crown of Thorns starfish with you off the Great

Barrier Reef, take you dancing by Earthlight in the Sea of

Tranquillity -‘

‗- map of Forever -‘

‗- or preferably make love with you - forever, since you

mention it - in my tower penthouse.‘

Bernice took her hand back and laughed aloud. ‗Be

serious.‘

‗But unfortunately I can do none of these things without

first obtaining a licence. The same licence you need to utilize

the academic facilities here.‘

Bernice felt a shiver of annoyance. ‗You mean I need a

licence to visit a museum?‘

He nodded.

‗You‘re kidding. What kind of licence?‘

‗A childbirth licence. For which you have to be married.‘

He picked up the menu. ‗Which is why I have taken the

liberty of booking St Paul‘s first thing in the morning. You

know I think I will have the whale.‘ His smile was heaven in

the eyes of a teasing child. ‗And you?‘

Bernice blinked. ‗You want to marry me?‘

‗Purely in order to facilitate your research. Of course.‘

‗Of course. And your desire?‘

The smile deepened. ‗Naturally.‘

Bernice allowed her eyes to shift focus from Marillian to

the sandshark circling endlessly in the river tank. ‗Naturally.‘

She put down her menu. ‗I‘ll take the squid. Do you need a

licence for pre-marital nookie? You do? Shame.‘

‘That’s St Paul‘s Cathedral? It‘s got more domes than the

Kremlin.‘ Bernice did not wait for a reply; she merely

squished her black leather wedding dress, leaning into the

skimmer‘s dome to get a better view. ‗Where‘s the Whispering

Gallery?‘

‗Deemed inappropriate by our new Leaders.‘

‗Intense.‘

The Nepali priest whispered, ‗And do you, Bernice Surprise

Summerfield take this man to be your lawfully wedded

husband?‘

‗Do I get membership of the local polo club as well as

access to the libraries?‘

The priest leant closer, unamused. ‗The correct response is,

―I do.‘‖

Bernice nodded. ‗Funny how some things never change.‘

She stared up at the gargantuan chrome and neon crucifix

hovering weightlessly before the three-strong congregation.

‗Innit, chum?‘

When they emerged from the cathedral, Dottie Mars and

Butterman - arm in arm - were crying.

The Library at the British Museum had first moved location

more than five hundred years before. Now it was back where

it started, a tortuous route that encompassed four museums,

a secure facility, three private collections, as many

compulsory repossession orders, and one medium-sized

palmtop computer.

As far as Bernice was concerned, the Reading Room was

London. It was like a mind within its body; no - like the

process of memory within the mind. But even here there

were changes. Minor cosmetic alterations: a slightly more

hardwearing leather on the chairs, a more conservative finish

to the wooden tables. The change that ran deepest was that

all the books listed in the index were now kept on the

premises. Thirty levels of below-ground storage had been

constructed for the express purpose when regional

governments – and with them their libraries - were finally

abolished.

Bernice walked - prowled might be a better word -

around the galleries of the Reading Room. The glass dome

topping the circular room glowed with light. Through it,

almost directly overhead, Bernice could see the apex of the

London Pyramid. Sunlight, reflected and amplified by an

orbital mirror, glinted from the glass walkways, an arc of fire

across the sky. Bernice pulled books from shelves, dumped

them on the table she had chosen, flipped through them with

an irritated huffing sound.

Nothing.

Beside Bernice someone cleared their throat. She ignored

the someone. Continued to flip and huff. Occasionally she

slammed a book shut and banged it back on to the table.

The hovering presence cleared its throat again, more

meaningfully this time. Bernice looked up. The gnarled man

with thinning hair who peered down at her from behind three

sets of contact lenses did not even try to hide his scowl.

‗Might I suggest madam tries her search through the

electronic index. So much quicker - and quieter.’

‗Unfortunately I‘ve tried the microfiche, the CDRs, the

silicon media, the mud chips and the holographic crystals.

Still can‘t find what I‘m after. Odd, when you consider the

Library‘s reputation.‘

‗Indeed? Perhaps madam is attempting to access a subject

matter that is unavailable for access by the general public.‘

‗Wouldn‘t have thought so. I want to find out about the

Order of the Knights Templar and time travel. And their

possible links.‘

‗Ah well, there you are, you see. Madam will be needing

the science fiction section. It‘s in the outer library. The door

is that way. Thank you so much for your patronage -‘

‗No.‘ Bernice allowed her voice to rise past the level of

mere embarrassment. ‗I don‘t think so. I‘m pretty sure what I

want is here. I just don‘t know where to find it.‘

‗That is why we have an index, madam.‘

‗Time travel isn‘t in the index.‘

‗I should think not. As far as I know it hasn‘t been

invented.‘

‗Are you sure? It might be with all the other stuff that‘s

considered too subversive for good old Joe Q. Public to read

on his days off. The fascist periodicals, Fortean Times, the

skinflicks and the Beano? Am I right?‘

‗If madam is correct in her initial assumption then her

extrapolation is logical,‘ the clerk said stiffly.

‗I‘ll take that as a ―yes.‖‘ Bernice folded her arms. ‗Now if

sir would be so kind as to direct madam to the relevant level,

madam would gratefully refrain from utilizing her husband‘s

personal connections within the Library and securing sir

alternative employment as a public v-mail terminal cleanser.‘

The clerk blinked.

Bernice waited.

‗If madam will follow me, please.‘ She did so, through the

Reading Room, past a handful of studiously incurious

readers and into an employee-only elevator. A wrinkled finger

touched an ivory button. ‗The material madam requires will

be found on level forty-one.‘ The clerk stepped out of the

elevator.

Bernice frowned. ‗I thought there were only thirty levels.‘

‗Madam is correct. Nonetheless the material madam

requires will be found on level forty-one. A clerk will meet you

there.‘

Three wooden doors slid shut between them.

‗We call it The Library of Things That Never Were.‘ The

clerk was short, round, pale, boring and inexplicably

cheerful. ‗I suppose we should really call it the Library of

Things the Government Wish Had Never Been.‘ The remark

was punctuated by a scratchy giggle. ‗I say, you won‘t tell,

will you? I mean, you look like someone a girl could trust. I

mean, well, what I mean is... I could, er, lose my... that is,

what was it you were looking for? Oh - I‘m Hanna by the

way.‘

‗Benny.‘ Bernice tried on a friendly smile. It felt OK so she

allowed it to stick around. ‗The Knights Templar. Time

travel. Any connections.‘

‗Oh my, did you try the -‘

‗- science fiction section? Yes, the Illuminati texts are out

of print.‘

‗Oh. Well. Not to worry. I expect we can probably knock

up a title or two, wouldn‘t you say?‘

‗One lives in hope.‘

Two hours later Bernice found herself facing a creaking

stack of volumes totalling some two hundred and three

(not including periodicals). Dispensing with the obviously

inflammatory, subversive, paranoid and just plain daft left a

list of eighty-seven. Eighty-seven volumes - a total of more

than forty thousand pages, a quarter of a million references

to the relevant subject matter.

She turned to Hanna. ‗I‘ll need a table, a chair, a gallon of

coffee and a sugared banana dispenser the size of Nebraska.‘

The clerk giggled, vanished, reappeared with the

required items, vanished again and reappeared an hour later

with an armload of heavy, leather-bound volumes whose

wobbling top just concealed the clerk‘s wobbling chin.

‗Thought you might want to check the material we have on

Freemasonry.‘ The stack of books joined the rest. ‗I

brought the index.‘

Bernice closed the last page of the last book and sighed. She

rose to her feet, stretched, groaned and sat down in the lotus

position, then began a series of stretching exercises.

She was still stretching when Hanna reappeared. ‗Benny!‘

An eager smile. ‗Morning! How are we doing?‘

‗Finished.‘

‗And?‘

‗Absolutely bugger-all.‘

‗Oh.‘

Bernice stood up, threw her left hand over her shoulder,

lifted her right hand behind her back, clasped her fingers and

pulled. ‗It‘s just a thought but, uh, you know the way they

found the extra scrolls in the Dead Sea?‘

‗Yes.‘

‗And you know the way that extra chapter of the Christian

Bible turned up in the Vatican after the Freedom of

Information Act was passed in ‗39?‘

‗Er... yes...‘

‗Well. As I said, under normal conditions I‘d rather read

the collected Yellow Pages but under the circumstances... I

don‘t suppose you have the missing bits of any other major

religious texts, do you? Just, you know, anything you might

happen to have lying around, that is.‘

The Book of Things That Never Were.

Bernice held the binder with some awe. She wore gloves.

She took care not to breathe on the pages. She opened the

manuscript in a clean-vault.

Two hours later she had the start of it.

Two hours after Bernice left the Library Hanna was

summarily dismissed from her job, interrogated and then

deported.

Marillian‘s Telecom Tower Penthouse was as opulent as

Bernice had expected, and yet at the same time there was

something indefinably - and in context, disturbingly - nor-

mal about it. Amongst the Armani furnishings, the bullet-

proof picture windows with their incredible views of London

and a holotank the size of a subway car displaying news and

current affairs programmes in fifty-three different languages,

it was the little touches which lent humanity to an otherwise

somewhat impersonal display of personal wealth. The set of

2145 cricket cards; the bonsai pony nibbling gently at its

sock-sized bag of feed, the framed crayon drawing of

Olympus Mons, inscribed ‗to dady, lov Joo-Joo‘. These were

what caught and held Bernice‘s interest as she prowled the

nest of rooms.

‗A drink?‘ Marillian was dressed casually: an attractive

hybrid-human skinleather patterned in sea-green to match

his own skin. He looked naked but wasn‘t - and knew it. He

directed a lifter carrying several decanters and glasses to

move beside Bernice as she played with the pony - a tiny but

perfectly formed Appalachian.

‗Thanks. Whisky.‘

‗Chems?‘

‗I‘D take it neat. Make a change.‘

The drinks poured, Marillian settled himself before an

open-plan log fire and lifted his glass. ‗A toast. To the happy

couple.‘

Bernice allowed her lips to wrinkle in a proto-smile. ‗I‘m

not having sex with you.‘

Marillian picked a sugar cube from a bowl on the lifter and

held it out. The Appalachian cantered over to him and

cautiously sniffed around his fingers. An eager snort, three

large bites and the sugar was gone. Marillian grinned. The

Appalachian cocked its doll-sized head to one side, seemed

to consider the sweet it had just devoured, then began to

sweat. It stamped, made a high-pitched whinnying noise,

shook its head from side to side - and began to gallop madly

around the room.

Bernice blinked. ‗What was in the sugar?‘

‗Little cocktail. NA crack, some speed, a bunch of

designers; nothing illegal. Trigger loves the stuff. I give it to

him now and then as a special treat.‘

The Appalachian charged across Marillian‘s elephant-skin

rug, soared over the sofa in three elegant bounds - floor to

seat, seat to back and back to ground - leapt through the

fire, galloped along the windowsills, returned to the sofa, fell

over and went instantly to sleep.

Bernice sipped her whisky. ‗Don‘t think he‘ll be winning

any dressage events in the near future.‘

Marillian made a dismissive gesture as he drank from

his glass. ‗Tell me about your visit to the Library.‘ Was

that a hint of amusement in his voice? ‗What did you find

out?‘

Bernice rose from her cushion and moved to the window.

She studied the London panorama and sipped thoughtfully.

‗I‘ve still got a lot of stuff to work out, actually.‘

Marillian refreshed his own glass from the hovering tray.

‗Well, until you do I‘ve got some news you might find

interesting.‘

‗Oh?‘

‗Dottie Mars made the discovery. Which is in the nature of

a remarkable coincidence.‘

Bernice swallowed whisky to cover her interest. ‗And that

is?‘

‗While gene-typing the H. sapiens remains you found

within the raptor carcass, she found there was a current

human match.‘

‗A descendant?‘

‗No - an exact match. Sibling parity.‘ Marillian took

Bernice‘s empty glass from her and refilled it. ‗It‘s you. The

DNA in the relic matches that taken from you during our

wedding application.‘

Bernice blinked.

‗As closely as she can tell, the human remains found in the

raptor‘s stomach are your own.‘

‗Oh.‘ Bernice took her refilled glass. ‗May I have some

sugar with that?‘

Night on Earth had always been a time of fairy shadows, of

dim coronas, of distant sunlight bent around atmospheric

corners by the laws of refraction. That had not changed with

the building of the solar mirror; if anything the glorious

stillness of night had been enhanced by twin arcs of dim light

curving up like horns from opposite horizons, vanishing

halfway to the zenith as the shadow of Earth was cast across

the orbiting reflector.

Now Bernice watched the moon glide serenely out from

behind the mirror‘s curved silhouette. Armstrong City blazed

out from the Sea of Tranquillity, its light undiminished by the

woven diamond sky. The reflection of the moon and the city

lights gradually smeared out in a thin crescent about the

otherwise dark edge of the mirror.

She felt the heat of the fire crackling against her back, the

ice-frieze of glassite London beckoning from beyond the

window. She had not moved for three hours.

She became aware of someone sharing the space beside

her. She turned. He was carrying a silver tray worth a

month‘s wages which held two steaming mugs of hot

chocolate. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. ‗I was

born in

London and I grew up here. When I was a child, looking out

over the city like this made me feel like everything I could

see - the buildings, the parks, the people - it made me feel

like all that was a special toy my father had bought for me.

Other kids had hoverbikes or pets; I had London. I would

look down from here and no one would be able to see me

watching them. I was anonymous. Archaeology is like that,

like looking down from a mountain into a valley. You can see

only so much and you have to guess the rest. And the only

thing you know for certain is that the people you study will

never see you watching them.‘

She tried to smile. ‗That‘s not archaeology. That‘s

voyeurism.‘

‗Science as a peepshow? Tantalizing? Teasing us with

glimpses of things we can never have? Maybe so.‘ He set

down the tray. ‗You are very beautiful with the moon behind

you.‘ Anyone else and it would have been a cheap shot. With

him she knew it was a simple statement of fact.

He reached forward to unwind the heavy curtain from her

shoulders.

She let him.

He reached out with perfect hands to touch her shoulders,

cup her face.

She let him do that too.

‗Do we have time?‘

She tried once more for a smile. ‗The Christian Bible tells

us God made the world and everything in it: but no thing can

exist without time to define it. Did God make time as well?‘

‗I‘ll take that as a ―Yes‖.‘

She shook her head. ‗Take it as an ―I‘m not sure‖.‘

He sipped hot chocolate. ‗You‘re worried about time. But

you‘re going to live... well, a long time.‘ A moment. The

moon drifted idly on, its smeared-out reflection distorting

even further around the solar mirror. ‗You can stay with me.

I‘ll -‘

‗- protect me?‘ She picked at grains in the sugar bowl. ‗No

guarantee of that. Only guarantee is that I‘ll die a hundred

and twenty million years ago. Eaten. Alive, probably; you

know raptors. Got any more whisky?‘

‗You‘ve drunk it all.‘

‗Oh.‘

‗Do you want to tell me about the Library now?‘

‗No. I‘m too drunk.‘

‗I‘m very interested.‘

‗I can see that!‘ Bernice allowed some anger into her

voice. ‗Why are you pushing so hard?‘

‗Look, I‘m sorry. I... well, it‘s a bit odd. I mean, here we

are, right, alone together in my romantic penthouse, clearly

attracted to each other, but equally clearly going to do

nothing about it.‘

‗So?‘

‗It‘s not a situation I‘m used to, that‘s all.‘

‗I see. Most of your women sigh eagerly and jump naked

into bed, is that it?‘

He frowned. ‗No, of course not, don‘t be so stupid. It‘s

just... well, correct me if I‘m wrong but there is a connection

between us, isn‘t there? Don‘t tell me you can‘t feel it?‘

Bernice frowned. ‗You know I can.‘

‗Well then.‘

‗―Well then‖, what? It doesn‘t mean we have to leap into

bed together.‘

‗No. But equally, it doesn‘t have to get in the way of us

being friends. Does it?‘

Bernice rubbed her eyes tiredly. ‗No. You‘re right. I‘ve

been a bit... well, I‘ve been married before. This personal

stuff is all... well, it‘s a bit off the beaten track for me, put it

like that.‘

‗Of course. I made an assumption. I shouldn‘t have done

that. I‘m sorry. I‘ll leave you to rest. I‘ll sleep in the guest

suite tonight.‘

‗No.‘ A sigh. ‗There‘s no need for that.‘ Bernice abandoned

the fairyland moon. ‗Yes. OK, yes. I‘ll tell you about

what happened in the Library. Pass me that hot chocolate.‘

‗You want me to heat it up?‘

‗No.‘ She sipped. ‗Ughh. All right then, thanks.‘ He took

the mug from her. She followed him into the kitchen. ‗I

found a book. It had missing chapters from all the major

religious texts. The Library acquired it when they recalled

part of their own collection from a private owner a hundred

or so years ago. The owner was a Freemason. Well, some

chapter of the Freemasons, anyway.‘ She took the mug out of

the heater. ‗Thanks. Knowing the labyrinthine workings of

the average librarian‘s mind I suppose it might be possible

the whole situation was engineered simply in order to gain

access to the book itself. I can‘t think of any other way such

a manuscript would come to be in their hands - vaults, I

mean.‘

‗What was in the book?‘

‗Missing chapters from all the major religious texts and

any of the minor ones which happened to touch upon certain

aspects of Christianity.‘

‗Ouch.‘

‗And certain Egyptian sects. The Ra cult, for example.‘

Marillian sat beside Bernice on the windowsill, his face

invisible in the non-reflecting pane, the absence of a breeze

being the only indication that a barrier existed between them

and the city. ‗What did you find out?‘

‗I translated the inscription rubbing I made in Cairo.

The phrase translates as a whole unit rather than individual

words, and as such the meaning is not precise. But as far as

I can gather, it comes out something like, ‗To search for the

Sword of Orion: The sword that can kill death.‘ Or maybe it

reads, ―The Sword that can cause death.‖ Or maybe even,

―that can kill time.”’

‗You‘re talking about immortality.‘

‗There was a chapter from the Egyptian Book of the Dead.

Again, the text was crouched - er, couched - in metaphor;

they always maintained their kings were immortal. Maybe

they found a way to achieve literary - I mean literal -

immortality too. As well. That is. You know. As well as the

other way, I mean.‘

‗A way to enable people to live forever?‘

‗Don‘t know. Maybe. Maybe just their kings. What do you

think?‘

‗Well... it‘s a lot to think about. What‘s it got to do with

the Templars?‘

‗As fur - far - as I can tell the secret was stolen from a

reliquary chamber beneath the Sphinx, by Templar Knights

who were in Egypt during the third - hm, was it the third?

Well, anyway, one or other of the Crusades.‘

‗The Sword of Forever.‘ Marillian considered the view of

London. ‗I wonder where it is now.‘

Bernice sniffed and put down the sugar bowl. ‗According

to the Book, it‘s with all the other Templar treasures. Castle

Arginy. Rhone. France. The hybrid jungle. Daniel. Dead.

Drowned. Damn.‘ Bernice began to cry. ‗It‘s OK, I‘m fine.‘

Bernice fixed Marillian with a tear-and-drug smeared gaze.

‗You want to have sex now?‘

8

ARGINY: 1354

The Castle of Arginy swept upwards, its clean lines a

monument to design, to the craftsmen who built it and the

labourers who laid every stone. De Beaujeu considered the

sweep of walls, the curve of towers, the regular battlements

with pride. An old building. One whose structure was rooted

as deeply in the hill which it dominated as it was in the past

from which it had grown. One older than himself - and was

that a comforting thought in this age?

De Beaujeu turned from his study of the keep to survey the

valley, the land commanded and protected by the castle.

Forty years. Forty years he had lived here now, these old,

elegant stones more a home than ever Paris had been. And

Marianne. Three years dead. Her memory as vivid as the day

he had met her. A lifetime of love crammed into a few short

years. The child she had brought him now dead also.

But for the grandchildren, his legacy would be dead.

Only rarely now, and in moments of indulgence, did

Guillaume de Beaujeu dwell upon the subject of his uncle‘s

death, of his theft of the coffer from the Temple in Paris.

Only rarely did he consider the extensive rebuilding of the

basement, dungeon and sewer levels beneath the castle itself;

the construction of the trap-laden maze in which the coffer,

together with the Finger and other holy Templar relics now

rested.

Many times over the last forty years had de Beaujeu

considered opening the coffer, determining the secrets which

lay inside. As one advanced in years, so one‘s curiosity about

the future and what it held became more overwhelming. But

in these moments the vivid memories of his uncle‘s death

would return to prevent him completing his self-imposed

task. The future was what it was. He had no need of it now.

No. The land had changed, moved on. War had come and

gone, and come again. This day was the eve of a crucial

battle. One from which he fully expected to return

triumphant. And with things other than war, he was not

uncontent. A life fulfilled, a secret secured and the future...

well, the future wrested from the hands of those who would

see it in ashes.

What that future would be, de Beaujeu was certain he

would never know. But his position was secure within it, a

part of history as indelible as it was invisible. When the time

was right the Order would re-emerge into a world more

willing to receive its bounty. And they would have him to

thank.

In the meantime, there was the summons to arms, the

matter of fitting new armour, the tempering of weapons and

the training of soldiers. Arginy called and he would answer.

He had answered the call of God, destiny and the future.

Could he avail his people no less?

Guillaume de Beaujeu moved quickly for his sixty-two

years. He went first to his rooms where he made a final entry

into his journal, and thence to his mistress, the Lady Sophia,

to beg her indulgence on this eve of war.

The next morning, at the head of three hundred heavy

horse and twelve hundred infantry, he left his home in the

defence of his land.

He never returned.

Only his secrets, and his journal, remained.

9

LONDON: 2595

Bernice awoke the next morning with only a minor hang-

over; nothing she couldn‘t deal with. She bounced out of bed,

found the bathroom, showered, fixed herself up, fixed break-

fast, ate it, consumed an extra two mugs of black coffee and

only then realized where she had been sleeping.

She dragged Marillian from the bed and shook him awake.

‘Did we have sex?’ Her voice could have scraped paint from

a bulldozer.

‗I think,‘ Marillian rubbed sleep from his eyes, ‗I would

have remembered.‘

‗That is neither a yes nor a no answer.‘

‗Uh... yes.‘

‘Yes you agree with me or yes we had sex?‘

‗Yes. I do agree with you. And no, we didn‘t have sex.‘

‗Well. Ticks in the right boxes there then. What do you

want for breakfast?‘

‗Eggs.‘

‗And?‘

‗Just eggs.‘

‗Fine. I‘ve been thinking. How good are your labs? Can

we clone the H. sapiens DNA? Build a new me? How do you

take your eggs?‘

‗Uh, runny. And hard. Three of each. The labs have been

working for three days. No success. Coffee?‘

‗Can‘t find the milk. Virus?‘

‗Cell cancer. Milk‘s in the cow.‘

‗You have a cow?’

‗And poultry. It‘s a good way to make sure you don‘t have

any embarrassing genetic accidents over breakfast.‘

‗Outstanding. Well. What about the raptor? Can we clone

that?‘

‗Well, the genetic organization might be simpler. You

think it could give us any useful information?‘

‗Had a big enough brain pan. Size for size it had more

brain mass than a pig - and they operate computers every

day.‘

‗Fair point. Especially considering the potential forelimb

dexterity. Mind the eggs.‘

‗Oops. So we clone the raptor. Hope we can communicate

with it. What about memory retrieval?‘

‗Easy enough procedure, though we‘ll only get the last

moments. The wealthier corporate executives have been

recording their final memories for years; started off as an

inheritance tax-dodge.‘

‗Hm. Brain dead, personality not, muddy the legal waters

long enough for the heirs to collect a fortune. Neat. What

about cost?‘

‗Nothing selling Greenwich won‘t cover. Consider it a

wedding present.‘

‗Flattered. But don‘t sell the Maritime Museum, it‘s cute.‘

‗What about the Observatory?‘

‗That‘s nice too, but I prefer boats. They‘re more symbolic.‘

‗OK.‘

‗Good. If you see to that, I‘ll do some more research, try to

find out about the Templars and their secrets before we go to

Arginy.‘

‗Arginy.‘ His voice was soft but attentive. ‗Do you know

how many vaccinations you have to have to go to the Rhone

Valley?‘

‗There‘s always aerosol prophylactics.‘

‗OK. Well, fine.‘ Marillian scooped some egg on to a fork

and chewed thoughtfully. ‗Mm, cardamom; nice touch. You

know, I don‘t want to pry but... Bernice, who was Daniel?‘

Bernice dumped the frying pan into the shredder. ‗Who

was Joo-Joo‘s mother?‘

‗That‘s hardly -‘

‗Exactly. Now eat your eggs. And give me a kiss. Mm.

Happy honeymoon.‘

PART TWO

THE BREATH OF THE SERPENT

1

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

Patience.

The shell was soft. It would break. All she needed was

Patience.

The nest was big but she would find a way out. All it took

was

Patience.

The lesson was hard but she would learn. She grasped

stones, her finger-claws retracted and moved the stones.

Then pain, searing pain as Mothersmell raked her claws

across her back, her downy feathers; her voice and impatient

scent an undeniable presence.

-Again! Try again! Do not hurry this time. Everything

comes to those with-

Patience.

The apatosaur was an infant, not yet three summers old,

which had become separated from its mother and the rest of

the herd. A massive grey and blue cloud moving ponderously

above her head, the gigantic infant made whining noises,

high-pitched, full of distress. The sound urged her to action.

The infant smelt of meat, of life; a lumbering cloud that

rocked the ground with every muddy footfall.

Patience.

She moved quickly, her claws blurring to grip, to tear as

she leapt and climbed, swarming across the meal as it

lumbered panic-stricken through the grasslands. She clung,

tore at the cloud with teeth and claws, swallowing the still

living flesh even as she shifted her footing, her toe-claws

sinking into the meaty flank and shoulder, building a ladder

from the wounds she inflicted, blood dripping from her snout

and limbs, the smell of it driving her to a frenzy.

Patience.

Now her siblings joined her, rushing silently from the

concealing grasses, their claws bright and eager among the

sun-dappled lands. Soon the infant was smothered beneath a

cloak of living, tearing hunters, eating the creature even as it

ran, slowed, faltered, fell wheezing to the crumbling loam,

scattering squealing siblings as it landed, its shuddering

breaths propelling its meaty sides in spasmodic movements,

in and out, in and out, in and... out... and...

Patience.

Her finger-claw searched eagerly between the infant’s ribs;

a cold, curved blade tucked neatly into its heart and the

movement of life stilled as her snout gaped in a scream of

triumph. A moment and then her siblings were carving the

animal into chunks, greedily consuming the flesh, snorting

foamy bubbles through the blood coating their snouts. She

allowed them to play for a while and then barked, her voice

sharp, an undeniable demand for attention.

-Patience !-

They watched her for only seconds before losing interest;

attention turning to agitation, greed overcoming all. They

continued to feed. She raised her head and screamed,

knocking aside one of the bolder siblings, who fell to the

ground and slunk around the dead infant with an annoyed

hiss. She barked again, her voice an imperative now, one that

could not be ignored.

-Patience- she told them.

-You must have patience-

-Now bring the baskets so that we can feed the young-

This time, reluctantly, her ravenous siblings obeyed.

2

LONDON: 2595

Bernice was discovering a curious fact about London: the

future is never as fixed as you might think. Even after

enduring five centuries of the warped designs of politicians,

generals and city planners, little bits of the past kept

cropping up all over the place. If the present-day city was a

paved and greenhoused wonderland, then the past was busy

pushing up between every slab of synthocrete and pane of

glassite like persistent weeds. Marillian’s tower penthouse,

for example. No longer the tallest building in London,

nonetheless the structure was at least original. And the

British Library and the South Bank Aquarium. All still the

original buildings. Bernice was wondering how much of the

past there might be squeezed in between the chrome and

crystal monument to cultural change.

She had a particular establishment in mind. Tucked away

in a reclusive cobbled street, the Church of the Little

Brothers of Nazareth was a small building, its faced stone

worn only slightly by visitors. Bernice was not sure why

she had come here. Of all the things in her life there was

one that she was sure of above all others. And that was the

process of faith. She neither believed nor disbelieved in the

existence of God. Which was odd because on at least two

occasions she could name she had actually met gods; living

gods of alien species. And her experience of the many

substantial deities of her own world was almost second to

none.

As a scientist Bernice had no choice but to accept the

cultural validity and necessity for gods. But Bernice was not

thinking culturally now. She was thinking personally. And

that changed everything. Because today she knew something

about herself she had never before believed it was possible to

know.

The doors to the church were small, in keeping with the

rest of the building. Made of dark wood, they were stained

even darker and worn in shallow grooves near the loop-

shaped wrought-iron handles.

Bernice touched the smooth wood, the cold metal lock-

plate, letting her fingers drift across the surface to the

handle. She grasped and twisted. The door opened with the

weary familiarity of an old man easing himself into a

favourite chair.

Bernice hesitated, licked her lips, for some reason uneasy

when she thought of crossing the threshold.

‘It’s all right, you can come in.’ The voice that slipped out

of the dim interior was dream-slow, lightly accented, laced

with humour. ‘I promise I won’t try to sell you anything.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Bernice frowned. ‘How do I know that?’

The figure that joined the voice in daylight stood a head

taller than Bernice’s five-five, was possessed of white-

sheathed eyes in smoothly tanned skin, an impish smile and

a very cool assassin’s cloak. ‘It’s not like selling vacuum

cleaners. No commission, you see.’

Bernice laughed. ‘You mean you don’t get a few extra

brownie points for everyone you convert?’

A chuckle. ‘When you’re going to live forever in paradise

anyway, what else can you want?’

‘Fair point, I suppose.’

‘You see, you’re agreeing with me already. We’ll have you

saved, stamped, blessed, boxed and FedEx-ed to Heaven

before you can say, ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat’.’

Bernice grinned. ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat.’

‘Ah. You noticed the logical flaw in my proposition then.’

Bernice laughed.

‘Why don’t you come in and look around? Even if you

don’t subscribe to the religion, the architecture is quite

lovely.’ The man stuck out his hand. ‘Priest. Markus Priest.’

‘Benny.’ Bernice took the hand, glancing curiously at the

man. Milky sheaths hid any hint of pupil or iris. ‘If you don’t

mind me asking, how do you know that? About the

architecture I mean.’

‘Right, the eyes.’ Priest closed the door behind Bernice.

‘You don’t need eyes in the sight of the Lord.’

As Bernice watched Priest moved unhurriedly around the

pews to the transept and lit a votive candle. He placed it on

the podium with a number of others.

Bernice eyed the candles.

‘You’re wondering what they’re for,’ Priest said quietly.

‘The Household Dog, the Douglas Fir, the Ebola Virus.’

Bernice frowned.

‘On average three species of terrestrial life become extinct

every day -’

‘There’s forty-odd candles here.’

‘- and at least thirty more are created every day.’ Priest’s

expression was unfathomable. ‘I pray for all the Lord’s

children, known and unknown, old - and new.’

Bernice said nothing. A moment passed, the silence

deepening; sepulchral, disturbing. She breathed the firework

drift of candlesmoke, found herself unaccountably relishing

the aroma of melting wax. She said nothing.

After a few minutes, Priest said, ‘I find people come here -

infrequently - to remember.’

‘Loved ones?’

‘Things they’ve forgotten. Details of a life that has passed

on -’

‘- before its time?’

‘Who’s to say? I’m not the one who works in mysterious

ways.’

Another long silence.

‘Would you care to pray?’

‘I came here to think.’

‘It’s much the same thing, I find.’

‘I’m not into praying, really.’

‘You haven’t tried it my way.’

‘I smell a sell.’

Priest laughed. His voice was warm, very comfortable with

itself.

‘Well?’

Priest raised his hands. ‘Guilty.’

‘Your stock-in-trade.’ Priest smiled; Bernice surrendered

to the inevitable. ‘Tell me all about it. Just don’t try to sell me

a life insurance policy.’

‘Why not? Extending the term to eternity makes the

repayments highly affordable. So I’m told.’

Priest tucked the ball under Bernice’s outstretched hands,

trickled a pass, made a double fake-out, took off from a

standing jump and slammed the ball through a net bolted to

the side of the church.

Bernice tried to turn three different directions at once,

tripped over her own feet and sat down suddenly. ‘This is

praying?’

‘Every time I net one I’m nearer my God than thee.’

‘I don’t get it. How come you can beat me when you can’t

see?’

‘I see very clearly.’

‘You’re beating me twelve-to-nothing on faith?’

‘What do you think?’

Bernice struggled to her feet. ‘I’m not buying it. You’ve

got implants. A bodyscope. Radar. Something.’

‘No.’ The ball sailed over Bernice’s hands and clunked

into the net.

‘Magnets in the ball.’ She turned to retrieve it but he was

already past her and homing in.

‘No.’

‘A secret accomplice. Stage mirrors. Telekinesis. Auto-

suggestion. Dumb luck.’

‘No.’ He threw the ball at her.

‘Gullible punter?’ She caught the ball.

‘No.’

‘Well, I give up. What’s left?’

‘Easy. Either I’m lying, or...’

‘...you’re telling the truth.’

‘Want to flip a coin?’

‘I’d have to steal one from a museum first. And I’d have to

have a baby to get into a museum.’

‘It’s an imperfect world.’

‘Well, we know who to blame for that.’

‘Do we?’

Bernice threw the ball as hard as she could directly at his

face. He spread one palm and caught it easily. ‘You want to

talk about it now?’

Bernice sat down, leaning back against the stone wall of the

church. ‘What if you knew how you were going to die.’

He sat beside her, white eyes glowing in the sunlight. ‘I do

know. God will call and I will answer.’

‘That’s a metaphor. I’m talking literally.’

‘What, you mean, at 2.03 p.m. this afternoon a seven-year-

old crack-head will take you out with a Hygena kitchen knife

for your credit implant?’

‘Yeah well, you know. Something like that.’

‘All right. What if I did know how I was going to die? Are

you asking how it would affect my faith?’

‘Imagine you had none.’

‘What, none to start with?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And then I found out how I was going to die?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well... I suppose I’d give up netball.’

‘And look for a reason to go on living, right?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And what reason would you find?’

‘Faith.’

‘You seem very certain.’

‘I am.’

‘Is this the hard sell again?’

‘No, just the truth.’

‘What is the truth?’

‘A hard question to answer.’

Bernice bit her lip. ‘What if I said I was going to die two

hundred and fifty million years in the past, eaten alive by an

intelligent dinosaur?’

‘What evidence do you have?’

‘Fossilized bone fragments with my DNA inside a

mummified carcass found on the dumb-place-to-be-without-

your-woollies side of the TransAntarctic Mountains.’

Priest took the ball and dribbled thoughtfully. ‘What if I

told you I was dying? A tumour alongside the optic nerve.

What if I said I had less than a year to live? What then?’

Bernice did not have a reply.

‘I have faith, Bernice. Faith that God will find a way for

me to be reborn in His eternal love.’

Bernice sighed. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. There are

surgeons -’

‘I said it was inoperable.’

‘If it’s a case of money, I can... I’m sorry. You don’t want

to hear this.’

‘It’s all right.’

Bernice licked her lips and closed her eyes, trying to

imagine what it would be like to wake up every morning to

that eternal whiteness.

‘Have you ever been to the Pyramids?’

‘No.’

‘Inside the Great Pyramid are two chambers. The King’s

Chamber and the Queen’s chamber. Each has two shafts

connecting it to the outside surface. They’re called star shafts

- kind of a dumb name when you consider the ends were

deliberately blocked by those who built the monuments.’

Bernice pressed her shoulders harder against the wall.

‘Seven hundred years ago an English engineer named John

Dixon made an exploration of the star shafts with an

extendible chimney sweep’s brush handle. He found three

artifacts - the only artifacts ever to have been found inside

the Giza monuments. One was a rough stone sphere,

another was a two-pronged hook made of some unidentifiable

form of metal. The third was a piece of wood with strange

notches cut into it.

‘Dixon brought the artifacts back to England that same

year. At the same time he transported the two-hundred-ton

stone obelisk of the Pharaoh Thutmosis III from its original

site at Heliopolis to the North Bank of the Thames, where it

was incorrectly renamed ‘Cleopatra’s needle’.’

‘Upon arrival in London the record of the objects found

within the Great Pyramid ceases quite suddenly. There’s

mention of a rumour that they were hidden beneath the

obelisk by Freemasons, of which Dixon was known to be a

member - then a few years later they turn up again in the

cigar box in which they were originally transported from

Egypt, in a drawer in the British Museum.

‘The thing is - now there are only two relics. The ‘piece of

wood with strange notches cut into it’ has vanished.

‘As an archaeologist you have to admit it’s an odd

coincidence that the one-and-only relic capable of carbon-

dating the age of the Pyramids vanished so conveniently -

and so completely - from the historical record.’

Bernice waited; Priest said nothing.

‘But what if the relic had been deliberately misdescribed?

What if it had been ‘a piece of bone with strange notches cut

into it’?’

‘I’m not sure I understand the significance.’ Priest

shrugged. ‘What if it was?’

Bernice said quietly, ‘The Antarctic bone fragments

contained my DNA.’ A breath, warm air; Bernice

concentrated on the sensation of sunlight streaming in

through London’s sloping roof and moving across her body. ‘I

found a corpse in the Sphinx. A Crusader Knight. The skull

was destroyed but I managed to take a rubbing. The

fragments were etched.

Another section of the same map. A map of forever.’

Priest said nothing.

‘The corpse was old, the bone brittle, eroded. The rubbing

wasn’t very good.’

Priest said nothing.

‘Yesterday morning I went to the emergency neuro-clinic

at Kings - told them I was getting married. Paid them cash,

got them to X-ray my head for the wedding certificate.’

Bernice blew out her cheeks.

Priest said quietly, ‘They find anything?’

‘Nope.’

‘No evidence of a map?’

‘Not a sausage.’

‘Not even a brain?’

Bernice ventured a short-lived smile. ‘The way I’m feeling

at the moment, that’s questionable.’

Priest waited.

‘ The Sword that can kill death.’’ Bernice licked her lips.

‘With that we could beat the odds. Change the future. You

could beat cancer; I could beat destiny. Who knows, we

could both live forever.’

Priest smiled gently. ‘I will.’

Bernice nodded. ‘You have faith; that’s fair enough. Me, I

need a hell of a lot more.’

Priest took a small book from his pocket and gently placed

it in her hand. ‘Try this.’

3

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

Her world was warm and bright. Smells filled it. Scents to

delight, intrigue, confuse and enrage. Three summers she

grew and hunted. She was a good provider, highly prized by

the Nest. Once every five suns she would emerge from the

settlement and, with her sisters, move out into grasslands to

acquire food.

Her hunts were good; the Nest thrived.

And then one day, she found the sword - and everything

changed.

She didn’t know it was a sword of course, not then and not

for a long while afterwards. She thought of it as a thing and

she found it while catching fish.

Her siblings did not catch fish as a rule; they did not like

walking where the mud was. Drowning was too easy; three

siblings had been lost that way. But she had devised a simple

method of staying safe: stay on the rocks. Do not hunt the

fish; there were plenty of fish. Let the fish come to you. Wait.

Watch - then strike.

All it took was a little time and effort.

At the age of only three summers, time was something she

had plenty of.

Now she had plenty of fish as well.

This morning, she lay basking on the rocks, her body

soaking up the heat absorbed by the stone. Her body was

relaxed; she relished the beat of the sun, the rain-dance of

water through her crest and on her skin. And also the safety

- for no other predators could hunt her here: the river carried

her scent far downstream and dissipated it. She doubted

anyone from the Nest could smell her, let alone an enemy.

But at the same time, she was alert, her body poised. She

was hunting after all. Fish were notoriously slippery prey.

Then she saw something she had never seen before. The

peculiar animal swam past quickly. She watched it curiously.

It wasn’t a fish, nor yet was it a land crawler. Yet it had legs.

And it swam. And its body... it was round and its legs stuck

out, back and legs ridged, green, like nothing she had ever

seen before.

She stretched out a languid forelimb, claw extended, and

scooped the animal from the river. She was a blur of motion;

the swimmer jagged to the left as soon as it sensed her

shadow playing across the surface. But the movement was

too little too late. And she was faster. Much, much faster.

Her claw hooked in one limb and she held the animal up to

her snout. It wriggled. It was a curious creature, hard-bodied

with wriggling, leathery appendages. And as she watched,

something peculiar happened: the animal seemed to shrink.

With the exception of the leg her claw had penetrated it

withdrew all its limbs and its head into its hard body.

She lifted the animal closer and bit into its back.

And broke a tooth.

Snarling, she threw the animal away. It landed on a rock

and the shell cracked. She was on it in an instant, pouncing,

her limbs grasping, to catch, to lift and prise.

The shell resisted her.

She considered for a moment, then hit the animal against

the rock. Then again. And again. Before long the shell split

completely. She hooked out bits of flesh and tasted one

cautiously. It was good. She ate more.

It was while deciding whether to look for more of these

strange but tasty creatures that she saw the thing.

It sat in the mud at the edge of the river, close to where the

shellback had fallen when she had thrown it; a long spike

with a crosspiece, regular, unnatural, shining in the

sunlight. The edges gleamed, meeting in a sharp point at the

end furthest from the crosspiece.

She moved closer, ever wary of attack while this close to

the bank. She crouched to retrieve the strange object. It was

heavy, made of a smooth, cold stone which looked like the

silver moon but reflected the gold of the sun in threads of

fire.

She held it up, sniffed it: traces, undefinable, alien, almost

driven from it by the running water, clinging tenaciously to

brown specks ground into the ridged blunt end.

Blood. But what sort of blood? She had never smelt its like

before.

Should she take it back to the Nest, for the Older Siblings

to examine? Would they praise her for her find, or berate her

for wasting time while hunting?

While she was trying to decide, two raptors leapt from the

greenery at the edge of the river. Aliens! Hunters!

Stupid!

Her brain shut down all higher functions immediately as

she whirled to deal with the threat. She was still holding the

strange thing when the first raptor reached her. The thing

spun, flashed in the sun, and the next thing she knew was

that the attacking raptor was lying disembowelled in a

steaming puddle of its own insides, screeching furiously as it

wriggled and died.

With the odds evenly matched, the remaining attacker

considered, then fled, squealing in frustration.

Her mind woke up again while she was eating. She studied

the strange thing, lying beside her, now covered in raptor

blood and shreds of flesh. Then, realization dawning, she

lifted it above her head and screamed with sheer delight.

Today’s hunt had found something better than food.

When she got back to the Nest, she dragged the thing

through the grass and scrub to the Inner Nest. At every step

the chicks cackled at her, scraping their claws in amusement

at her discovery. Their older Sibs clustered around, cuffing

the youngsters and barking instructions. By the time she

reached the Inner Nest she had drawn quite a crowd. Raptors

leapt and chirruped around her, their attention focused

curiously on every step, their claws striking bark chips and

scattering leaves from the tree-limbs. Their voices were loud,

interrogative, their claws reaching interestedly to touch the

thing. She screeched at them and they retreated long enough

for her to reach the Inner Nest. None would follow here. For

the first time since entering the Nest she found herself alone.

Where the grassy Outer Nest ran alongside the river and

smelt of water and air, the Inner Nest was close, secretive,

almost claustrophobic. Built into and through a gigantic

multi-limbed tree the Inner Nest smelt of loam and bark,

insects and old meat. Trunks erupted from the ground to

form a maze, grown to confound a larger enemy but through

which she slipped easily. Light that filtered through the

leaves was pale; it dappled the tree trunks and rarely

glimpsed ground with shimmering patches of brighter colour.

Her audience left behind now, she moved deeper into the

Nest. Here the smells were strong, almost overpowering: of

birth, of food, of learning. She had glimpses of her own

youth: cracking her birth shell, shedding her first feathers,

breaking her first tooth, learning to retract her first finger-

claws.

She stopped at the edge of a small clearing, just a gap

really, overgrown with lichen and moss, a dip in the ground

between and partly beneath two broken trunks.

The Older Sibs were waiting for her.

There were three; they were old beyond her ability to count.

Wrinkled skin, sagging limbs, feathers sporadic and fur

patchy, but eyes which blazed with ancient wisdom and

arrogance. And well they might, for theirs was the most

successful species yet to live upon Earth.

All that was to change.

They took the thing from her, took it right away and hid it.

Then they told her things, their voices gruff with age, but

their ideas - oh, their ideas -

She struggled to grasp their words, fought to wake the

sleeping higher functions of her mind and separate them

from the primitive hunter that all her species were by

instinct.

Her questions were many, impatiently barked, her mind

eager for answers.

-First the Naming. Then the Learning-

-We have chosen a name for you-

-Rather you have chosen it for yourself-

-that which you must learn you will be named for-

-and never forget-

- Patience-

For fully two moons following the Naming she remained

within the dark-scented Inner Nest. She grew fat on the work

of hunters. Her mind, once awoken, was unable to sleep. She

learnt things... such things... that the gold fire in the sky

was called a Sun, that the silver thing in the night sky was

called the Moon. She learnt of fire, of tools, of the secret

names of animals and plants. She learnt to bake meat, to

make dishes from turtle shells.

Holding her first turtle shell dish made her think of the day

that she had found the thing. And she asked the question

that would change everything.

-What did I find that day?-

And the Older Sibs showed her the secret place they had

made. A hollow filled with silver scraps glinting with light.

Plates like turtle shells, more spikes, round balls covered in

spikes, smaller spikes, larger balls that were hollow like

coconut shells with holes for eyes and mouth, though clearly

not raptor eyes or mouth.

She was speechless.

The Older Sibs brought her into the hollow, peeled back

bark-cloth coverings to reveal even more treasures.

-It cuts-

-Kills-

-It is danger-

-It is the future-

-It is called metal-

A pause.

-Now we will teach you of it-

-and then you will learn –

-and surpass us in knowledge-

-and then you will teach us-

Three more summers passed. All that time she lived with the

Older Sibs, ate with them, learnt from them. She asked

questions and they answered.

Answers that were to change her life - and her world -

forever.

4

LONDON: 2595

In her time as an archaeologist Bernice had used everything

from a paintbrush to a water cannon for excavating sites of

antiquity. She’d never used a road drill before, though, and

was finding the machine cumbersome, hard on the ears, and

somewhat lacking in fine control. She supposed it would be a

problem if she were excavating for fossil remains, rather than

digging through one and a half centimetres of glassite and

one and a half metres of masonry. Since she wasn’t, she

didn’t see any reason to worry.

She’d spent the entire afternoon attempting to get

permission to excavate beneath the Obelisk of Thutmoses III

- otherwise known as Cleopatra’s Needle. The problem was

not that anyone was refusing, it was just that there simply

seemed to be no one to ask. At least, there was no one who

was prepared to admit responsibility for the monument.

Lack of government offices was the problem. Well, it was

the start of the problem, anyway. When she’d looked up

Local Council Offices in the v-mail directory, the entry read,

‘Moscow’. Frowning, Bernice had dialled the code anyway.

A request for the deposit of one-hundred-and-thirty Adjusted

Dollars for the first three minutes seemed to confirm the call

was being directed halfway round the civilized world. ‘I’ve

heard of decentralization, but this is ridiculous,’ she told the

operator politely, and hung up.

The next obvious stop was Parliament. Bernice was

intrigued to find no sign of anything more politically active

than a pigeon, though she spent a pleasant half hour

attempting to bribe the museum curator to let her sit on the

now disused Prime Minister’s chair in the Members’ Gallery -

only stopping when that helpful fellow confessed that the

chairs were all duplicates anyway, the originals having been

lost along with the original building during the war.

Bernice left the building with a better view of Little

Russia’s place in the world power structure but little else

of value. She looked around at the glass city, its neatly

presented greenery and occupants, and began to feel her

options were rather quickly running out.

Then she caught sight of a neat figure crossing the lawn

outside Parliament and grinned. When all else fails try a

policeman.

She walked up to the policeman and smiled. He smiled

back, but didn’t speak.

‘Excuse me,’ she ventured, ‘I was wondering if you could

help me get in touch with whatever local council office is

responsible for the maintenance of Inner London

Monuments.’

The policeman continued to smile. ‘Move along there,

mind the traffic, thank you for your cooperation.’

‘Er... there isn’t any traffic.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the policeman. ‘The time is ten

fifteen. Buckingham Palace? Why yes, sir, it’s over there,

past St James’s Park - no feeding the hippos by the way -

and straight up.’

Bernice frowned. ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I’d

love it if you could simply -’

‘Why would you be wanting the time, Sonny Jim? That’s

Big Ben right behind you! Best hurry now, I think your mum

wants to buy you an ice-cream.’

Bernice waved her hand in front of the policeman, who

smiled the same fixed smile. ‘Move along there, mind the

traffic, thank you for your - hey! Stop thief!’ The policeman

ran off, blowing a particularly piercing ball-whistle to attract

help she was fairly certain would never come.

Bernice shook her head. Museum exhibits weren’t what

they used to be.

Leaving her friendly neighbourhood lobotomy victim to his

history-book-cliché life, Bernice found the nearest internet-

bar and dived headfirst into a double whisky and v-mail.

It took her half an hour to track down the contractors

responsible for minor repairs to roads and buildings; five

minutes to buy an industrial road drill off them, and four

hours to have it delivered to an address on the North Bank

close to the Needle. She was careful to meet the flatbed

loader in the road, waved it down to a perfect landing, spun

the workteam a yarn about digging a swimming pool, forged

Marillian’s signature on the receipt papers after first having

ascertained that neither the woman nor man could read,

agreed to dinner with either or both of them, in any

combination, gave them the Moscow v-mail address instead

of her own, waved goodbye, set the safeties on the rig, went

back to the pub, and stayed there until chucking out time at

2 a.m. the next morning when, half cut and spiced up with

enough sugar to sink a barge, she sited the drill bit upon the

glassite sheathed concrete at the foot of Cleopatra’s Needle

and kicked in the power.

The drill screamed. So did Bernice when she realized the

workteam hadn’t left her any earmuffs.

An hour later she found the box. It was made of stone and

engraved with the Seal of the Knights Templar. The lid was

fixed. Detaching the drill bit she used it to crack the lid. The

halves fell open to emit a breath of stale, cold air. That and

the smell of cigars. Inside was a smaller, wooden box.

Bernice reached for the box, then hesitated. Even skin oil

could be lethal in her game. She touched the box with one

fingertip only after first pulling on a pair of surgical gloves

taken from her satchel.

The shell of the box was brittle, the lid sheathed in flaking

paper, blackened with age, upon which she could just make

out the words,

Thomson and Thomson

‘Cigars of the Pharaoh’

Est. 1832

Bernice took the can of aerosol fixative from her satchel and

carefully applied a thin coating to the surface of the box. She

was careful to mask the edges of the lid to make sure she

could still open it afterwards: she had worked too long and

her ears hurt too much from the drill to replace one near-

impenetrable box with another. A few moments and the job

was done. Her ears ringing with the sound of the drill,

Bernice carefully lifted the box and opened the lid.

Which was exactly the moment she felt something

uncomfortably like the barrel of a gun dig into the side of her

neck.

She glanced around - slowly.

It had felt like a gun - and it was one.

There were two guns and they were being held by two grey-

clothed figures. Guns and figures were identical: medium tall,

medium broad; short, neat hair, grey Soochi suits, grey Nike

business shoes, ties, and full-width mirrored contact lenses.

Their faces were identical too - as close as was possible

when considering one was male and the other female - each

composed of neutral features set in identical unreadable

expressions. Bio-accessorizing toned visible skin surfaces to

match the suits. Each wore precisely the same amount of

eye-shadow - or each had been burning identical amounts of

midnight oil.

Still kneeling, Bernice began to turn. She used the

movement to conceal the cigar box as she slipped it into her

pocket.

The woman spoke.

Bernice thought about tapping her ear to indicate she

was still having problems hearing, then remembered the

proximity of the guns.

The figures exchanged glances. The man spoke.

Bernice licked her lips and remained motionless.

Another exchanged glance.

Bernice said, slowly and quietly, ‘I can’t hear properly -

the drill. Didn’t have any earmuffs.’ The words sounded like

badly muffled echoes in her own ears.

The figures exchanged looks. The man signalled her to

rise. As she did so he reached out a hand to help her. Bernice

took it automatically - and felt him slap something cold and

hard across her head.

There was a sharp pain in her ears and then her hearing

came back.

The man stepped away from Bernice. ‘Nerve stimulator.’

His voice was like his body, calm, neutral, controlled.

The woman added, in identical tones, ‘We normally use

them to overcome neurological shock produced by our

handguns.’

The man, ‘We wouldn’t want to kill anyone.’

The woman added, ‘That would be counterproductive.’

Bernice blinked. ‘Counterproductive to what?’

‘Our job.’

The man smiled ingenuously. ‘Perhaps we’d better

introduce ourselves. Special Agent Kepler -’

‘- Special Agent Newton -’

‘IFB.’

Bernice pursed her lips in amusement.

‘The Institution for Freedom and Benevolence.’

Bernice’s smile faded as she caught sight of a ring on the

man’s finger. A ring with a familiar seal. ‘You’re linked to the

Masons, aren’t you?’

Newton and Kepler exchanged looks. Suddenly both guns

were out again.

‘Uh huh.’ Bernice licked her lips. ‘Just a wild guess -

sorry.’

‘Give us the artifact -’

‘- here and now -’

‘- and we’ll let you live -’

‘- and you’ll never see us again.’

‘I see. You’ll be benevolent towards me and I’ll retain my

freedom if I do as you say.’

The woman smiled - the change of expression was

frightening.

The man said simply, ‘Yes.’

Bernice frowned. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s some-

thing wrong with this picture?’

The agents exchanged quick glances.

‘You are eternity,’ said Newton.

‘You must die so the future past can live.’

Bernice tensed herself to run. Clearly these two were

raving lunatics. ‘Yes. Well. It’s a good plan as far as it goes

but what if I offered you an alternative?’

Newton and Kepler exchanged looks - and that moment,

Bernice whipped out the can of aerosol fixative and sprayed

both gunbarrels solid.

‘It’s called save ass!’

Grabbing her satchel, Bernice ran to the drill rig, kicked in

the fans and banged her foot down on the throttle.

The rig scooted forward at slightly faster than walking

speed.

Newton and Kepler made their guns vanish in perfect time

and began to walk towards the rig. Bernice found the dash-

board release, ripped off the cover, scrabbled inside for some

kind of override. Newton and Kepler were seconds away.

Both were reaching inside their suits. Bernice didn’t think

they were reaching for underarm deodorants. She grabbed a

wire, ripped the covering off it with her teeth, repeated

the process, twisted the wires together, convulsed from a

minor electric shock and hung on to the steering wheel as

the rig suddenly accelerated along the North Bank towards

Westminster Bridge at ninety kilometres per hour.

A hundred metres from the bridge the road was blocked by

a grey limousine with mirrored windows. The limousine

dropped to the road broadside on to the rig, its bumpers

hanging over the slidewalks on either side of the road.

The windows began to wind down.

She saw guns. Lots of guns.

Bernice swung the wheel, allowed the rig to plough

through the embankment wall, teeter for a moment on the

edge of falling into the river, then right itself and career in the

opposite direction, back towards Newton and Kepler.

The two agents did not move - except to aim their new

guns. Bernice hunkered down behind the dashboard and

thought really hard about praying. She was trying to decide

whether or not it would be hypocritical when the first shots

ricocheted from the drill housing.

Bernice slammed her palm down on the drill pad, firing

up the motors and engaging the forcefield containment.

Ammunition sprayed against the drillfield, whickering away

into the night to the accompaniment of crumpling metal,

breaking glassite, and a cat’s indignant scream.

Newton and Kepler leapt aside as Bernice gunned the

throttle and the rig surged forward. She glanced back long

enough to see the agents rise gracefully from identical

breakfalls and dive into opposite doors of the grey limousine,

which then accelerated along the embankment in near-silent

pursuit.

Bernice turned left, away from the river, hoping to lose

herself in the crowds of people visiting the theatres on the

Strand.

There weren’t any crowds.

The various theatres and entertainment centres proclaimed

their wares in holographic glory to an empty street.

Bernice gunned the engine and roared up the Strand.

Behind, the near-silent oooohhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmm of the

limousine’s fans hummed as it charged along behind her.

Cursing the lack of rearview mirrors, Bernice risked a

glance backwards. The limo was closing fast.

Bullets whanged off the rear casing. One spattered against

the drillfield a handspan from her face.

The hell with this!

Bernice wrenched the wheel; the rig angled left and then

right, taking out a jeweller’s shop front and the window dis-

play in Ace Tanner’s Classic-Heavy-Metal Music Emporium.

Bullets followed closely. Too closely.

Thank Heaven they’re too tight to use smart ‘munition -

At that moment a shell passed beneath her arm and tucked

itself neatly into the engine cowling. Horrible noises came

from under the hood, together with more than a hint of

smoke.

Bernice wrenched the wheel again; the rig blew a torque

buffer as it angled right, demolishing the corner of the Bank

of North Africa before accelerating in lurching arcs along the

approach to London Bridge.

Behind her, the limousine did not slow as it took the

corner, slipping under the demolished bank before fifty tons

of masonry dislodged by the rig fell into the space it had

occupied just seconds before.

Bernice fought to control the rig as it careered along the

approach road. Demolished during the war, London Bridge

had been rebuilt in glassite. A three-tiered structure

containing shops, restaurants and entertainment centres, the

bridge towered over the glassite-sheathed river, seeming to

extrude upwards from it, a delicate curve of palisades and

columns and two high observation domes at either end.

Bernice took this in during the thirty-second approach to

the bridge, before ducking as the rig took out the toll barrier

and ticket machines. Her eyes were firmly closed when the

rig jagged to the left, plunging into the pedestrian colonnade

through a large revolving door, smashing through pillars and

a shrubbery, crashing through both walls of a NewsNet

parlour, a sweetmeat vendor and a bio-implant surgery, and

scattering several dozen people before regaining the road and

accelerating again.

Bernice plucked a sugared snail from her hair as the

limousine cruised after her into the bridge. Figuring she

might as well be hanged for a pound as for a penny, she

swallowed the snail whole - and the rig suddenly jagged right,

demolished five ionic columns, scattered a number of

strolling couples, plunged through a VR Multiplex where

about forty teenagers were scrambling each other’s nervous

systems in a game of Neur-O-Tag, took out Screen Three (the

restored, extended Hammer and Sickle), Screen Five (the first

legal showing in five hundred years of Kubrick’s A Clockwork

Orange) and Screen Seven ( Indiana Jones: Final Genesis)

before plunging through the outer wall and falling amid a

shower of debris more than thirty metres into the River

Thames.

Falling.

Smooth.

Rush of air.

Slow tumble of moon and stars.

Dizzy.

Sick.

Crystal shatter of bridge against glass sky.

At least the water will be -

The rig hit the surface of the Thames and, drill and

driver screaming, smashed through the protective glassite

and plunged beneath the surface.

The limousine followed the rig from the bridge. Bernice had

a bubble-obscured view of it settling without any fuss beside

the hole the rig had made in the glassite roof.

The rig settled on to the machined riverbed. A tiger shark

nosed the wreckage as Bernice kicked her way clear of the

cabin and struck out for the surface. The shark came a little

too close to the drillfield and lost a fin. Thrashing angrily, the

animal swam in frenzied circles, leaking blood.

Bernice reached the surface, kicked even harder,

anticipating air - and banged her head against the glassite

roof.

The water came right up to the glassite.

There was no air.

She pressed upwards, trying to find the edges of the hole

made by the rig. She caught sight of movement - feet

moving on the water, centimetres from her face. A grey face

peered close, smiling, then a hand swam into view.

A dull thump. A flash of light. Glassite cracked a hand’s

width from her face.

Gunfire.

Bernice jerked back, swimming upside-down beneath the

roof, trying to keep her attackers in sight as they pumped

more ammunition into the glassite.

They had her bearing now; more ammo smashed into the

glassite, tearing a hole, chopping the water into deadly lines

of bubbles. Bernice waited out of the line of fire until the

agents had to reload and then gulped a mouthful of air from

the hole. She dived as more bullets were fired into the water

after her. She swam straight down, trying to put distance

between herself and the agents, hoping the depth of water

would conceal her until she could find some way out of the

river.

She noticed the water dim around her and changed

direction. Oil from the rig?

No.

Blood.

From the shark.

The animal circled her now, swimming close, bumping its

razor-skinned belly along her side, scraping clothing and

skin away in a rush of blood. Bernice could not repress a

scream - a mass of bubbles erupted from her mouth and

nose. Half her air gone. Stupid!

The shark, driven to an even greater frenzy by the scent of

human blood, circled even closer.

She dived. Maybe there would be something on the rig - a

breather mask for the operator, something, anything. Maybe

she could lure the shark back into the drillfield and kill it.

If wishes were fishes -

The only good thing was that the blood in the water

concealed her from Newton and Kepler, though it didn’t stop

them loosing random shots into the murky depths. If they

couldn’t see her maybe she could find some way out of -

Light bloomed in the water.

A restaurant; the light was streaming upwards from its

roof.

They could see her.

Everyone could see her.

The stream of bullets stopped. The shark lurched

lopsidedly away.

Maybe the light would work to her advantage - if she

didn’t drown first.

Bernice peered into the restaurant, had a glimpse of staring

faces, smiles, pointing fingers. Diners and the maître-d’.

We’ll have the octopus, if you please.

Of course, madame.

A moment and then a hatch in the seabed opened. A robot

handler reached for the octopus in question. Bernice grabbed

hold of the mechanical arm and was dragged back down into

the airlock.

Two minutes later, gasping with breath, dripping water on

to the Armani upholstery and carpets, Bernice squished her

way from the kitchen into the main dining area. She ignored

the astonishment on the faces of the diners, sat heavily in

one elephant-leather upholstered chair and waited for the

inevitable confrontation with the maître-d’. He arrived after

she had wrung out her hair and before she had quite finished

using her shirt to bandage her side. Bernice dripped water on

to his shoes and smiled disarmingly. ‘Table for one?’

The cigar box was intact though the contents, at least the

organic contents, were nearly ruined. It took her fourteen

hours of hard work with a microscope and brushes before

she reconstructed even part of the phrase engraved upon the

fragment of bone - for bone it was, not wood; she had at

least been right about that.

As for the markings, they seemed to refer to something

called the Box of Ra. According to record, the markings

resembled those observed in the latter half of the twentieth

century in a Masonic temple near the shores of Loch Ness, in

Scotland.

5

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

-Today we will learn of humans-

Patience watched as Raptor Old unsheathed his finger-

claw and used it to draw back a cloth covering which had

been draped over a wooden table.

Raptor Old was wrinkled, his neck folds loose, his feathers

grey-brown and lacking the lustre of youth. But his eyes were

sharp, and held a piercing brilliance. If his claws were

becoming blunt, at least his mind was still as sharp as it had

ever been. Old was arguably the most dynamic member of

the Elder Siblings. Many deferred to his experience; others

considered him an outspoken radical. Patience respected him

for his ideals and his ideas.

On the table between them, revealed as the cloth was

removed, was an animal. It was strange looking, strange

smelling. Dead, yes, but still somehow... alien.

-Animals such as this have been observed living in

settlements throughout the colder regions of the Great Nest,

far to the north-

She moved closer, studying the features as Old pointed

them out. A flat face, a round skull, muscle mass low, fat

mass high, limbs peculiarly straight, eyes forward-facing like

her own, but so much smaller - and such a strange colour:

blue. It had hair upon its body; she supposed that acted

much as her own feathers, though it was clear the hair was

not vestigial. This was obviously a much more primitive

animal than her own kind.

-It is clearly not evolved from a true hunting species such

as our own. It seems weak, and obviously cannot run very

fast. One obvious difference is the size of the brain. Relatively

speaking, this animal has a large brain. There is

evidence to suggest it may have some level of sentience. It is

clearly a tool-user; observe the construction of the digitals on

the forelimbs, the potential for the application of leverage,

and the existence of an opposable thumb-

Raptor Old snorted and barked his way through a more

detailed description of the animal’s physiognomy, then un-

sheathed his finger-claws and disembowelled it.

-As you can see, the internal organs are superficially

similar to our own. It has a heart, lungs, stomach, and so

forth-

Raptor Old motioned Patience forward to assist him

remove, catalogue and classify the organs.

-How did this specimen die?- she asked curiously.

-I do not know. Bite marks on the hind limbs suggest it

may have been attacked by a predator-

Patience watched closely as she helped. It was a fascinating

day, the start of a fascinating year.

A year that changed everything.

-They cover their bodies. How peculiar-

Patience and Old were hiding among a scatter of rocks on a

hill overlooking one of the settlements. It was a curious

place. They lived in nests made of dried mud shaped into

regular bricks. They had fire. They cooked their meat. They

wore coverings. Sometimes the clothes were made of the

shiny metal of the same type as the sword Patience had

found so many years ago.

Old nodded, grunting a quiet reply. -That is not all that is

peculiar about them. Their use of tools. It is very

sophisticated. Though their bodies are not as efficient as ours

their ability to manipulate their environment far surpasses

our own-

-And they can talk-

- Indeed. They have oral and written language; they know

how to grow crops, build. I have seen them pray: they have

philosophy, perhaps even a religion. They are not the

primitive creatures we once thought-

Patience wrinkled her snout in a frown. -In that case, there

is something I do not understand –

-And what is that?-

-If they are as sophisticated as you say - how can it be

that we have never encountered them before?-

Raptor Old tilted his head to one side, considering the

question. Before he could answer there came a number of

alarmed shouts from the small valley beneath them.

-They have seen us!-

Patience and Old leapt from the rocks and bounded at

speed from their hiding place. Though the mammals followed

for some while, there was no way their feeble bodies

could keep up. Even Raptor Old, way past his prime, had no

trouble evading the curious, slow creatures.

It was three days’ travel to the Nest. On the eve of the second

day, Raptor Old told Patience, -There is something you must

know-

Patience finished off a mouthful of hadrosaur, following

the meat with a long snort of water from the nearby stream.

Old let her finish and continued, -Something important-

He settled beside the fire they had built, scraping patterns in

the loam with his claw. -Ours is still an emerging society.

For example, only in the last few generations have individuals

been born who struggle to understand what time is and

how it applies to our culture-

-But the concept of time is fundamental to everything!

Without it there can be no growth, no development. Time

shaped us - but without time there can be no evolution-

-True enough. And a perfect example of what I call the

New Mind. It’s a different way of thinking. It is the ability to

plan, to reason, to make assumptions and then test them. It

is the basis of all scientific reasoning. Do you agree?-

-Of course-

-Good. Over the years I have been watching carefully for

minds such as yours. Minds with the abilities I have spoken

of. I want you to know that I have been watching you.

Watching you since you were a chick fresh-hatched from the

egg. I always thought there might be something special about

you. It was the way you asked, ‘When?’ not, ‘Why?’ The

way you looked at things. I knew your mother very well. She

indulged your need to play games in the dirt as a chick. You

are high born, Patience. You could have aspired to any office

in our culture. Instead you have defined a new science - one

which looks at the past. It is something most of our species

think of as playing chicks’ digging games with odd sticks in

the dirt. But you and I know better. Whereas the instincts of

society are driven by their past as hunters, your instincts are

driven to search the past for clues to shape society’s future.

Do you understand ?-

Patience felt her head spinning. Old was right. He had just

defined, in a few breaths, what she had struggled to under-

stand about herself for a lifetime. -Yes. I understand! I do!

But... why did you not tell me this earlier-

Raptor Old considered. -Your mother taught you to hunt

and I let her. You were a good hunter, one of the best the

Nest has ever had. Do you know why?-

-No-

-Because you did not chase prey. Instead you observed

their movements, learnt their behaviour, anticipated their

responses. When you hunted you knew what any given

animal in a single herd would do, where they would run

when under threat. Without you there were seasons when

the Nest might have starved. You could not have done any of

this without possessing the type of mind I have described.

Patience, you are the future. That was why we Elder Siblings

removed you from the hunt and brought you into the Inner

Nest. It’s why we have spent so many seasons teaching you

and in turn learning from you- He hesitated, then continued,

-It is why I want you to join me on an expedition-

Patience waited. Raptor Old scratched the back of his neck

with his claw; shook his head, blew flakes of skin into the

fire, where they burnt brightly, drifting upwards to meet the

stars they so resembled. Finally he spoke again.

-I am a scientist. For many years, I have been investigating

the presence of this particular species. Recently I have

determined them to be a more efficient survivor species,

principally because of their aggressive psychological make-

up and agricultural skills. However, unfortunately my

findings have been interpreted by the Ruling Family as a

threat to our society. For the past five years, the Ruling

Family has been studying the mammals, assessing the

likelihood of being able to wipe them out or domesticate

them-

Patience said nothing, though her scent glands reacted

instinctively to Old’s words.

He continued, -As you have so correctly observed, their

society is out of time. Something that should not exist. Their

civilization - language, agriculture, science, social structure

- are already fully established. It is as though their culture

has skipped entire generations of learning to appear, fully

formed, in the now-

Patience waited, her heart hammering in her chest, for

Raptor Old’s inevitable conclusion.

-I want you to help me find out why - before you and I

are forced to provide information which will destroy them-

6

THE MIDLANDS: 2595

Bernice bought tickets for Nairobi on her own credit implant,

persuaded Marillian to accompany her to Victoria monorail

terminal, and hit the rest room; changed her clothes, hair

and face; emerged from the rest room within two metres of

her husband, who did not recognize her; bought a ticket to

Japan with gold, munched conspicuously on some jellyfish-

savouries from a dispenser, belched, hit the rest rooms

again; emerged as an expectant mother with no luggage and

stowed away in the freight compartment of the first train

heading north.

Let the nosy oiks try to sort that lot out.

Bernice waited until the linecar was underway, then

removed her bloated stomach. She made herself a mattress

from a number of pieces of luggage and settled down. The

linecar accelerated through the London Wall, across the

thirty kilometres of withered green belt and through two

hundred metres of tropical jungle. It slammed into the tunnel

system still accelerating, finally entering the country-wide

maze of pipes, smoke and blast furnace heat connecting the

perimeter

factories

of

the

Worldwide

Chemicals

Manufacturing Facility to its mother-node in the Orkneys

doing better than a hundred and eighty KPH.

Ten minutes after that Bernice took out a small toolkit and

set to work on the compartment’s inner door.

* * *

Special Agent Kepler found her an hour later, eating lunch in

the dining car, beside TV windows that looked out on to lush

countryside several centuries past its sell-by date.

She sighed. ‘Table for two?’

‘That depends on the quality of the after-dinner

conversation.’

‘Nice view, isn’t it? Specially generated for the delectation

of our paying customers.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You have something I want.’

Bernice grinned. ‘You and every other red-blooded male I

know.’

He allowed her to glimpse the gun carried beneath his

jacket.

‘Oh. That something.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well... I don’t know how to tell you this but...’ She

took a deep breath. ‘I don’t have it any more. It was

destroyed, you see, when I fell in the river. Sorry. But it was

your own fault for chasing me.’

Kepler’s face did not change expression. He simply reached

for his gun, stopping only as the waiter approached to take

their order.

Bernice said, ‘So. I assume that you’ll be alighting at the

next stop. Well, please don’t let me detain you. In the

meantime, shall we order?’

Kepler looked at the waiter. ‘We haven’t decided yet.’

The waiter moved away.

Bernice waited.

Kepler said, ‘I don’t believe the artifacts were destroyed.’

Bernice shrugged. ‘Tell me about the Masons. The IFB.’

Kepler considered, tilting his head slightly to one side - it

was the only concession to body language she’d seen him

make. ‘First I get the artifacts.’

Bernice shook her head. ‘First I get the information.’

‘No.’

‘Then shoot me.’ Bernice waited. ‘Though of course if you

do that you’ll never find out where the artifacts are.’

Kepler thought this over. ‘You have nothing to lose by

telling me their location. You cannot possibly understand

what they mean.’

‘Oh. About the Sword of Forever, the Box of Ra, you

know, all that stuff? Yes, you’re probably right, I’m just a

woman after all. I wouldn’t know a Templar Order Seal from

an ABC Minor’s badge.’

‘What do you know about the Sword of Forever?’ Kepler’s

voice was sharp.

‘Oh... this and that, you know. Stuff.’

Kepler leant forward. ‘You’re treading on dangerous

ground.’

‘Is that a threat or a geographical supposition?’ Bernice

affected nonchalance. ‘It’s just that the one indicates marked

lack of observational skills and the other indicates a marked

lack of witty-but-threatening conversational gambits.’

‘Ms Summerfield, this is -’

‘Summerfield-Marillian. And it’s Mrs. If you please.’

An impatient sigh. ‘This is no time to play the fool. You’re

dealing with concepts you cannot begin to understand. Ideas

are dangerous. They can change the world. Is that what you

want?’

‘I’m a scientist and a woman. How could I want anything

else?’

‘Don’t play games with me.’

‘No games. Fine.’ Bernice leant forward. ‘According to

legend the Box of Ra contained a number of objects including

a rod, a lock of hair and various other objects. When the

box was opened before the Egyptian Pharaoh Geb a bolt of

fire, described by scholars as ‘The breath of the Divine

Serpent’, emerged, killing Geb’s entire court and gravely

burning Geb himself. With me so far?’

Kepler said nothing.

Bernice said, ‘How does this Ark-equivalent tie in with the

Map of Skulls and the Sword of Forever? Not to mention the

Needle relics? Not to mention my own eighty-million-year-

old DNA? Are you trying to find the box? Conceal the box?

Destroy it? You know -’ Bernice hesitated. ‘Is it just me or

have people in high places been watching the wrong sort of

movie?’

Kepler said nothing.

Bernice shrugged. ‘Fine. No games. I’m getting hungry.

Either tell me what I want to know or shoot me. Either way

I’m going to order now.’ She signalled to the waiter. ‘I want

whatever the chefs special is, I want two of them, I want a

bottle of the most appropriate wine - no ceiling - and I want

you to charge it all to him.’

‘Very well, madame. If sir would be so kind?’

Kepler extended his arm. The waiter ran a blood sampler

along the skin of his wrist and then gathered up the menus,

before departing.

For long moments neither Bernice nor Kepler spoke.

Eventually Bernice said, ‘Let’s start with something easy.

How did you find me?’

‘I’m very good at my job.’

Bernice pinched the bridge of her nose in a tired gesture.

‘All right. Here’s what I think. I think that you and Newton

are Freemasons. I think you belong to a Masonic Chapter

existing within the organization but separate from it. I think

your brief is to protect ancient artifacts such as the one

which I found beneath Cleopatra’s Needle from accidental

discovery by anyone not ‘in the know’. I know the Masons

evolved out of the ruins of the Templar Order after the

Inquisition. It’s safe to assume the two organizations may

have similar aims - there are certainly connections between

them. I think you think you’re protecting the public. I’m

pretty sure you don’t want to kill me but you have to isolate

the information you think I possess, keep it from public

knowledge. Am I close?’ Kepler said nothing. ‘I’m close,

aren’t I?’

The waiter returned with several dishes, a bottle and two

glasses.

‘Bet you your starter I’m right.’

Kepler pushed aside his dish. Bernice poured two half

glasses of wine and freshened both with a sugar lump from a

complimentary bowl. She knocked back her drink in one

gulp. ‘I’m waiting.’ She poured another drink.

Kepler said nothing, but she felt the agent’s eyes on her as

she raised the glass and sipped.

‘Look, I’m sick of this macho brinkmanship crap. Let’s

just eat, OK? The salted flamingo knees look great. Talk to

me or not. I really don’t care.’

Bernice finished her wine, then began to eat. Twenty

minutes later she called for another bottle. By this time her

movements were more than slightly wobbly. She filled both

glasses, spilling at least as much as she filled, and added

sugar lumps.

‘You know,’ she said carefully, ‘you’re being rude.’ She

added, ‘Don’t you?’

‘I don’t drink on duty.’

‘ No wine, no women, no you, no wonder it’s dull.’

Bernice blew out her cheeks. ‘Great poet wrote that. Long

time ago. Obviously knew about men like you. I bet -’

Bernice burped. ‘Sorry. I bet you don’t do anything. Do you?

On your days off, I mean.’

‘I don’t have any days off.’

‘Don’ have t’tell me twice! S’obvious! Say,’ Bernice

chomped on a particularly crunchy bit of flamingo leg, ‘you

married?’

‘No.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘What about, you know, whassername? Newton? You

two... you know... are you?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Well. You like blokes then? That it?’

‘No.’

‘No need t’be aggressive. M’only asking.’

Kepler said nothing.

‘Good.’ Bernice crunched alone for a moment, then said

brightly, ‘Hey. Know y’r being rude, I s’pose?’

‘Rude.’

‘Watching a girl eat on her own. S’rude. Bad mammals -

manners. Bad manners.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No you’re not. You’re rude. Plate of food here. You want

me to eat yours too?’

‘If you want.’

Bernice suddenly snorted with laughter. ‘Hah. Got you

sussed. You just want to get me sloshed. Think you’re going

to have your wicked way with me. S’true, innit?’

Kepler said nothing.

‘Think you’re gonna get me drunk, so I’ll -’ she burped

again, loudly ‘- so I’ll spill the beans about the - ooh, I feel

sick - the stuff I found. Right?’

Kepler said nothing.

Bernice blinked, hiccuped, then let out a deep sigh.

‘Trapped wind,’ she said with a dazzling smile. She added,

‘No, but I’m right, right? About what you’re up to, you crafty

old bugger. You think I’ll tell you all my secrets. Don’t you?

All of ‘em.’ Bernice giggled, letting herself slump on to the

table. ‘You must think I was born yesterday.’ Her hand

reached, almost of its own accord, for the wine bottle. ‘Well,

listen up, buster, ‘cos I’ve got some hot news for you. You

listening? Good. ‘Cos it goes like this -’ Bernice leant closer

across the table, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial

whisper. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’ In a lightning swift move,

Bernice flipped open Kepler’s jacket and took his gun,

reversed it and slammed the barrel against his eye, forcing it

shut. ‘And I’m not drunk.’ She hiccuped again. ‘But I am

going to puke - ooh. Sorry about the shoes.’

Bernice was aware of the other diners rising from tables

and backing nervously away. Kepler didn’t move.

‘There, that’s better. Now. Two things are going to happen.

First - I get to keep the gun. Second - you get to tell me all

about -’

‘I don’t think so.’ Newton’s voice. Hard. Decisive.

Bernice had one second to make a decision. She tinned,

saw Newton, the gun she held. She loosed a number of wild

shots. Diners threw themselves to the floor. Newton ducked,

fired back - the window behind Bernice cracked. Bernice

threw herself across the table shooting, blew the glass from

the frame a moment before she reached it.

The pastoral view disintegrated and was replaced by a

blurred stream of oil-dark metalwork, a glowing lattice of

flickering lights and the deafening screech of displaced air.

Sliding across the tabletop towards the window, Bernice

decided leaving the train by such an unorthodox method was

probably not such a good idea. She scrabbled for a grip on

the tabletop but found nothing beyond the condiment tray,

itself already sliding towards the jagged opening. Plates

and other small items bashed against her as they vanished

through the broken window. She felt hands at her ankles -

Newton and Kepler. Were they trying to save her or push her

out? It didn’t matter. Not now. If she was going so were they.

She reached back and grabbed both agents, one hand

each, and the pressure differential dragged all three from the

dining compartment, through the window and out of the

train.

7

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

The expedition progressed northwards for many weeks, its

movement

slow

and

methodical,

charting

each

anthropological find made in as much detail as was practical

for such a far-ranging quest.

The expedition consisted of Raptor Old and Patience

together with a number of students, younger specimens some

two to three seasons old. Old was responsible for setting

policy and decision-making, Patience determined which

observations would be made at any specific site and how

those observations would be tested. The students were

responsible for recording the observations, making

suggestions of their own, as well as the care and feeding of

the food animals the expedition brought with it. Game was

much scarcer here in the north than in the lush southern

lands of their home.

One of the younger Ruling Family members accompanied

the expedition as an independent observer. Raptor Fast was,

as his name implied, a fine specimen of adult male raptor.

By comparison with Old his body was lean and brightly

coloured, his scent unobtrusive but compelling. Patience,

drawn often to conversation with him, found him a curious

individual. He apparently displayed none of the arrogance,

misgivings or paranoia she had come to associate with the

Ruling Family, via the stories that Raptor Old had related.

She wondered if Fast was the exception to the rule; young

enough still to be open-minded, or if he was simply a

renegade thinker; a true scientific mind who had been tact-

fully excused a political role within the Nest until he was

mature enough to see things the way his Family wanted him

to see them.

That question was not going to get an easy answer so

Patience never brought the subject up. She was an observer.

She would do what she did best. Raptor Fast would reveal

himself to her eventually, by his actions if not by his words.

The expedition continued into the cold lands in a routine

that was dull but at the same time exciting. Students would

range ahead, scouting for food and signs of habitation. If

signs of the latter were found, Patience would accompany the

student in question to the location while Old supervised the

construction of a Nest. If Patience deemed the settlement

worthy of further study then the Nest would be concealed

and protected, hunters would be set to guard the perimeter

and observers would take turns watching them and making

notes.

Once a week, all would join in a hunt for food. This was a

popular time among the students: of all the things raptors

liked to do, eating and playing were number-one favourite.

The hunt indulged both needs and provided for the release of

any latent aggression or tensions which may have built up

over the course of the previous days.

So far, personal interaction with the humans had not been

deemed advisable. This was Old’s idea and it was supported

without argument by both Patience and Fast. Some of the

students were eager to get up close and test them directly in

terms of strength and agility. A near miss with a human

hunting party which resulted in three minor wounds and a

hasty retreat from the area, convinced everyone that - where

the humans’ swords and armour were concerned at least -

discretion was, without a doubt, the better part of valour.

So the expedition progressed further and further into the

cold

lands. With its strange vegetation, unfamiliar animals and

constant ground tremors, the cold lands were something of a

mystery to the raptors. Raptor Old suggested that the

students also note general observations about the changes

around them, including particular references to specific

animals, vegetation, composition of the air and ground,

amount of sunlight, and the landscape. The workload

increased as the temperature fell. But Raptor Old was

delighted with their progress, ever eager to move on, to see

what lay beyond the next hill or valley.

As far as the specific objective of their expedition was

concerned, the settlements they investigated seemed to grow

in sophistication and complexity as the land got colder;

another thing which provoked Old to snorting paroxysms of

scientific enthusiasm.

Progress was smooth and relatively uneventful for three

months.

The attack came during preparation to observe a new, even

larger settlement. At the time it was a tragedy - though

when she thought about the circumstances later Patience

would come to think of the word destiny as more precisely

applicable.

The discovery of the new settlement came first during a hunt.

Food was scarce this far from the Nest. The lower

temperatures generally drove game further south. The

animals they had brought with them for food had succumbed

to the cold several weeks before. They had taken what meat

they could from the cooling bodies and carried it with them.

It was all gone now; had been for several weeks. The spoor of

a lone apatosaur had brought them to a bluff overlooking a

small valley, through which a river wound in shining loops.

Halfway along the valley, the river was straddled by a

number of large constructions.

A nest.

A vast human nest.

Leaving the incredible view to follow the trail of the

apatosaur, three of the students were attacked - not by

humans but by another tribe of raptors. The attack came

swiftly; the hunters were older, more experienced, with

yellow snouts and blue feathers. In the cold, on unfamiliar

ground, the students did not stand a chance. They were

attacked without warning and killed within moments, their

bodies cooling, their blood staining the frost-glazed earth.

The attackers snorted and screeched in triumph, pawing

over the remains, burying their snouts in the carcasses and

quarrelling over the choicest titbits.

When they had eaten, they began to follow the students’

trail back towards the Nest which Old and the rest of the

team were building as a base.

The invaders came upon the camp and attacked

immediately, disembowelling another student and wounding

Raptor Old as he turned to face the challenge.

At the sight and smell of the attackers, Patience went a

little mad. Her mind seemed to take a step backwards, to

regress, until the primitive hunting instincts she had

possessed came once again to the fore. She moved, not as

elegantly as Fast, but with much deadlier purpose: tracking,

anticipating, striking. Of the seven attacking yellow-blue

raptors, three were killed by Patience. Another was cornered

by the remaining students and ripped squealing into shreds,

while a fifth was disembowelled by Fast and left steaming on

the ground to die.

The remaining two attackers turned tail and bounded from

the Nest, screeching and hissing with frustration.

Patience took stock of the fallen bodies, nudged the student

to make sure she was really dead, then turned her

attention to Fast, and to Raptor Old. Her mentor was on the

ground, propped against a tree stump, blood leaking from a

wide gash in his flank. It wasn’t fatal but it was extremely

painful - and it meant he could move no faster than a slow

amble. Fast, like herself, was uninjured.

For a long while there was silence, broken only by panting

breaths and hissing anger. Then the panicky scents and

chittering of the three remaining students took over.

-They will bring others-

-We must leave-

-If we run they will follow-

-If we do not they will kill us-

- Either way we will die-

-What are we to do?-

Patience considered. -We must find running water. That

will mask our scent. We will go to the river. Then we will

hide, and decide what to do- She indicated the fallen student

as they began to move. - And bring raptor dead. We will need

food-

The river walk was a nightmare of semi-frozen rapids.

Lumps of ice battered them. Patience tried to catch some fish

but her customary dexterity deserted her in the aftermath of

the attack. She found the knowledge distressing. It had been

many years since she had been on the hunt - she suspected

that she had survived by sheer luck.

On the outer slopes of the valley, they found a cave. The

cave stank of dead meat - its occupant having recently died

from the cold. They dragged the corpse into the river, having

first ascertained that it was inedible. Then they retired to the

cave and built a fire.

They discussed throughout the day and into the evening, at

first in reasonable tones and then in heated barks and

scents. Put simply the expedition was divided. The three

remaining students wanted to terminate the quest and return

to the southern lands with the information they had already

gathered. The single opposing voice was Raptor Old, who

not only could not journey south until his wound was healed

but would not. His determination to stay, to rest and in the

spring thaw to return to his investigation only fuelled

arguments which escalated to screams. Patience found

herself undecided but supported Raptor Old out of loyalty.

Also, while she was scared of death, she was also eager to

finish gathering the information which was the purpose of

their expedition.

Only Raptor Fast seemed to have no opinion. He listened

carefully to the escalating argument, making no sound,

offering no counsel.

But when the students, tiring of what they now clearly

considered to be the rantings of an enfeebled mind, simply

marched out of the cave and began to run homeward, he

stayed.

It was a solution of sorts.

8

GLASGOW: 2595

Gold.

Silver.

Copper.

Iron.

Caesium.

Thorium.

Uranium.

Beryllium.

Pitchblende.

Monazite.

Cavorite.

Silicon.

Carbon.

Cobalt.

Lead.

Pigs.

Scotland.

Bernice sat up, groaned, spat mud and straw, stood, slipped

and promptly sat down again. Using small, cautious

movements she scraped muck from her face, blinked, opened

her eyes. She was in a pig-sty.

In a pig-sty in the middle of a factory the size of a small

country.

There were about thirty pigs staring curiously at her.

They had obviously all been eating a moment before -

until she had sat up and emerged dripping from the goop.

Then they had stopped. Now they were looking at her.

Bernice licked her lips, scowling at the taste. She tried to

remember whether pigs were dangerous. These pigs were

very big - as big as small ponies. Their expressions were

unreadable.

But they were very quiet for pigs.

Suspiciously quiet.

Being careful to make no sudden movements, Bernice felt

herself all over. No damage. No real damage, anyway. She

supposed she had the mud to thank for that. She tried to

remember what had happened after being sucked out of the

train. She had a vague memory of whirling sky and land, all

composed of gunmetal piping and thumping pistons, oil-

black and stinking of sulphur and metallic compounds. She

remembered the sensation of falling - it was becoming quite

familiar actually - and the astonished expressions of pigs.

These pigs? Maybe. Then there had been nothing. Not for

some time. How much time? Where was she? Why were the

pigs staring at her?

‘Jeez.’ Bernice managed to make the word come out

vaguely recognizable. ‘Where am I?’

The nearest pig snuffled closer. She caught a glimpse of an

open mouth full of neat teeth and shuffled backwards until

she slipped in the muck.

The pig leant over her until its face was a handspan from

her own.

‘Glasgow,’ said the pig.

His name was Anson and he was five years old. He was the

gang boss for this area. The other twenty-nine pigs’ jobs

consisted of operating a basic level of computerized

technology in response to certain conveyor belt stimuli, for

which their reward was a regular dose of vending-machine-

dispensed,

performance-linked

candy

treats.

Their

conversation, though ribald, was limited to the word yes, the

word no, and the phrase fuck you.

After a while, Bernice realized the only difference between

these pigs and most of the human population of the world

was that the pigs could spell the words they knew.

When Bernice asked Anson how far she was from Loch Ness

and how she might get there, Anson snorted with

amusement. ‘Lady Boss want Loch Ness. Loch Ness out of

work purview. But not matter. Anson smart. Anson got

initiative. Anson got leadership skills. Anson got certificate.

You want see Anson certificate?’

‘Uh... yeah, sure. Why not.’

Anson ambled over to the entrance to the pen, unhooked

the gate and tugged on a chain hanging from an old-

fashioned computer keyboard. A whistle blew. ‘Come on,

you oiks. You want to eat forever? Up-an-attem-let’s-go-let’s-

go-one-two-three-four-fire-in-the-hole!’

The pigs stirred to a chorus of good-natured fuck yous.

Anson snorted in amusement. ‘Pigs are so stupid,’ he

confided to Bernice. ‘They work for sugar-coated peanuts.

Could get enhanced. Grade Two like Anson. Fast track to

management. Got certificate to prove. Anson show.’

Bernice nodded as the last pig shuffled through the gate.

Anson nudged the gate shut and latched it.

‘Get moving, you lazy oiks! Anson show Lady Boss to

where she wants to go. You better be working when Anson

get back or no candy!’

Anson’s quarters were what you might expect from a pig:

neat, precise, with inordinate amounts of straw and a

daylight lamp turned on and off by a chain hanging almost to

the floor. A v-mail terminal squatted near floor level in one

corner, the keyboard and mouse replaced by a snout-sized

joystick and touchpads. Bernice was interested to note the

straw here was of a higher grade than that in the pen. Maybe

management did have its perks.

Anson fished with his wrinkled snout in a touch-drawer,

extracting a wooden box of treats, a grubby cloth doll

covered with teeth marks and a piece of laminated plastic

inscribed with the words,

This is to Certify that

PORKER. 32997-ANSON

Having passed GRADE 700 Management

Is Hereby Awarded the Rank and Privileges of

GANG BOSS

For

The capitals were handwritten, the writing so sloppy it

could only have been human.

Bernice admired the certificate roundly for a few moments,

until Anson took it from her, placed it reverently back into

the drawer and gentled the drawer shut with his snout.

‘Lady Boss want eat? Lady Boss want check quota?

Figures all sound. Anson knows.’

‘No, Anson. I just want to get to Loch Ness.’

‘Anson show. You go fast. Loch Ness section seven-

eighty-three. Nine levels down. One hundred and fifty

kilometres.’

‘A hundred and - bugger me, that’ll take forever.’

‘Lady Boss travel like pigs. Horse-and-cart. You get there

real fast. Up-an’-attem. Two days, tops.’

‘Anson, you’re a genius.’

‘Anson know. Anson -’

‘- I know, I know -’

‘- got certificate!’ Bernice joined in with the inevitable

last phrase and they both snorted with laughter.

The stables were automated, the horses better cared for than

some people she had seen recently. The carts were wide

enough for two pigs, were covered in a layer of Astroturf and

held a tiny water dispenser. Directional control was via a

snout-sized touchpad hooked up directly to the horse’s

neural jack.

Bernice raised an eyebrow. ‘All mod cons.’

She thanked Anson, swapped v-mail addresses and

climbed into the cart. Five minutes later she was once again

heading north.

She could only wonder where Newton and Kepler were -

and how close - and what they would do if and when they

caught up with her.

9

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

The cold worsened. The river became solid, the water so hard

she had to cut it with claws and bring the pieces back to melt

by the fire.

Game became very scarce.

One day when she left the cave to hunt, Patience was

amazed to see the earth had changed colour. White lay

across the ground in a thick carpet. Patience had never seen

such a thing before. She took a few cautious steps, felt the

ground bite her - it was cold!

She had a moment to digest this amazing fact before losing

her balance. Her legs slipped out from underneath her and

she went skidding and sliding down the hill to collide with a

tree-trunk, panting, hissing and - incredibly - snorting with

laughter.

Raptor Fast had appeared at the entrance to the cave at

her initial cry of alarm. Now he snuffled with interest and

amusement. A moment later he too slipped, a long ungainly

slide which resulted in him landing headfirst in a freezing

drift beside Patience, who threw back her head and cawed

with laughter.

They spent the rest of the day playing in the snow, hunger

temporarily forgotten.

When they returned to the cave it was to find Raptor Old

much worse. His wounds had not healed well through the

winter. He had rarely left the cave, instead spending his

time making notes on his observations of the expedition so

far.

When Patience and Fast returned to the cave, Raptor Old

was lying still upon the floor, his skin a dull grey, all colour

leached from it. His feathers were lank. He was shivering,

even though the temperature in the cave was comfortable,

due to the fire at its mouth. His eyes were wide open but

obviously could not see them. He made no move to sit

or defend himself, or even acknowledge that anyone had

entered the cave.

There was a peculiar scent in the air - the smell of age and

sickness.

Patience and Fast snuggled close to Old, using their bodies

to keep him warm. As they lay there, in the cave, listening to

the sound of meltwater dripping from the icicles at the cave

mouth, Patience said, -He is dying-

Fast snuffled agreement. -His scent will bring others to

us-

Patience shuddered. One encounter with the rival tribe had

been enough. -We cannot let him die-

-He is too weak to move-

- We could take him to them-

-Do you think that’s wise? We don’t know how they will

react. Perhaps it would be better to kill him here and now,

then return to the Nest-

Patience considered. Fast was right, she knew it; still,

some shred of loyalty still lingered. To Old, to the Expedition,

to the idea of meeting the humans face-to-face.

Fast seemed to know her thoughts. -Do not be led by the

future - Old was and he will die soon. Come back south with

me. We could stay together. Raise a family-

-And give up my life to care for squealing chicks? I

don’t-

-Not if you don’t want to. You’re important to the Nest,

Patience. We need you. My Family knew that when they sent

me with you. It’s why I have stayed with you. My loyalty is

to the Nest, true - but to you also. You are indivisible-

The statement made Patience rumble in annoyance. Fast

sensed the change in her attitude and shuffled uneasily.

Patience felt her anger subside slightly. It was good that Fast

respected her. But would he do what she said?

-As yours is to the Nest, my loyalty is to Old. I must try to

save him. I will go to them and try to get help-

-They will kill you-

-You do not know that-

-And you do not know that they won’t-

Fast shuffled in agitation. -I cannot let you-

Patience was on her feet quickly, her lean body trembling,

her claws outstretched. -I am bigger and stronger. How will

you stop me?-

-How will you take him without me?-

-I will go alone-

-And what if I kill him while you are gone? You will have

no reason to stay then-

-I will have a reason. I have another loyalty. Something

you do not understand. A loyalty to what will come-

-Scientists’ nonsense!-

-It is the truth-

-It is nothing but chick’s cackle-

Patience took a step closer to Fast. -If you kill Old you

will never know what it would be like to start a family with

me-

She waited. Her companion made no move to oppose or

argue with her further. After a moment he looked down at the

ground.

Hoping she had guessed correctly about Fast’s interest in

her, Patience leapt over both him and the fire, left the cave

and began moving towards the settlement.

She did not look back.

10

LOCH NESS: 2595

There was a monster in Loch Ness and its name was World

Chemicals.

Bernice stared down across the valley from the mess of

pipework which had once been known as the Grampian

Mountains, fascinated by the changes wrought here by time

and man.

The landscape had changed. Inverness was gone, replaced

by a deepwater channel connecting the loch to the Moray

Firth. Beyond this Bernice was surprised to see little change.

She had thought perhaps the grey-purple-green of the hill-

sides and blue-steel of the loch itself had been replaced by

oil-black metal, hills of chemicals, gigantic cracking plants

and refineries sucking minerals from the North Sea.

Not so.

Granted, there was little or no real sky to be seen between

the refinery towers roofing the loch; granted also that the

grass growing abundantly upon the hillsides was tainted a

sickly yellow and that the water itself had an oily brown

sheen to it; true also that the temperature here was some-

where between temperate and tropical - but these things

aside, the loch and surroundings were remarkably intact.

Only as Bernice urged the horse to descend the hillside did

she realize why.

She saw beach huts, small prefabricated buildings, a com-

munity. A holiday community for the working proletariat.

Loch Ness was Brighton Beach for pigs.

Bernice spent the night in an unoccupied beach-front

apartment, listening to the sound of lapping water and

wondering whether the legendary monster was still in the

area and what it thought of its new neighbours. The light

never changed. There was no night or day beneath the

gunmetal sky. Just the multiple stars of arc-lights and

sunlamps streaming down on to the lightly oil-streaked

hillsides. Giant fans sucked most of the pollutants from the

air. When it rained - which it did around four in the morning

- the droplets were greasy to the touch and smelt faintly of

petrol.

In the morning she explored the apartment in the hope of

finding food. She had not eaten for almost two days. All she

found was some porridge-like substance dispensed in plastic

bowls from a vending machine. It tasted disgusting but she

guessed it would probably keep her alive. At least the water

from the dispenser was relatively clean-tasting. She used

more of it to wash and then went outside to look for the

horse.

She didn’t find the horse. She did find two rather worse-for-

wear special agents with large grey guns pointing,

respectively, at her head and her heart.

The temple didn’t look much like a temple. It looked more

like a twentieth-century country house. Inside it was a bit

different though: sandstone faced the walls, pillars supported

the ceilings... in short, it seemed as if a little slice of

ancient Egypt had been re-created, or perhaps moved, here

to Scotland.

The agents ushered her into the house and then seemed

content to do nothing. Bernice suffered a few minutes of this

and then shrugged and got up.

‘You can look at anything you want.’

‘But if you try to escape...’

‘I’ll never get to dig up another bone, right?’

The agents said nothing. Bernice shrugged and began to

mooch around the ground floor, her interest caught and held

by the inscriptions carved upon the walls and pillars. There

seemed to be references here to the Temple of Solomon, the

legendary resting place of the Ark of the Covenant. Was the

Box of Ra really the Ark? Did it contain part of the Map

of Skulls? What was the connection? Was there in fact a

connection?

Newton and Kepler simply watched her, seemingly with

amusement, wander quickly around the rooms, touching the

walls, tracing inscriptions, muttering obscure archaeological

references aloud to herself.

As far as Bernice was concerned, she didn’t care whether

the agents were humouring her or not. It wasn’t like she had

any options; they had the artillery. So she made the best of a

rum do, skanking along the pillars and panels, letting her

eyes drift from one resting place to the next, soaking up

information like a sponge.

She saw vague references to the Map of Skulls - not by

name but by symbol, the Ankh - the Egyptian symbol for

life, bounded by an infinity sign. The mixed reference told

her something as well: it told her that the concept spanned

generations, perhaps centuries.

There were a series of pictagrams, illustrations showing a

man dressed as an Egyptian king using a sword to fight a

great battle against another great king. Closer examination

showed the king was fighting against himself. Fighting

death? Fighting his own death?

Other pictograms showed a box, some kind of force

emerging from it, a crucifixion. That in itself was odd - the

artifacts and engravings seemed far too old to contain

Christian references, unless of course Christianity took its

symbology from hitherto unknown Egyptian sources.

Bernice sighed. ‘You did that deliberately, didn’t you?’ she

said accusingly, directing her words equally at both agents.

‘You brought me here and let me look around. You knew

whatever information recorded here is so obscure as to be

practically meaningless.’

Newton said, ‘Obscuring meaning is a job requirement.’

Kepler added, ‘And we’re -’

‘- very good at our jobs. You said.’

There was a moment’s silence. Bernice drank in the dusty

calm of the house, the weight of its architecture, the meaning

sealed into every arch and pillar and flagstone. ‘What now?’

‘Knowledge and meaning are divisible.’

‘You know everything and understand nothing.’

‘This is as it should be.’

Bernice blinked. ‘You guys ever thought about doing

vaudeville?’

The agents exchanged glances.

‘If she dies here it won’t matter how much she knows.’

‘Or where she has hidden the Needle relics.’

‘Then you agree, we should kill her?’

‘I agree.’

Bernice stuck up a finger. ‘Excuse me. What if I’ve told

someone?’

Newton tilted her head on to one side, considering. ‘Like

the pig you mean?’

She threw a pig’s trotter on the floor beside Bernice.

Bernice looked at the foot and shivered. ‘Anson...’ She

looked up, her expression thundery. ‘ ‘The Institute for Fair-

ness and Benevolence’,’ she said bitterly. ‘You hypocritical

bastards. You killed a pig with a vocabulary of less than five

hundred words, the intellect of a babe-in-arms, and the

interest in history of a frog. I could have told Anson the truth

and he wouldn’t have understood one word, nor how to apply

it. You better hope your affairs are in order because when I

get the first opportunity I’m going to send your bodies to an

early grave and your pathetic souls straight to hell!’

Newton picked up the trotter, fished out a large bunch of

keys and attached them to what Bernice could now clearly

see was a key-fob. She breathed a sigh of relief. Anson was

obviously still alive. She exchanged glances with Kepler and

then both Masons put away their guns.

‘She’ll do.’

11

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

The first time Patience tried to approach the settlement she

was driven off by a number of hunters with swords. Fearing

for her life, she turned and ran; even in her weakened

condition, she bounded across the river at a speed the

humans simply could not match. The second time she

approached they were waiting for her, and tracked her for a

long way back into the hills. She was nearly cornered in a

box-canyon, but managed to leap clear at the last moment

along a rocky bluff that was too steep for the humans to

negotiate in number or at speed.

She waited for three days and then tried again, this time

with a different approach. This time, she took the carcass of

an infant brontosaurid with her. She dragged the corpse

across the river and as close as she could to the settlement,

then waited.

This time when the hunters came she did not run. Instead

she pushed the corpse towards them and then stood back.

And waited again.

The hunters prodded the corpse for a while, conversing

amongst themselves in peculiarly soft tones; tones, Patience

was curious to note, that matched their bodies. When the

hunters turned towards her she leapt away and ran. Three

days later she returned with another corpse. This time when

the hunters approached they did not draw their swords.

Patience waited long enough to make sure they knew she

was not going to attack, and that she had left the food for

them and then, as gently as she could, she barked a request

for help.

They looked at her stupidly. They didn’t understand.

It took the best part of another three days to make them

understand she wanted them to come with her. Then, a party

of five accompanied her to the cave. At first they thought the

supine form of Raptor Old was more food, for they moved

forward with swords drawn. Patience got between them and

hissed gently. Then she stood aside to let them approach, so

that they could see Raptor Old was sick and that he needed

help.

Raptor Fast was outside the cave, hidden in some foliage,

watching everything that happened. If anything went wrong,

he would try to help. She hoped.

They studied Raptor Old, made their curious soft noises,

then picked up the Elder Sibling and began to carry him

back to the settlement. Patience followed them, and Fast

followed her.

Halfway to the settlement, they changed direction. They

did this at the command of one of their number who

unaccountably reminded Patience of Raptor Old, despite

the dramatic physiological differences. This human was

obviously ancient; his skin was wrinkled and reddened, his

hair thin and wispy, his eyes bleached by the harsh

conditions; yet his movements were sure and his voice was

firm. Patience decided that she would trust this one. As if she

had a choice.

The party walked for several hours towards the end of the

valley, and there Patience was astonished to see a building

such as she had only seen before in ruins. It was a large

construction with pillars supporting a sloping roof. It was

built into the side of a hill. Inside was darkness.

The humans made it clear that Patience and Fast were to

remain outside - in any case Fast was still trailing the party

at some distance - and then they took Raptor Old in.

A short while later they emerged without him.

Patience began to get agitated; she made scents and barked

in concern. The human she thought of as the leader, made

curious

gestures:

approaching

with

his

forelimbs

outstretched, making soothing noises similar to those a

mother would make to her chick if the infant was alarmed or

scared.

Patience controlled herself with an effort. She calmed down,

allowing herself to be led away from the temple. She could

not save Raptor Old - but if these humans harmed him they

would regret it.

Patience stayed with them for three days. At first, Fast would

not stay with her. He remained at the edge of the settlement,

sleeping in the wild, hunting for himself and leaving food for

Patience, which she shared with the humans.

During the first day, Patience saw almost nobody other

than the half a dozen hunters who had moved Raptor Old

and their Leader, whom she came to think of as White Hair.

This human spent almost all of the first day with her,

sharing food, trying to imitate the noises she made. Neither

had much success duplicating the sounds made by the other,

but both found there was some common ground in the use of

symbols, at first scrawled in the dirt, then written in books.

Patience was surprised to find that the humans’ written

language apparently contained more characters than her

own. It was as if they were more sophisticated than her - at

least, as if they saw themselves that way.

Patience slept little that first night, tormented as much by

bad dreams as she was by the curious presence of many

human infants, whose presence she felt constantly around

the small building they had given her to sleep in.

Communications continued the following day, long into the

night, with no real progress. Tension was high. Patience

could feel hostility from some of the mammals. And fear. Did

they think she was going to attack them?

Soon after the midday meal, White Hair had a number of

hunters stand near to Patience’s hut. Was she under guard?

Or being protected?

The next day, her third within the settlement, Raptor Fast

approached the settlement, causing a minor commotion at

the river, but White Hair soon smoothed the way and Fast

joined her in a growing crowd of curious onlookers.

-Do you know what has happened to Old?-

-No. Their speech is hard. Talking with pictures is clumsy

and crude-

-I have been watching the temple. No one has gone in or

out since we were there-

-I know- Patience grunted in concern. -If they have killed

him, or allowed him to die-

-Then it will be your fault !-

The curious onlookers moved backwards at the sharp tones

in Fast’s voice.

-Be quiet. You will scare them. They die easily. They are

frightened of us-

-Good. Then we have the advantage-

-We want their help!-

-We cannot even talk to them! They are stupid. This was a

stupid idea-

-No. It was necessary. And they are not stupid-

-It was an indulgence. A stupid indulgence that has cost

Raptor Old his life!-

-You don’t know that!-

-Then where is he? I have seen no one take him food in

three days. He is dead. We must leave here or they will kill us

too-

-I refuse to believe that-

-Then ask your friend-

White Hair, as ever, was standing near by, observing the

conversation. He could not understand the words but had no

trouble picking up the angry overtones. He approached, arms

spread, still making those soothing noises. Fast snapped at

him in irritation. The hunters approached quickly, but White

Hair stopped them with a gesture. Then he approached Fast,

who was swaying, balanced, poised to run or attack.

Patience felt powerless to interfere. Fast did not trust these

strange creatures; he must learn that trust for himself. But

would he?

White Hair stopped a good way from Fast, hesitated, then

continued forward. He must know that Fast could be on him

in an instant. Many of the humans had seen Patience hunt -

they knew how fast the raptors were, how quickly they could

kill. But White Hair seemed to know something. His manner

now displayed irritation, or perhaps frustration. It was as if

he wanted Fast to wait just a short while longer. He kept

looking at the sky, noting the position of the sun. Patience

was sure that was what it was.

But Fast had missed it. Patience could see his muscles

bunching for a leap. He planned to attack - perhaps planned

was not the right word. He felt threatened and instinct was

taking over. Did White Hair realize that?

Patience moved towards White Hair, trying to make him

understand that he should move back, allow Fast some room

to think. But the hunters misinterpreted the gesture,

responding to Fast’s aggressive body language even though it

was Patience who approached.

Fast noticed this right away, and crouched, mouth open,

hissing gently, a sure sign of attack. His eyes were fixed on

White Hair. There was no way the human would escape with

his life if Fast was not stopped right now.

Patience changed direction suddenly, pounced on Fast,

bore him to the ground. The hunters drew their weapons, but

did not move to attack. Good. Patience stamped on Fast

hard, keeping him down, off balance, nipping at his flanks

and using her claws to keep him at bay. Fast was confused;

he blinked, barked in confusion and then hunkered down on

the ground as the truth of the situation began to sink in.

The hunters put away their weapons at a sign from White

Hair.

And that was when Raptor Old sprang across the river and

ran into the settlement, cawing for attention, his wounds

miraculously healed by some method that defied all under-

standing.

12

LOCH NESS: 2595

‘So this is the bit where you tell me the plot and then kill me,

right?’

The agents had not replied. In fact they had not said a

single word since pronouncing her eligible for... well,

whatever they had planned. Faced with the obvious

alternative, Bernice had no choice but to allow herself to be

blindfolded. She had been taken down some steps. Wine

cellar? Basement? Rocket silo? Secret underground head-

quarters of SMERSH?

There was no way of knowing.

All she knew was that it was cold. And quiet as the grave.

Hm. Maybe that wasn’t such a good analogy.

She was allowed to sit; the floor was cold stone. There was

a long moment of silence. Then Kepler’s voice. ‘I told you

there are some secrets which would change the world if they

ever got out.’

‘ He said, cocking his gun.’‘ Bernice tried to keep the

shake from her voice.

Newton said, her voice quite neutral, ‘You know things we

need to know. We like you. We don’t want to kill you. But we

would if we had to. To protect the greater truth.’

‘The Sword of Forever?’

Newton sighed. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Bernice - may I

call you Benny? - I’ll be honest with you, Benny. There are

those in our organization who would sanction your death at

the drop of a hat and think no more of it than tearing up a

betting slip. That’s all you are to us at the most. A gamble.

We know you have information; we don’t know how much.

It’s too dangerous to let you go and the alternative is we kill

you and never find out ourselves the information we need.’

‘So?’

Kepler said, ‘So we have devised an alternative. A trade

off.’

‘Tell you what you want or I’ll never play the piano

again?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘There’s a better way.’

‘Neater.’

‘Stronger.’

‘And that is?’

‘We tell you everything,’ said Newton.

‘And then make you one of us,’ said Kepler.

‘And then there’ll be no secrets because we’ll all be on the

same side.’

‘How do I know you won’t just kill me like you tried to

before?’

‘Because you’ll be of the Order. The Order does not kill

the Order.’

Bernice laughed. ‘You guys could offer candyfloss to a

baby and make it sound like a death threat, you know that?’

‘Oh yes-’

‘- we know-’

‘- it’s what you might call-’

‘- a once in a lifetime offer.’

Bernice blinked. ‘Well... I’ll need some time to think it

over.’

The guns reappeared. ‘There is no time.’

‘Choose now.’

‘Or eternity dies.’

‘And so do you.’

13

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

The raptors stayed in the human settlement for several more

weeks, learning more vocabulary and more of their culture,

interacting on a daily basis.

Patience was amazed at Raptor Old’s apparent

resurrection. Now that he was back with them she was even

less inclined to acknowledge the secret fear she had felt all

along, that Fast had been correct and Old was dead and it

was her fault for involving the mammals. Now all that was

proved false. Old was alive, in the highest spirits she had

seen him for some while. The only thing that clouded the

perfect reunion was that he remembered nothing of his stay

within the human temple beyond a few disjointed images.

This was what drove a wedge between Fast and the

others. Patience could tell he was scared, even though he

hid it well. He was nervous all the time, feathers raising at

the slightest excuse, his colour and scent unmistakable. It

was clear to Patience that Fast was scared by what had

happened to Raptor Old. And Patience knew why, too - it

implied the humans had a power greater than the raptors, a

power they seemed willing neither to acknowledge nor

explain.

Old wanted to explore this power, investigate it. He saw

the potential for almost indescribable growth and learning, a

meeting of two cultures, human and raptor. He tried to

communicate his ideas to White Hair but was frustrated by

the lack of common ground in the language.

And then Raptor Old began to have dreams. Strange,

recurring dreams. He told Patience and Fast about them, as

much as he could remember. He dreamt of a box. A human

dressed in armour. He dreamt of a world destroyed, broken

into pieces and scattered. He dreamt of the future, he said,

and it was a world that terrified him. Not his comfortable

future of cooperation and learning.

-It’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s going to go

wrong-

Patience awoke one night to those words being repeated

over and over again by Raptor Old as he slept, writhing upon

the loam bedding.

Fast thought Raptor Old was beginning to go mad.

Privately, Patience wondered if Fast might be right.

When he awoke in the morning, Raptor Old showed no

signs of the previous night’s distress.

-Breakfast?- Patience enquired.

Raptor Old just stared, his ancient eyes alive with

memories. -I remember what happened to me- he said.

-There was a human in the cave, with a box. She opened the

box and there was a light. Oh, yes, I know what you’re going

to say: primitive fantasies, a delusional brain looking for

meaning in its madness. I was delirious, I grant you. But I

am convinced of this: this species has access to an advanced

form of science which is lifetimes away from our grasp. I was

dying. You both said so. Something in that cave brought me

back. Not only as I was but better than I was. I feel younger.

Newer, somehow. My memories... they are clouded

sometimes... there seem to be blanks... but I am here,

alive. How do you explain that?-

Patience growled softly. -I cannot-

Fast added in a stern bark -And should not. This power. It

is beyond our understanding. We must leave here. These

creatures are dangerous to us. A threat. We must go back to

our own lands and recommend-

Patience heard the words in her head a moment before Fast

uttered them.

-To the Ruling Family that they be utterly destroyed-

Silence, deep, broken only by the sound of infants playing

nearby.

Raptor Old hissed softly. -These beings have a cultural

heritage which is older than I can determine. Thousands,

perhaps millions, of years-

Fast shook his head from side to side. -Then why have we

not seen them before?-

-I do not know-

-I do. They have been hiding from us. Building up their

strength and waiting to attack us. To wipe us out-

Patience growled. -That is the thinking of chicks! You are

better than that-

-We will see- Fast snorted, barked his annoyance, sprang

up from the floor and left the dwelling place.

Patience rose to follow, to argue. Raptor Old stopped her

with a soft growl.

-Let him go. He is not stupid. He will see we are right-

Tragically, Raptor Old’s estimation was far from the truth,

a fact borne out the next morning when the two raptors were

awoken by angry shouts and the thud of rocks being hurled

against their dwelling place.

Patience emerged from the hut to find a crowd gathered

around, hurling stones, screaming abuse.

Then White Hair pushed through the crowd, a number of

hunters with him. They were carrying what looked like two

sacks of meat. They laid the sacks at the door of the hut and

Patience could see they contained bodies. Humans.

They were dead, disembowelled by raptor claws.

Patience made gestures of submission, trying to

communicate that she knew nothing about what had

happened. White Hair ignored her. He was furious, his anger

almost palpable. Try as she might, Patience could not

communicate with him. Or he would not listen.

Raptor Old emerged from the hut, curious about all the

commotion. He saw the bodies, sniffed at them.

-Raptor Fast-

-I know! He killed these to provoke a conflict!-

-No, he is too clever for that. He killed them so we would

be killed. That will give him the evidence he needs to start a

war-

-We have to stop him. Get back to the Nest-

-Without evidence that he is wrong, that will be useless,

even if he did not have a twelve-hour head start-

-What shall we do, then?-

Raptor Old eyed the ugly crowd, which was for the

moment held in check only by the presence of White Hair.

-We must get to the temple. Find evidence to refute Fast.

Only then can we follow him-

-But the humans-

-We are faster and stronger. We must try not to kill any

more of them than is necessary-

A rock flew out of the crowd and struck Patience on the

shoulder. She squealed, felt her mind acknowledge the

undertow of her primitive self: the hunter, the killer. She

struggled to rise above the impulse to respond to the

aggression with killing blows. -We must go. Now! Before they

attack. Before we are forced to defend ourselves-

Raptor Old nodded. -Break through the crowd there. Head

for the river. If you can cross that you will be able to outrun

them-

-Me? What about you?-

-I am going to stay to talk to them. I may be able to-

-No! You can see what they are like! They’ll kill you-

-They saved me. They will not waste that effort. They are

intelligent beings-

More rocks flew out of the crowd. And now the hunters

were approaching, weapons drawn.

-Go now!-

Raptor Old took a few steps closer to White Hair, his claws

sheathed, head bowed in the pose of submission. White Hair

stepped back quickly, his eyes flickering nervously from side

to side. The crowd was beyond control now. He began to

shout orders at them. Raptor Old approached even closer

and then...

And then .. .

One of the hunters ran forward and plunged his sword

into Raptor Old’s flank. Old screamed, whirling to send

the human falling, his guts churning from his slashed-open

stomach. The rest of the hunters and the crowd moved as

one creature. Patience felt blows land, rocks, swords. The

pain did not register, though, for the primitive intelligence

which controlled her hunting skills had subsumed her will.

She was truly an animal, whirling, kicking, slashing, leaping,

screaming; a hissing nightmare of bone and muscle, claw

and teeth. She smelt blood, her own and that of the humans,

and entered a frenzied state of shock from which, afterwards,

she was to remember only fragmented glimpses of the

carnage.

14

LOCH NESS: 2595

Bernice was taken into the cellar of the house and told to

undress. Then she was given clothing resembling a pair of

white pyjamas and was told to put it on. A few moments

later, Newton and Kepler came in holding a white cotton

hood, a hangman’s noose and a stone goblet full of aromatic

liquid.

Bernice eyed the noose suspiciously. ‘Just because you’ve

got me dolled up like Wee Willie Winkie doesn’t mean I

won’t black your eye if you try to put that on me.’

Newton spoke softly, the words unfamiliar, though the

language - Egyptian - was easily recognizable.

Bernice frowned.

Kepler said, ‘Ma’at. ‘Righteousness, truth and justice’.’

Newton added, ‘This means you.’

‘It is also a word symbolic of Freemasonry -’

‘Therefore, you are also symbolic of Freemasonry -’

‘Since the concept of Ma’at clearly applies to you as well.’

Bernice chewed thoughtfully on her lip. ‘You wouldn’t be

trying to sell me a line, now, would you?’

‘Of course we are -’

‘It’s your only alternative -’

‘-to death.’

Kepler held out the stone goblet.

Bernice shrugged and grinned. ‘Times like this I’m glad I

didn’t stay a nun.’ She downed the drink in one. A moment

later the hood and noose were secured around her head and

neck, and she was led from the cellar.

Bernice reviewed what she had read in London of the

Masonic initiation ceremony. It was a ceremony designed to

emulate the ancient-Egyptian king-making ceremony, carried

out traditionally in the Pyramid of Unas. A candidate was

presented to the sky, symbolized by the chamber roof, and

adorned with two crowns to symbolize Upper and Lower

Egypt, and was then made to drink a powerful drug. The

candidate then lay near death through the night, to awake

the following morning with stories of a near-death experience,

which confirmed him to the people as the new king.

Her head began to spin as she thought this. Fear? Too late

to worry now. She took a few more steps and found herself

stumbling.

She fell to her knees, supported by the two agents, one on

either side.

A voice she did not recognize began to speak.

‘Almighty and eternal God, Architect and Ruler of the

Universe, at whose creative fiat all things were first made,

we the frail creatures of Thy providence humbly implore

Thee to pour down upon this convocation, assembled in

Thy Holy Name, the continued dew of Thy blessing. More

especially we beseech Thee to impart Thy grace to this, Thy

servant, who seeks to partake with us in the secrets of the

stars. Endue him with such fortitude that, in the hour of

trial, he fail not but, passing safely under Thy protection

through the dark valley of the shadow of death, he may

finally rise from the tomb of transgression to shine as the

stars, for ever and ever.’

As the words rumbled on, Bernice felt her head begin to

spin. By the end of the prayer she remained upright only

because she was being supported. Then the support was

removed and she fell. She seemed to take forever to reach the

ground, didn’t even feel the impact which shook the side of

her head. As she lay motionless upon the ground Bernice

wondered what had been in the ceremonial goblet she had

drunk from. She would’ve bet a thousand dollars against an

overripe banana it hadn’t been dry white wine.

She told them everything, of course. And then they told her

everything. Afterwards, she felt herself laid on a slab of

cold stone, still hooded, and waited to die. Obviously they

were going to kill her now. Nothing happened. She waited.

Nothing continued to happen.

She became aware that something in the cellar with her was

breathing.

Hissing.

She could hear the scrape of

(claws against)

metal against stone as she held her breath, tried to identify

the sounds. No chance. She glimpsed grass. Felt hot sun-

shine. She tried to raise her hand to shield her eyes but her

arms were bound, held straight out from her sides by a

wooden pole. Her legs hurt, too. She sat up, then found she

was already standing. No, not standing, but tied in an

upright position. She struggled. The wooden pole to which

she was bound shuddered and swayed.

How

much

had

they

given

her

to

drink?

She tried to speak. There was no sound. No breath of

wind save that which she caused by her own movements.

She hung awkwardly, her back and shoulders in agony.

The effort to draw breath against the weight of her own

body made her want to scream. The sun drove molten

spikes into her head. The sun - and the knowledge that no

king-making ceremony should cut this close to the bone.

This was carrying the near-death experience too far. I mean,

the whole thing’s a scam, right? Unless, of course, the drink

was –

- was -

-poison, what if they’d given her too much bloody –

- something moved at her hands. A hammer blow. A silent

shriek of pain.

Christ! Her hands! What were they doing to her - ?

The raptor crouching at her side rose to its full height and

pushed the spear it held between her ribs.

15

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

She was dying. She knew it, felt the truth in every lurching

step, in every fractured breath; her flanks heaving and blood

bubbling at her snout, her breath wheezing through teeth

blunted and broken from killing. Her right forelimb was

broken at the wrist, the claw torn out.

Her scent mingled with the scent of humans until she

could no longer tell them apart. There was just a metallic

taste of death which filled her head and scraped her mind

clean of all willpower.

She ran all day, limbs pumping, muscles screaming,

reached

the temple half-drowned from the river, half-dead from sword

cuts and stone wounds.

Inside, the cool darkness did not soothe. Her mind was

busy shutting down, death bringing to the fore once again

the primitive urge to survive, the imperative to run, to

breathe no matter what the cost, no matter how bad the pain

in her limbs and chest.

She controlled the impulses coursing through her. The

primitive mindscream that told her to run and kill. Instead,

she walked, slowly, methodically, through the temple,

observing inscriptions and pictures and great openings

blazing with coloured glass which formed pictures. She was

searching, hunting for evidence, for proof. Something to deny

Fast his legacy of war.

If she couldn’t save Raptor Old, she could at least do that

much.

She could save those that had killed him.

All she needed was a sign. Something to prove Fast wrong.

Then she could get out, get away, try to heal, return to the

Nest.

All she needed was a sign.

She found Raptor Old’s body instead.

It was many days dead, the wounds unmistakable, as

impossible to heal as she remembered them. Her mind

reeled. Fast had been right. They had brought Old here to die

and die he had. And yet he had been alive, too!

Or was she going mad?

How could there be two of him? Two individuals with the

same body, the same life experiences, the same memories?

Patience emitted a mournful howl, backing away from the

stone resting place of Raptor Old with dragging steps. Her

jaw worked and she screamed, loud and long, and every

remaining bit of energy, every drop of fear and regret she

possessed, went into that scream.

Patience opened her mouth as an intelligent being; she

closed it as a hissing animal, her intellectual processes over-

come by shock and anger, the hunter-killer now firmly in

control again.

When the mammal appeared behind her dressed in armour

and carrying a sword, Patience was as incapable of thinking

rationally as she was unable to prevent herself leaping on to

the figure and slashing at it with claws and teeth, ripping

through helm and head and face in a single terrible blow,

before burying her snout in the bloody mess and beginning to

feed.

Food in her belly bought her some time to think, though it

did nothing to alleviate the pain. By now she could hear the

sounds of mammals entering the temple. She sprang further

into the maze of pillars and chambers, the mammals in close

pursuit, hunting her by the trail of blood she left behind.

Her wounds brought Patience to her knees deep within the

temple, in a chamber containing a wooden box covered with

engravings. One of the engravings showed the world -

obviously after a terrible cataclysm had occurred - sundered

into many different pieces. Something about this image

caused Patience to falter - and in that moment the room was

full of humans. Screaming humans. Humans with swords

and daggers, the killing metal.

Patience struggled to her feet, remaining claws extended,

breath a bloody hiss through broken teeth. She looked

around for a weapon, a shield, anything. There was only the

box. She grasped at the lid and wrenched it off. Perhaps she

could use it as a -

silent concussion of light erupted from the box, its force

stilling screams, erasing fear and anger and pain, sundering

flesh and mind and untold megatonnages of rock, rendering

half a world lifeless and splitting the rest along faultlines

already stressed for millennia as -

her last memory was of the temple collapsing under tons of

ice. Darkness and cold a killing weight upon her until even

the light from the box, her world, her life itself, were all

finally, utterly extinguished.

16

LONDON: 2595

Two minds remembering cold.

Remembering pain.

Dreaming of dying.

She awoke to the face of her husband and rescuer.

‘Watch out for the cocktail - it’s a killer.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder. It stopped your heart beating for

nearly a minute.’

She shook her head - then gasped at the pain. ‘We can’t

keep on meeting like this. It’s bad for my self-image.’

She awoke to the face of a dead human, a younger version of

the one she’d killed and eaten a world away in time, a

flashfrozen image of murder and destruction surrounded by

the warm-nest chick-fuzz of other, less immediate, less

perfect memories. Memories that faded quickly, even as she

barked a hoarse interrogative that made her throat hurt like

fire.

‘Take it easy.’ The human female’s voice was mother-

comforting, though the words were the usual human fleshy-

tongued nonsense. ‘We couldn’t adjust your vocal chords and

anyway it would take too long for you to learn English. We’ll

start on sign language as soon as you’re fit. I’m Benny by the

way. And you are?’

She struggled against restraints, felt liquid slosh around

her. She barked, screeched, made the scent of fear. Her claws

snapped restraints, smashed against a wall she couldn’t see.

Images of herself breaking out of the egg assaulted her,

panicked her. The invisible material cracked, then smashed,

then fell away and she coughed up more liquid.

‘Uh huh.’ The human’s words were still nonsense. ‘Guess

we’re going to have to teach you some patience, right?’

PART THREE

A LABYRINTH OF GHOSTS

1

ARGINY: 2595

Arginy was at Mardi Gras when they burnt the ghost.

It was night, of course; the village lit by oil-lamps carved

from hybrid fruit. The hundreds of shimmering pumpkin

faces put even the moon to shame. Thousands of candles

illuminated hundreds of villagers; faces painted, clothes a

wild cacophony of colour and movement. A dozen different

sorts of music played from thrashmetal to Charleston, the

sound blasting from equipment ranging from modern boom-

busters to ancient wind-up gramophones.

Everyone from the youngest child to the oldest adult

seemed to be dancing that night. Dancing to celebrate death

and dancing to celebrate life.

The life in question was nearly over, a hybrid who had

wandered from the wall of jungle alone and who, removed

from the nurturing environment in which it had been

created, now lay dying upon its own funeral pyre.

Bernice moved within the bustle and laughter of humanity,

looking for room and board for two people, a dozen crates of

equipment and one intelligent reptile. She encountered the

ghost surrounded by a milling crowd and thought he (she?

it?) resembled a skin-textured spider, the extra limbs arching

above the back and then down, the extra joints on otherwise

normal human limbs provoking a sense of profound unease.

To the crowd he was a curiosity, a danger, but no threat if

tended properly.

‗Oh look at him, isn‘t he precious?‘

‗He looks like a big bug!‘

‗Don‘t be rude, dear.‘

‗But he does!‘

‗The children don‘t understand; have some more mead.‘

‗Is he dying?‘

‗He looks like he is.‘

‗Is it a he?‘

‗Hush, dear, it‘s not respectful.‘

‗How can you tell?‘

‗Well, what is he then if he isn‘t a he?‘

‗Certainly not human.‘

‗It‘s sad.‘

‗Don‘t be like that! It‘ll be happy soon.‘

‗Yes, happy!‘

‗Happy and warm.‘

‘ Oohhh warm!‘

Bernice eased her way through the crowd, ignoring the

children jostling eagerly for the best position to watch. She

turned away from the flames when she saw the hybrid was

still moving feebly in the pre-immolation heat, and bumped

into a younger woman dressed as Death in neon-splashed

crow‘s tatters. She realized as she apologized that everyone

was wearing breathmasks beneath their costumes, even the

children; and now she looked for it, the telltale glitter of

aerosol prophylactic.

Despite the gaiety, no one was taking any chances with the

hybrid.

Bernice moved further from the fire. Even drowned in

happy laughter as they were, the sounds there were

becoming unpleasant. Arginy was a town too full of ghosts

already to witness another added to their number.

She felt the eyes of the woman dressed as Death follow her

as she turned to go, and was unable to resist another glance.

Something about her eyes, the way they sat within her mask,

hard inside the ragged cloth, hard and cold as stars seen

from remotest space.

‗Hello, Bernice.‘

Bernice hesitated. The eyes held her for a moment - the

moment stretched. ‗Do I know you?‘

‗You ought to. You killed my cousin.‘

‗Sara?‘

She lay outside the castle walls, head full of lightning,

fingers locked around the Templar journal, mind locked on

his last panicky yell, half swamped by water as he was

carried away by the current.

Bernice felt her head cloud with the fumes of alcohol and

smoke and burning meat.

He was gone, Daniel was gone; swept away into the

labyrinth, probably dead. The thought screamed in her head

all the way back through the maze of tunnels and out of the

castle. Dead. He was dead. It was her fault.

‗Sara Beaujeu?‘

‗I‘m surprised you remember me.‘

‗You were...‘ The farmhouse had been large, rambling,

the rooms caught in a maze of history; her presence ghostly;

skipping feet and excited laughter preceding her merrily, her

smile as warm as the fires that kept out the night. ‗You were

so small.‘

‗I was six when Daniel died.‘

‗You had the attic room. You wanted to show me your

butterfly collection.‘

‗Over a hundred species - more than half of them pure.‘

‗You were so proud.‘

‗As I was of Daniel. To catch someone like you.‘

Bernice gulped air, tasted smoke, gave no thought to the

alien DNA which might be drifting within it.

‗He loved you, Bernice.‘

‗Sara. I‘m so sorry.*

‗He loved you and you killed him.‘

‗It... wasn‘t... Oh hell, who am I trying to fool.‘ Bernice

blew out her cheeks, rubbed the bridge of her nose, looked

around for somewhere to sit; every space was occupied

by whirling bodies, leaping children, fluttering pennants,

flickering pumpkin faces, sweetmeats, smoke, fireworks; a

cacophony of colour and movement.

Sara peeled off her Death mask; the face beneath was

deeply tanned, eyes and skin a generation beyond her

twenty-six years. ‗Come back to the farm. Mother will want to

see you.‘

‗I don‘t know if that‘s such a good... I mean I‘m here

with, well, some friends... I‘m... well, I‘m going back. To

Arginy, I mean. To the castle.‘

‗Of course you are. And I‘m going with you. Why else do

you think I sent you the journal?‘

The farmhouse was just as she remembered it, half an hour‘s

travel by horse and trap from the village, snuggled against

the foot of a cresting wave of rock, the Massif Central,

unbroken since her last visit by the creeping strangeness

inching its way out of the Rhone Valley.

Cold stone, grey and purple in the starlight, the scattering

of low cloud warmed by the flickering lights from the

village. Ivy (unclassifiable) crawling across the walls.

Windows warmed through with apricot firelight. Bernice

caught the hint of animals, the smell of cows and dogs as she

and Sara stabled the pony (hybrid - sterile). Later, when

Marillian arrived, they unloaded the load-lifter.

There had been a minor panic when the dogs caught scent

of Patience as she sprang clear of the lifter and had to be

locked in the barn. They howled all night. Other than that

things went smoothly - as smoothly as Bernice might have

expected while introducing her husband to the only surviving

relatives of the first man who ever loved her, and whose

death she was responsible for.

Like the farmhouse, Sara‘s mother, Daniel‘s aunt Françoise,

was also much as Bernice remembered from the past. She

had put on a little weight but was as handsome as ever she

had been. With her glasses perched owlishly upon her tilted

nose and her hair cropped short and tucked away beneath

her habitual cap, she could appear to a stranger as either

the distant academic or the robust farm owner - Bernice

had seen her play both roles to the hilt. The truth was

that Françoise Beaujeu was neither academic nor farmer.

She was an engineer. She designed machinery. Domestic

and industrial: light machinery designed to hold down a

ploughed field against time and the odd incursion by snake-

vines; heavy machinery designed to tear down the

encroaching jungle, to hold a line against the inevitable

legacy of the war.

Now she and Sara watched as Bernice brought Marillian

and Patience into the farmhouse kitchen. Her face was calm,

the twists of light from her glasses slipping across her cheeks

as she moved.

‗You must be hungry.‘

It wasn‘t a question; the table was loaded with food.

Bernice wondered how long they had been expected.

‗Françoise. This is my husband, Marillian. And this is

Patience. She‘s-‘

‗— a dinosaur. So I see.‘ Françoise Beaujeu turned to her

daughter. ‗Sara, get the prime beef out of the freezer, zap it,

mark eight for ten minutes, then chuck it in the tin bath, the

one we use for the horses.‘ Sara vanished into the pantry and

Françoise turned her attention back to Bernice‘s party. ‗And

I‘m Françoise Beaujeu. Bernice and I have... some history.‘

No one spoke for a moment. ‗Well, Benny. It‘s been a long

time. You‘ll want to eat. We can talk later.‘

The meal was delicious. Bernice remembered all the food

here being delicious. Afterwards, on her mother‘s

instructions, Sara took Marillian and Patience through to the

lounge, leaving Bernice alone with Françoise.

‗Walk with me, will you, Benny? We should settle the

dogs.‘

Outside the night had changed; the low cloud had vanished

to leave a clear sky filled with stars and the faint ribbon of

the solar mirror. The dogs whined, scratching at the door of

the barn as they sensed their mistress approach. Françoise

unlatched the barn door and opened it. ‗Heel!‘ The dogs

came without any bother. She crouched and made a fuss of

them. Bernice took a step closer. One of the dogs growled

softly. ‗Friend,‘ Françoise said softly. The dog - as mixed a

breed as you could get without actually introducing non-

terrestrial DNA - came over to Bernice and made a fuss of

her.

‗He‘s gorgeous.‘

‗Make no mistake. They‘re killers. Both of them.‘

Bernice glanced at Françoise, wondering if there was an

unspoken threat attached to her statement.

Françoise stood, ushered the dogs back into the barn and

latched the door.

Bernice wondered whether she ought to say something

about the dogs being locked up on her account - then

thought better of it. ‗It hasn‘t changed much here, has it?‘

‗You think not?‘ Françoise walked around the barn, setting

a fast pace across the field towards the hills, black and silver

in the starlight. A few minutes passed in silence. Great

square animals loomed patchily out of the darkness. Cows,

conversing in mellow tones, chewed over the day‘s events, the

new arrivals, the sense of the past catching up with the

present.

‗You still have cows.‘

‗It‘s the only way I know to ensure uncompromised dairy

produce. Beef, milk, you name it. I could retire comfortably

on the sale of breeding DNA alone. Anything else is a

bonus.‘

‗That‘s good.‘

‗You think so?‘

Bernice bit her lip. ‗I assume so. I‘m not really qualified to

judge.‘

‗No.‘ Françoise shut down the electricity supply to the

five-bar gate with a whispered command and climbed it

easily. Bernice followed her into the field, her feet sinking

into mud. Curious, the cows ambled closer. Françoise ran

her hands along the flank of the nearest animal. ‗You were at

Mardi Gras.‘

‗Yes. They were burning a hybrid.‘

‗They were burning a ghost. We call them that. Mostly

they‘re sad, even pathetic creatures. It‘s a ceremony. It shows

respect. The hybrid would have died anyway, away from its

tribe, away from the other ghosts.‘

‗Tribe?‘ Bernice struggled to maintain her balance in the

mud. ‗How many people are there in the jungle?‘

‗Human? None. Hybrids? There‘s never been a successful

census. Twenty-five years ago a man from the government

went in with a palmtop and an environment suit. We found

his suit six months later. It wasn‘t damaged.‘

Bernice considered. ‗He took it off?‘

‗Obviously.‘

‗Voluntarily?‘

‗The seals were opened from the inside.‘

‗Oh.‘ Bernice followed Françoise in squishy near-silence

across the field. ‗We never talked about it, did we?‘

‗Daniel? Or the jungle?‘

Bernice was glad Françoise could not see her blush in the

darkness. ‗Either.‘

‗As I remember you were too eager to get off on your

treasure hunt. You came here, a city girl, and used my

nephew to get to his family‘s heritage.‘

Bernice bit her lip. ‗It wasn‘t like that. We were kids. We

loved each other. It was an adventure. A stupid adventure. I

know better now.‘

Françoise said nothing for a while, then turned, heading

towards the next field. Her words were almost lost in the

night and the wind.

‗When Sara told me she was going to send you the journal,

I argued with her. Not the first argument we have ever had

but certainly the most heated. When my brother James and

Daniel‘s mother were killed I wanted to destroy that book.

Burn it, the way they burn the hybrids. It‘s a hybrid. A

symbol of the past and the future. It has secrets, Benny,

secrets that kill. Do you have it with you? — No, don‘t show

me, I don‘t think I ever want to see it again. No. You keep it;

Sara gave it to you - the responsibility is yours now.‘

Bernice hesitated, began to speak, changed her mind, and

said, ‗I don‘t know what to say to you. You‘re not making this

very easy for me - not that I think you should - but... it

hasn‘t been easy for me either these last twenty years. I...

well, my life changed, you know that. I qualified, I became an

archaeologist. I‘ve done good work. I‘ve opened up the past,

brought dead civilizations back to life. Some of that is down

to Daniel.‘ Footsteps squelching in mud. ‗Wouldn‘t you say?‘

Françoise made a sound - a sob or a laugh, Bernice

couldn‘t tell. ‗Your choice was made before you met Daniel.

He wouldn‘t be dead if it were otherwise. Don‘t fool your-

self, Benny. Lie to anyone else you like, but never yourself.‘

She hesitated, then added, ‗I hope you‘re never betrayed by

someone you care about as much as Daniel cared about you.‘

Then she turned and headed back to the farmhouse, leaving

Bernice motionless, her mouth open, shocked as if she had

just been slapped.

Bernice stayed out in the fields for another hour, snuggled

inside her poncho, gazing up at the stars. She watched the

moon creep slowly across the sky, watched it play tag with

the gigantic oak looming over the farmhouse, watched the

silver light spread out across the branches in concentric

circles, trying hard to empty her mind of all thoughts.

Impossible, of course.

Doubly impossible was returning to the farmhouse. All

that awaited her there was a lifetime of guilt and a man she

did not love.

Bernice hunkered down inside her poncho, arms wrapped

around her knees, crying when the cows mooched closer.

An hour later the cows moved away as a dark shape sprang

lightly over the fence, moved silently through the mud, to

crouch, breath hissing slightly, beside her.

‗Hey, buddy.‘

Patience swung her thickly muscled neck against Bernice‘s

head, butting gently. Bernice wrapped an arm around the

raptor‘s neck, drawing the surprisingly warm body closer

still. She took the offered thermos of hot chocolate, and

dumped a generous dollop from her hip flask into it.

‗My dear; your very good health.‘ She drank.

Patience growled; the cows shuffled uneasily; Patience

uttered a series of yipping barks.

‗Oh yeah? Me too. Want to hang out?‘

2

ETHIOPIA: 2575

Marillian had not seen Lake Tana from the air; there were no

direct vision ports in the sub-orbital which had finned down

at Adis Ababa three days earlier; but the virtual vision

system had shown the lake as it sat in the Ethiopian Plateau,

more than a thousand metres above sea level. He‘d thought

the tiny stretch of water resembled the pupil in a large grey

and purple eye that was the mass of mountains between the

Sudan and Somalia. The image had been a disturbingly

accurate iteration of the All Seeing Eye which was the central

symbol of the Masonic Chapter to which he belonged. The

image served only to reinforce his personal belief that God

was at best a moot concept even if there were larger, possibly

unseen patterns of order at work in the universe. His own

Chapter, for example, dated back more than fifteen hundred

years - to a time when there was no such thing as flight or

aerial photography. Yet there he was, just hours before,

looking down at the Ethiopian Plateau with its steel grey eye

which seem to gaze into his very soul, and the resemblance

was uncanny.

Of course it could all have just been nerves. It wasn‘t his

first mission by a long chalk - though only twenty-six years

old Marillian was an accomplished Mid Level Mason - but

one thing that hadn‘t changed over the decade since his

father introduced him to their local Lodge was that he always

got jumpy when out in the field. He supposed in a way it was

lucky. That jumpiness had saved his life on more than one

occasion.

An hour had passed, the sub-orbital had finned down and

the Jennings-Bankhurst Expedition had got smoothly under-

way.

Now, from the creaking deck of the load-lifter skimming

the surface of the lake, Marillian began to appreciate how

extraordinarily large the seemingly tiny expanse of Lake

Tana really was - more than ten thousand square kilometres.

A tiny inland sea, bordered by mountains, with more than

forty islands of its own. As he passed across its surface - the

surface of the Eye - he felt its gaze even more strongly upon

him, both reminding him of his purpose here and making

him wonder about the results of failure should that purpose

be discovered.

The

Jennings-Bankhurst

mission

had

a

simple,

overwhelming objective. It was his purpose to ensure that

objective was not achieved.

Marillian leant against the load-lifter‘s deck rail and

watched the water ripple past. He wondered what alien toxins

drifted beneath the dazzling surface. As was becoming

commonplace throughout Earth, the war had brought an end

to the centuries of internal struggle. For many generations

Somalia had been torn by internal conflict between

neighbouring clans, as well as by the imposition of a

supposedly unifying government by outside agencies such as

the USA and, after that was lost, the UN. By the time the

clans had decided it would be better to unite against a

common enemy rather than use the greater war as an excuse

to continue their own internal conflict, a direct hit from orbit

had not only rendered the decision irrelevant but also

resolved all the remaining clan-warfare for good - by

effectively rendering all parties concerned bio-hybrid - and

therefore threatened most directly by the agencies which had

until then tried hardest to help and support them.

Two decades later Kenya and Somalia were both still sites

of massive bio-infestation - mutations were spreading south

across the equator, towards Tanzania as well as, more slowly,

north across the Ethiopian Plateau. Nairobi was gone,

inundated by hybrid jungle. Adis Ababa, once with a

population of more than five hundred thousand, was now

home to an ever-shifting population of hybrid humans and a

sanitizing force of the Russian Conglomerate Military Red

Cross intent on purification of local areas. It had cost the

Museum of Natural History in London most of its public

display rights advances to bribe the Military to give safe

passage to the expedition. It was a huge risk - but as

Jennings-Bankhurst had said, if it paid off, it would do so in

some considerable style.

Henry Jennings-Bankhurst joined Marillian at the rail.

Strands of silver hair rippled in the alpine air, a marked

contrast to Marillian‘s own tightly bound, jet black topknot.

Jennings-Bankhurst stood with a stoop and walked with a

limp, the former due to an age far in excess of the biblical

norm and the latter acquired through a ‗disagreement‘ with a

hungry hippo along the Congo some years before. Marillian

studied the reddened skin of hands and face, the tiny broken

capillaries in the cheeks and pouches of skin around the

piercing eyes, and wondered what he himself would look like

if he survived the forty-odd years necessary to reach his

mentor‘s age.

Jennings-Bankhurst gazed out at the expanse of water,

eyes sliding across the horizon, from sky to water and back

to sky. The colour was not markedly different; there were no

clouds. ‗―The jewel of Ethiopia‖.‘ His voice hardly carried

above the wind.

Marillian smiled to himself. Jennings-Bankhurst was never

above an appropriate quote; Aeschylus was a particular

favourite. ‗―A copper tinted lake that is the jewel of Ethiopia,

where the all-pervading sun returns again and again to

plunge his immortal form, and finds solace for his weary

round in gentle ripples that are but a warm caress.‖‘

Jennings-Bankhurst shivered, and not with the wind.

‗They had a way with words in the fifth century.‘

Marillian drew in a breath of damp air. ‗Do you think we‘ll

find it?‘

Jennings-Bankhurst allowed his gaze to move forward,

in the direction the load-lifter was travelling, and let his

eyes travel the distance to the mass of rock and trees curling

up from the dazzling waters. ‗Tana Kirkos,‘ he said gently,

his words almost lost in the wind. ‗It has to be on Tana

Kirkos.‘

The island was rich in vegetation, a supersaturated wonder-

land of smells and noises. Moist, freshly turned loam,

sun-baked rock, the scent of tropical flowers and cactus

plants and water. Bees and hummingbirds with dragonfly

wings alternately blurred and froze, droplets of brighter

colour among the earthy richness. A kingfisher dived, sudden

death, into the water, to emerge dripping with its next meal

wriggling in its beak.

The load-lifter drifted slowly into dock at a wooden jetty

and the members of the expedition debarked. Marillian fol-

lowed Jennings-Bankhurst and the translator, a middle-aged

Somali gentleman with incredibly wrinkled skin, a cataract

covering one eye and ears that stuck out sideways from his

bald head like jug-handles; his name was Ondemwu.

As he stepped down from the dock, leaving the load-lifter

pilot to secure the platform, Marillian felt strange. Two and a

half hours on the platform moving at the beck and call of the

waves made the ground seem dizzyingly steady. He walked

slowly from the jetty and then stood quite still upon the

beach. Sand and tiny pebbles and shell fragments scrunched

as he moved, grinding minutely together at his feet when he

stopped.

The monks had seen the expedition while it was still

afloat; a number had come to meet them. They stood now

some metres distant, silent, cowled figures, faces covered by

hoods, bodies swathed in robes that made all gauge of

characteristics impossible. Marillian squinted against the

sun and considered the figures. Bearing in mind the

proximity of the Somali bio-infestations, the monks might all

be hybrids under those robes and no one would ever be the

wiser. It would be bad luck for them if they were. Especially

when the Military Red Cross arrived to sterilize the island.

One of the figures stepped forward; Jennings-Bankhurst

matched the movement, Ondemwu at his side. Marillian

edged closer as they met on the edge of the sand, close to the

tree-line; there the ground was dappled with splashes of

sunlight and drifting shadows from the palm leaves.

Looking directly at the monk, Jennings-Bankhurst said,

‗Greetings.‘

Ondemwu‘s translation was much more elaborate than the

single word.

The monk uttered some words in response.

Ondemwu said, ‗The Brother Yariam welcomes us to

Debra Makeda.‘

Marillian looked up sharply at the sound of the name.

Jennings-Bankhurst seemed to have been electrified. His hair

was standing straight out on end and a glow filled his eyes.

He pointed a shaking finger, trying unsuccessfully to conceal

his eagerness as he said, ‗Debra Makeda? Did I hear you

correctly? Debra Makeda? Not Tana Kirkos? The Queen

of Sheba‘s Mountain?‘ Jennings-Bankhurst waved a hand

impatiently at Ondemwu, who translated for him.

The monk replied in broken Amharic. The words Debra

Makeda were unmistakable.

Jennings-Bankhurst blinked, shuffling agitatedly for a

moment. Marillian waited for the explosion of enthusiasm.

Behind him came the clunk-and-splash of the load-lifter

being secured to the jetty. Overhead, among a storm of

wings, came the disturbed cries of tropical birds.

Jennings-Bankhurst eventually said, ‗Oh my. It‘s here. It

has to be.‘ To the patiently waiting Ondemwu he added, ‗Ask

them. Ask them if it‘s here.‘

Ondemwu spent a few minutes talking to the monk, who

then turned away. The other monks also turned their backs.

Jennings-Bankhurst turned eagerly to Ondemwu. ‗What?

What did he say? Have I offended them? Is it here?‘

Ondemwu shrugged. ‗They cannot say. They have invited

us to meet the Abbot.‘

The members of the expedition followed the monks through

a neat banana plantation and along a steep, winding track

towards the summit of the island. Marillian took off his

jacket as they walked - the air still had a bite to it but the

exertions were making him sweat. Ahead of them the monks

glided, apparently effortlessly, along the track, their feet

hidden beneath the all-concealing robes. No man (were they

all men? It was impossible to tell) uttered a single word

during the journey. With their robes the colour of deep

forest and their faces and hands concealed by hoods and

sleeves, the monks were like spirits, extrusions of the very

land itself, and almost indivisible from it. The birds made

more noise than these human chimera. The only footfalls

to be heard were those of the expedition members. Even

Ondemwu‘s bare feet were louder upon the track than the

monks‘ sandals.

Marillian walked faster in order to catch up with Jennings-

Bankhurst. ‗Is this it, do you think? The Queen of Sheba‘s

Mountain?‘

The old man shrugged, apparently unaffected by his rapid

ascent to more than a hundred metres above the lake. ‗Can‘t

you feel it? There is power in this place. How else could the

island and its ecological system be so pure when surrounded

on three sides by such hostile bio-infestations?‘

Marillian folded his jacket into its purse and slipped the

purse into his pocket. ‗I have no answer.‘

Jennings-Bankhurst allowed his wrinkled skull to drift into

a nod. ‗A good place to begin.‘

A short while later they passed the first of a number of low,

round buildings covered with thatched roofs. The monks

must live here, Marillian thought, though there were none in

sight at present. Perhaps they were all out working. Or

praying. Whatever it was that monks did on a tiny island in

the middle of nowhere like this.

They moved on, passing beneath an arch set into a high

stone wall. The arch opened on to a large, grassy clearing in

the centre of which stood the Church of Kirkos. This was a

long rectangular structure, curved at each end, made of

stone blocks. The roof was of thatch-covered timbers. A

wooden walkway completely surrounded the building.

Jennings-Bankhurst said quietly, anticipating Marillian‘s

comment, ‗It doesn‘t look that old, does it? Then again, there

have probably been churches on this site for more than

fifteen hundred years.‘

Yariam led them round the building. Here the clearing rose

to a high point on the cliff edge near the summit of the

island, overlooking Lake Tana. Here Marillian could see a

hooded figure moving near three rock pillars which, even

from here, were clearly artificially worked. The robes did not

conceal how tall and thin the figure was. Yariam held back

now, allowing Jennings-Bankhurst to make his way forward

towards the figure. Marillian followed, with Ondemwu. The

expedition leader leant in close to Marillian and whispered,

‗Look at those monoliths, the way they are cut. They are old.

The Axumite period. I‘m sure of it. Perhaps older.‘

Marillian absorbed the words. If Jennings-Bankhurst was

correct, the stones indicated they were another step closer to

the expedition‘s objective.

They slowly approached the figure, who remained with his

back to them. He was making gestures with his hands,

flinging droplets of moisture from a shallow bowl into

declivities in the upper surfaces of the stone pillars. As

Marillian watched he dipped the forefinger of his right hand

into the bowl, swept the hand above his head and

commenced a new up-and-down motion.

Jennings-Bankhurst‘s voice was an excited whisper. ‗Look

at that! ―And the priest shall dip his finger in the blood, and

sprinkle the blood seven times before the Lord, before the

veil of the sanctuary.‖‘ The old man was almost quivering

with excitement. ‗The Book of Leviticus. Chapter Five. ―And

he shall sprinkle the blood of the sin offering upon the side of

the altar, and the rest of the blood shall be wrung out at the

bottom of the altar.‖ Look. He‘s doing it exactly as it was

written in the Old Testament! The blood was scattered this

way over the stones and over the tent containing the Ark of

the Covenant! It‘s here, Marillian. I know it‘s here!‘

Marillian found himself agreeing inwardly. Jennings-

Bankhurst was right, he was sure of it, as sure as the old

man was that his life‘s dream was here on the island. It was

a shame; Marillian had come to like the archaeologist; more

than that, to respect his unswerving diligence in rooting out

his objective from its hiding place in history. It was simply

unfortunate for Jennings-Bankhurst that the Ark was not

something his Chapter wanted to be found.

At Jennings-Bankhurst‘s excited words, the figure they

were watching set down his bowl and turned to face them,

sweeping aside his cowl in a single gesture with damp

fingers. The face that greeted them was ageless despite

being wrinkled, scarred and bleached by exposure to the sun

and the elements. Twin bunches of short, translucent

tentacles writhed like anemones where his eyes should have

been. They changed colour in the sunlight as he looked at

Marillian. Straight at him.

As if it were a signal, Yariam copied the gesture, revealing

his own, much younger face, containing similar tentacles.

The figure spoke, his voice deep, almost sepulchral.

Ondemwu said, ‗The Abbot Menghist Fisseha greets us.‘

‗Ask him. About the Ark. Ask him if it is here. Ask him if

we can see it.‘ Jennings-Bankhurst‘s voice was an eager blur

of words.

Ondemwu spoke to the Abbot in rapid Amharic. Then the

Abbot turned to Jennings-Bankhurst and held out his hand.

The skin colour shifted much the same as did the tentacles

at his eye-sockets. Closer inspection showed the skin to

be covered with a thin layer of hair-fine cilia. Jennings-

Bankhurst stepped forward, hand extended to clasp that of

the monk who, surprisingly, made no matching move.

The expedition leader looked in puzzlement at Ondemwu,

who said, ‗It is not a greeting. He wants money. As much as

you can afford, I suspect.‘

The Abbot claimed money for candles, incense, tools, insect

repellent and electronic components to repair a solar-power

array whose main dish had been damaged during a recent

storm.

Marillian stopped Jennings-Bankhurst as he prepared to

negotiate a fee for the story of the Ark. ‗They are old men,

Henry. Hybrids. Who knows what damage has been done to

their minds already. How do we know that they will speak

the truth?‘

The expedition leader impatiently shrugged off the younger

man‘s concern. ‗You saw as well as I the Abbot‘s actions at

the altar stones. In the Mishna there is also a record of a

similar ceremony. In the tractate known as Yoma there are

detailed descriptions of the sacrificial rituals carried out by

the High Priest within Solomon‘s Temple in front of the cur-

tain that shielded the Ark of the Covenant from the gaze of

the laity.‘

Marillian watched as Jennings-Bankhurst transferred a

large sum from his own account to the Abbot‘s credit-chip.

The Abbot shook his head, uttered a complex mouthful of

Amharic. Ondemwu said, ‗I suggest you pay him more.‘

Another sum changed accounts; another shake of the head,

together with a single word in Amharic, which Ondemwu

had no need to translate.

More.

Jennings-Bankhurst sighed, detached his credit-chip and

handed it to the Abbot who, after checking the account

rating, smiled for the first time, revealing that his yellowed

teeth all pointed in different directions, as if trying

desperately to escape his cavernous mouth. The smile added

nothing to the wrinkled ageless quality of his face; if

anything Marillian felt it imbued the man with an even more

surreal, almost sinister, quality.

The Abbot nodded, his tentacles swaying gently in the

wind blowing across the cliff. Behind him, a bright flash of

colour against the white sky, a kingfisher folded its wings

and dropped silently towards the water. Seeing this, Marillian

wondered how long it would be before he would have to kill

someone.

The Abbot spoke. Ondemwu said, ‗The Abbot invites you

to the church.‘

The Abbot directed the expedition members to precede him

to a room which served from appearances as a kitchen.

Blackened pots and pans were distributed unevenly around

the room, together with other implements. The centre was

dominated by a large programmable oven, its controls spat-

tered with grease and dust. The Abbot produced chairs and

the expedition members sat down. Marillian tried not to

wrinkle his nose; the kitchen stank of the preparation of

ancient food.

There, among the paraphernalia of day-to-day living on the

island, Jennings-Bankhurst asked the questions his money

had bought answers to, and listened intently to the answers,

as translated by Ondemwu.

Nearly three thousand years previously the Ark of the

Covenant had vanished from the Temple of Solomon, amidst

a cloud of mystery. Some said the Ark had been looted by

soldiers of warring factions; others claimed the Ark had

simply decided to leave of its own accord, or by the will of

God. Marillian listened as, in sepulchral tones, the Abbot

claimed that Solomon‘s son, the Emperor Menelik I, had

stolen the Ark and brought it out of Israel and into Egypt,

from Jerusalem to Gaza, from there across the Sinai Penin-

sula to Egypt, then up the Nile to Ethiopia, where he had

hidden it on Debra Makeda - or Tana Kirkos as it was now

known.

Jennings-Bankhurst interrupted with another question.

‗According to your dates the Ark was brought here four

centuries before the birth of Christ.‘

‗Yes,‘ Ondemwu answered for the Abbot.

‗You do know that 400 BC was a long time after Solomon‘s

death - five centuries in fact. And yet you claim Menelik was

Solomon‘s son?‘

‗Yes.‘ The word was identical; needed no translation.

‗How do you explain the discrepancy?‘

The Abbot spoke again, this time in broken English. ‗I

explain nothing. I have told you the tradition as it is recorded

in our holy book and in our memory.‘

There was a long silence. ‗May we see this book?‘

‗You may see the book - but not the pages concerning the

Ark. They were removed.‘

‗I don‘t follow.‘

The Abbot sighed and slipped back into Amharic.

Ondemwu said, ‗About five hundred years ago a woman came

to the island asking to see the book. She cut some pages

from the book and took them with her. They were the pages

in which the story of the Ark was told.‘

Jennings-Bankhurst was almost frantic. ‗She took the

pages? Was she Ethiopian? European? Why did she take the

pages?‘

The Abbot spoke. Ondemwu said, ‗She was white. A white

woman. But not from Earth. Nobody knows why she took

the pages.‘

‗But the Ark. That is still here, right? We can see it, can‘t

we?‘

A long silence.

‗I have no more money.‘

The Abbot listened to Ondemwu‘s translation and then

spoke. Ondemwu said, ‗In AD 959 Queen Gudit overthrew

the Solomaic dynasty. Gudit was a devil, burning many

churches in Tigray and other regions of Ethiopia. The

Abbot‘s forefathers were afraid she would capture the Ark, so

they took it from the island.‘

‗Where is it?‘ Jennings-Bankhurst‘s voice held more than

a hint of desperation.

The Abbot spoke; Ondemwu said, ‗The Ark is not here. It

was taken to Axum more than fifteen hundred years ago. If

you seek the Ark you should seek it there.‘ The Abbot spoke

again. ‗The Abbot suggests you contact the Church of St

Mary of Zion, where the main records are kept.‘

Jennings-Bankhurst stood, agitated, practically tearing out

his hair as he paced furiously across the kitchen. ‗No. This

cannot be. Not Axum. Does he know?‘ - this last comment

directed at Ondemwu and Marillian - ‗Does he know about

the infestation? About the sterilization? The Military Red

Cross?‘

The Abbot‘s expression indicated clearly that he did not

understand.

Jennings-Bankhurst took hold of the Abbot and almost

lifted him from his seat. ‗The town is infested with infectious

hybrid bioforms. The Military Red Cross are here to rescue

and purify. They‘re going to nuke Axum the day after

tomorrow! If the Ark is there it will be destroyed, and neither

you nor I nor St Mary of blasted Zion will make any

difference whatsoever!‘

The Abbot struck aside Jennings-Bankhurst‘s clutching

hands and regained his balance. Marillian had no difficulty

interpreting the angry glare even though it came through

organs other than eyes. Neither man was able to sustain that

look for long. The archaeologist was first to drop his eyes in

shame at the way he had treated his host. Marillian hesitated

long enough to see his mentor humbled and then followed

suit. His gaze came down the length of the Abbot‘s face, his

high cheekbones with their writhing shadows, the sharp

nose, the angular jaw and chin... and lower... to the neck...

the chest... to the glint of light there.

Marillian looked closer; he saw a medallion dangling from

a leather string, one disturbed by sudden movement from

its usual position of concealment. The medallion was old

beyond thought, battered, inscribed with a design partly

erased by time, but wholly familiar to Marillian from his

father‘s study in London. It seemed that the past of his

Chapter was catching up with him. The design of the

inscription was of two knights riding a single horse.

The Seal.

The Abbot Menghist Fisseha wore the Seal of the Knights

Templar.

3

ARGINY: 2595

It was at least a hundred kilometres to Arginy. At an average

rate of progress of ten kilometres per day, it was clear the

journey would be a slow one.

The expedition started out in two explorer class land-

rovers, designed and built some years previously by

Françoise for the National Tourist Board Rescue Service.

Sara and Bernice manned the first rover while Marillian

drove the second along with the equipment. The rovers were

not large, for large vehicles would have become tangled

within the first hundred metres of jungle. Instead the rovers

were streamlined, the smooth bodies charged with anti-static

fields which repelled the tangling, sometimes intelligently

motivated undergrowth. There were no wheels; instead the

vehicles hovered on a powerful cushion of air.

Patience opted to run beside the vehicles, moving back and

forth at her own speed, hunting, exploring, gauging,

assessing, sometimes playing with the trash blasted aside by

the vehicles‘ lifters. At least once per day something would

attack her and then the rovers would stop so the crews could

load their next meal into the stasis block. At mealtimes, and

whilst pitching camp at night, Bernice continued to teach

Patience the subtleties of sign language. Patience had picked

up the basics within a few weeks of being decanted in

London, but the more sophisticated gestures were proving a

little difficult to articulate. For her own part, Bernice had

become passingly familiar with a range of barks, whistles,

grunts, hisses and scents, although she was quite unable to

reproduce any of them - at least not and feel like anything

other than a complete idiot.

Patience was proving to be quite fascinating. Only once

before had Bernice encountered dinosauria of terrestrial

origin. There was something about them that was different

from the many other life forms she had encountered on alien

worlds. It was something she couldn‘t quite put her finger on.

A feeling of connection almost, as if... well, as if she had

more in common with this four-hundred-pound bundle of

muscle, claw and brain than she had even with some people.

She wondered whether it was the fact of Patience‘s

intelligence which drew them closer. Maybe the sympathy of

another soul who was essentially little more than a stranger

in a strange land. Then again maybe it was nothing of the

kind - maybe it was sheer scientific fascination. Patience was

the nearest thing anyone would ever see to a real dinosaur.

Here was a chance to see evolution in operation; the laws of

chance and mutation. Did the dinosaurs die out because

they couldn‘t compete with more intelligent creatures? Were

they themselves in fact the more intelligent creatures? How

did they communicate? Build? Run their society? Were they

nomads? Single entities with no social cohesion? Did they

have extended families as had been extensively theorized

about their animal relatives?

So many questions. All she got in answer were barks and

whistles; if she was lucky, the occasional scent.

Sara Beaujeu led the expedition with the skill of a natural-

born explorer. A small woman with a dusting of blonde hair

and Daniel‘s dark green eyes, she was not much given to

smiling. She was deft, decisive and considerably more than

passingly familiar with the terrain and life forms. When the

rovers broke down it was Sara who fixed them, unclogging

the lift filters or using Patience‘s strength to straighten a bent

loudspeaker mounting. It was she who vetted Patience‘s kills

for food value and chose the most appropriate music with

which to beat back the inevitable snakevines. When the

expedition inadvertently strayed into giraffe territory it was

Sara who calmly gunned down the five winged hybrids who

chose to attack. The only real surprise - as far as Bernice was

concerned anyway - was that Sara elected not to wear a hat

or carry a bullwhip.

Nor did her conversation consist of laconic Hollywood

one-liners. In fact she did not speak much beyond issuing

instructions to Bernice or Marillian on a moment-by-moment

basis. In the moments when she thought of it at all, Bernice

could not decide whether Sara was being rude, enigmatic or

simply laying the foundation for a future conversation. It

seemed crazy that after having admitted that she had sent

the Templar journal to Bernice, she now chose to say not just

nothing about it but almost nothing at all.

Bernice wondered briefly on this as she erected the

perimeter sound system around the tents as they set up

camp on the fourth night. She loaded a thrashmetal disc into

the player and tested the motion sensors. Perfect. The chorus

of ‗Rip Yo‘ Head‘ would serve not only as a deterrent to the

vegetation but also as an alarm to match the most strident

security system.

She was about to set the next post when a sound behind

made her turn.

‗I‘m not sure I like your choice in music.‘

Bernice sighed. ‗Marillian. Let‘s hope the weeds agree,

eh?‘

‗When I was a boy, Father fitted the very first sound

system at Kew. The gardeners thought he was balmy; the

palms loved it. Especially classical. They particularly liked

Sibelius‘s Third Symphony. They said it reminded them of

being in a storm.‘

Bernice grinned. ‗The palms said this?‘

‗Yes.‘

‗To your father?‘

‗Oh yes.‘

‗You‘re teasing me.‘

‗Only because I like the way your cheeks dimple when you

smile.‘

‗Oh good. I was starting to think you were going to wax

lyrical about the negative psychology associated with the

confrontational qualities of thrashmetal music as used as a

deterrent.‘

‗Wouldn‘t dream of it.‘

‗Good.‘ An uncomfortable moment came and went. ‗You

want to know about the Masons, don‘t you?‘

Marillian shrugged, turned away to face the jungle

surrounding the clearing in which they were camped. Bernice

followed his gaze, seeing for the first time the way the claret

sunlight lingered on restlessly shifting vegetation, trying not

to react to the various animal cries from the interior - some

of which were too human for comfort. ‗Do you blame me?

It‘s been weeks and you haven‘t said a word.‘

‗Is there any reason I should?‘

‗I would have thought simple gratitude would have-‘

‘I am grateful!’ Bernice caught her breath, allowing her

sudden anger to subside. ‗I‘m sorry. I am. But you should

know that what happened to me back there in Scotland

was...‘ - Something moved at her hands; a hammer blow; a

silent shriek of pain - ‗...intensely...‘ - More blows fell.

Her hands! What were they doing to her - ‗...personal.‘

Marillian waited. Bernice said, ‗I‘m not sure I could talk

about...‘ - the awful violation of freezing metal piercing

her side - ‗...even if I did understand it.‘ A hesitation. ‗I

can‘t even work out if it was real or not. How much of it was

down to the drugs they gave me.‘

‗Benny, those drugs they gave you caused your heart to

stop beating for more than fifty seconds. You‘re lucky to be

alive.‘ Marillian pinched the bridge of his nose. He sighed.

Frustration. Impatience. When he spoke his voice held more

than a little anger. ‗You‘re stupid if you don‘t talk about it.‘

Bernice felt herself responding to his arrogance with anger

of her own. ‗Why don‘t you talk about it? You‘re quick to ask

me what happened but you certainly never explained how

you came to find me there. You never told me anything about

what happened when you rescued me. Did you? How did you

even know I was there? How come you waited so long before

reviving me?‘

‗As if I had a choice. As if I stood there thinking, ―Oh well,

I suppose she‘s been dead long enough - I‘ll just zap her

with some adrenaline and atropine and perform open heart

massage if required?‖‘ Marillian looked at the branches of a

nearby tree. Several monkey skeletons were clutched in its

curling tentacles. After a few minutes it was clear he was not

going to provide her with a more precise response.

‗You see? How can I be honest with you if you won‘t be

honest with me?‘

‗There are things... there are things it‘s dangerous to

know.‘

‗Oh crap! Now you sound like Zayad in Egypt - and you

shot him!‘

Marillian‘s face twisted, as if with a painful memory. ‗You

have to tell me what you saw at the initiation ceremony.‘

Another hesitation, then, more calmly, ‗You know it‘s always

for the best to talk about these things. About things that

scare us.‘

‗And I will.‘ Take a breath. Hold it. Try to erase the vision

of yourself being crucified; try to forget everything you said,

everything they told you, everything you know. Try to forget

your fear of the truth, or even your fear of dying. ‗But I‘ll do

it in my own time, OK?‘

‗But I‘m not sure that you-‘

‘And I’m not sure it’s your place to be sure about anything

to do with me!’

The expression on his face was absolutely indecipherable.

‗I‘m only asking because I-‘

‗Don‘t say it. I married you because an absurd law denied

me an alternative. But don‘t think that because I obeyed that

law I subscribe to it.‘ Bernice tried to catch her breath, failed,

then said, ‗And don‘t for one minute make any assumptions

about my feelings for you because you‘ll only hurt yourself if

you do.‘

Marillian was silent.

Bernice bit her lip until she tasted blood.

Of course I don’t love you, don’t ask me for that. We hardly

know each other. You ‘re interesting. I like you. I don’t know

what might happen between us. But don’t push it or you’ll

push me away. Just wait. Be patient. Take me on my own

terms. Do that and... who knows? Maybe it will grow into

the love you want.

Bernice found she was crying; she angrily wiped her face

on her sleeve. She turned. ‗Look. I have to place the last

sensor post. We can talk about this some other...‘ She

stopped. He was already gone. No - not gone... fallen.

He had fallen over. Why -

Bernice felt something pluck at her neck. Insect-hybrids?

The motion sensors should have... She swayed dizzily, felt

a sudden rush of heat through her body, and lifted her hand

to her neck. The heat turned to cold, freezing cold. Her throat

hurt, she couldn‘t swallow. She managed to lift the thing she

plucked from her neck into view. Her arm seemed a long way

away. She struggled to draw breath. She struggled to bring

her hand closer so she could see... that the... thing she held

was black; a fluff of wings, the needle-shard of... of... no...

not wings... too fluffy... not an insect... a...

Dart

it was a

dart someone had

shot her with a

4

ETHIOPIA: 2575

In Axum the people were rooted in the soil, growing upwards

exultantly towards the merciless sun. They did not grow

silently. Marillian heard the sound from a distance of nearly

a kilometre, a breathless mixture of moans and mutterings

blended by distance and the wind echoing playfully from

canyon walls. They sounded like excited children playing in

distant rooms of an old empty house. It was unnerving, to

say the least.

Jennings-Bankhurst had spent almost the entire twenty

hours since their return from Lake Tana on a satellite uplink

to the Minister for the Interior and, with the aid of polite

anger and tactical blackmail information supplied by his own

sources, had finally managed to secure a permit to spend

six hours immediately prior to the final sterilization within

the city limits. Jennings-Bankhurst was overjoyed when the

appropriate passes, permissions and visas were downloaded

into his palmtop. What he did not realize, however, was that

in practical terms all this documentation actually amounted

to was permission to find a border guard who would accept a

bribe and allow them to borrow his hover-jeep.

Fortunately - or perhaps unfortunately - credit was not a

problem for Jennings-Bankhurst.

Now the hover-jeep in question was parked a kilometre

from the town centre, while Jennings-Bankhurst, Marillian

and Ondemwu sprayed themselves with aerosol prophylactic

to provide limited resistance to any airborne infections. That

done, the journey continued.

As they approached the town Jennings-Bankhurst was

silent, overwhelmed perhaps by the enormity of the changes

wrought here by the war. It was one thing to read about

them, or see simularities in a museum; it was another thing

entirely to move among those changes, to gain intimate

knowledge of how they affected real, living things.

The noise from the people-trees was overwhelming, not

because of its volume or its pain - there was no recognizable

emotional content, nor words for that matter - but simply

because the sound was made up of a chorus of wind-blown

human voices, uttering continuous noise, articulating what

little human feeling remained as a coda to the symphony: the

expression of feelings and emotions no human being had

ever experienced before.

‗Is that all they do?‘ Marillian found himself whispering.

‗Just... whisper and mutter like that? Nothing else?‘

Ondemwu nodded sagely. ‗They are trees more than

people now. Alien more than human. What should you

expect?‘

Marillian drove on in silence.

The people-trees grew denser as they approached the town

centre. As yet few of them were burning.

The Church of St Mary of Zion comprised two and a half

buildings in a city which - architecturally at least - had

changed little over the last five hundred years. In fact there

were two and a half churches. Both intact buildings were old

though one clearly much older. The more recent building,

which had a domed roof and a bell tower in the shape of an

obelisk, topped now by an uplink transmitter, had been built

by Haile Selassie more than five hundred years before. The

other, a rectangular building of dressed stone with castle-

like crenellations and turrets, dated back to the mid seven-

teenth century and was the work of Emperor Fasilidas. The

church seemed almost to symbolize Ethiopia, embodying as

it did the blurred distinctions between the military and the

clergy. Marillian studied the building, backed by the sighing

branches of the people-trees, and wondered aloud at the

apparent coincidence of repeated history. He allowed his

gaze to move across to the nearby ruins, which in effect were

little more than deeply entrenched foundations. Consulting

his palmtop, Marillian found these were the remains of the

original Church of St Mary of Zion, built in the fourth

century AD at the time of the conversion of the Axumite

kingdom to Christianity and burnt to the ground in 1535 by

the Muslim invader Ahmed Gragn, whose forces were at

the time threatening the complete extinction of Ethiopian

Christendom.

By this time, afternoon was wearing on into evening. It

was growing dark and a chill was spreading across the

highlands. Beyond the church Axum spread out in whisper-

ing stillness; a quiet infested only by the sharp demands of

the Red Cross Military as they worked methodically from

building to building, tree to tree, trying to ascertain whether

any part of the population was capable of determining the

manner of their own death. To give the Red Cross their due

they were at least trying to find out if anyone could be saved.

From the tone of their voices and radio messages they

weren‘t optimistic.

Marillian looked round as shuffling footsteps sounded. A

figure approached. A monk. He was stooped, leaning on a

prayer stick and he shuffled forward out of the shadows

of the church. He spoke in Tigrigna, the local language.

Ondemwu translated. ‗He asks if you have come to join the

congregation.‘

‗The congregation?‘ Marillian peered closer. The monk

had stopped a short distance away and was leaning heavily

on his prayer stick. There was something peculiar about his

body, the way he stood, a hunched back perhaps, or... no...

Marillian saw that what he had assumed to be a prayer

stick was in fact the monk‘s arm.

Ondemwu said, ‗The least sick are inside the church. He

says they are there for protection.‘

‗From the Red Cross?‘

‗Yes.‘

Marillian said, ‗Surely he must know there is no protection

from the Red Cross.‘

The monk inched forward another step as Ondemwu

translated. Now Marillian could make out that his body was

warped in peculiar ways beneath his habit. The monk spoke.

Ondemwu said, ‗He observes you are not locals and asks

from where you come. Are you Christian? Why are you

here?‘

‗We‘re not from the Military. We‘re here to...‘ Marillian

hesitated. To help? That was laughable. ‗Ask him how his

people will be protected.‘

‗By the Will and Word of God.‘

Marillian listened to the translation and frowned. ‗Prayers

will not save you from napalm and atomics.‘

The monk tipped his head to one side and Marillian could

see that a spray of bark was forming across his face beneath

the hood, in which eyes moved with lively intelligence.

He reached out with one hand, moving suddenly to grasp

Marillian‘s. His fingers were strong, the skin coarse and dry

like wrinkled paper. The eyes sparkled in the sunset. He

spoke; Ondemwu said, ‗The people under my care will be

protected by the Will and the Word of God.‘

Jennings-Bankhurst now approached. Marillian could

sense a familiar excitement emanating from him, an

undeniable force. ‗I have heard the Ark of the Covenant is

kept here. I have heard you are its guardian and protector. I

have heard this from the Abbot Menghist Fisseha on Tana

Kirkos.‘

Ondemwu translated. In reply the monk let go of Marillian‘s

hand. ‗The Light will come. Tana Kirkos will be gone. Axum

will be gone. The Simien Mountains will be gone. Only the

people will survive, protected by the Word of God.‘ Jennings-

Bankhurst began to speak again but the monk was already

talking. Ondemwu said, ‗These things are true.‘

Jennings-Bankhurst said softly, ‗People in other countries

say they are lies.‘

‗People may say what they wish. The truth will not change

for them.‘

‗Then it is here. The Ark.‘

‗It is.‘

‗And that is what will protect your people from the Red

Cross, the atomics?‘

‗It is.‘

‗May we see it?‘

‗No.‘

‗Why not?‘

‗Because you are impure.‘

‗If we purify ourselves?‘

‗No.‘

‗Why not?‘ This time Jennings-Bankhurst‘s voice was a

shout.

‗Because there is turmoil in the land. The conflict comes

closer every day. And even in times of peace you would not

be able to see it. It is my responsibility to wrap it entirely in

thick cloths at all times.‘

‗Why?‘

It was a simple enough question; the answer was dumb-

founding. ‗To protect the people from sight of it.‘

There was a long silence, during which the sun slipped

below the horizon. The sky above was clear and bright with

stars. The monk spoke; Ondemwu said, ‗If you wish to be

purified then you too may be protected by the Ark. Do you

wish it?‘

Ondemwu hesitated. Jennings-Bankhurst did not: ‗We do.‘

‗All of you?‘

‗All of us.‘

‗Then enter.‘

The monk turned and limped heavily towards the church.

5

ARGINY: 2595

Bernice lay near death and watched events unfold with

perfect clarity. She didn‘t feel drugged. She didn‘t feel like

she was dying. But she couldn‘t move. Sooner or later the

paralysis would close about her chest and then she would

simply stop breathing. And die.

She waited for panic. It did not come. Was that due to the

drug? A side effect designed to quell any last minute flight-

or-fight responses which might have saved her? Maybe;

unlikely though: she was still cogent enough to ask

questions, even if she was unable to articulate them.

All she could do now was think - and watch.

Perhaps it was her misfortune that she couldn‘t move her

eyes or close them. She had to watch it all.

The first thing that happened was that she fell; her line of

sight took in the camp and part of the perimeter - it was only

partly obscured by Marillian‘s arm. The camp was motion-

less. Sara slumped half in and half out of the nearest rover.

Patience was also present, kicking feebly beside the second

rover. Bernice became aware that parts of the scene were

blurred. The parts nearest to her. Marillian‘s arm was a dark

blur before her. Bernice realized why. She had been looking

at Sara and Patience - and just as she was unable to move

her eyes she was now equally unable to change focus. That

was unfortunate because something was moving along the

ground at the very edge of her vision. Something that

undulated with infinite patience across the ground towards

her face. A tiger-willow root? A snakevine?

At the same moment the perimeter alarms cut in and

thrashmetal blasted out into the jungle. Bernice jumped - or

rather wanted to jump; her body remained unmoving.

A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. Something

poked her leg, hard enough for her to cry out. She didn‘t of

course.

The shadow stepped over her, and turned into a pair of

legs. Two more pairs joined the first. Men. Two of them. And

a woman. She couldn‘t see or focus on them this close. They

moved warily towards the rovers. Sara was still motionless.

Patience had stopped kicking now.

One of the figures took a blowpipe from a pocket and blew

another dart into the raptor‘s flank. Patience didn‘t move.

Bernice heard words echoing as if from a long distance

through muddy water. She couldn‘t make them out. Maybe it

was laughter.

The creeping blur had moved even closer to her face. She

thought she could detect the movement of... fingers? Root-

lets? Cilia? She shuddered; but remained perfectly

motionless.

One of the figures stood over Marillian, another stood

beside Sara. Both drew knives.

Murderers.

But why weren‘t they going to kill her?

Maybe they were. Maybe there was someone standing

over her even now, out of her line of sight, with a knife,

waiting for the order to open her throat. Maybe they were

waiting for the drugs to finish the job. Maybe they wanted

her alive. Maybe -

A blur of motion, feathers bright on jungle dark.

Patience.

Shout of alarm, stilled by the sound of splitting flesh.

The killer standing beside Sara fell, mouth and stomach

gaping. The undergrowth moved closer interestedly.

Screams. Claws. Teeth. Screams.

The second figure, the one beside Marillian, had time to

straighten, to pull a gun, to fire one wild shot. The gun-arm

fell close to Bernice, forearm severed at the elbow, trailing

blood and strips of muscle, finger still convulsively jerking at

the trigger, pumping rounds wildly into the jungle until the

gun clicked empty.

Now there was movement near by. She felt someone grab

her hair, jerk her head upwards. Cold steel touched her neck.

More movement, too fast and close for her to follow.

Another scream. Something fell across Marillian. Her face

slammed back into the ground. A handspan from the

creeping shadow which had been stalking her. The shadow

reared; she saw blotches of darkness which might have been

open mouths. Then a clawed foot stamped hard in front of

her, grinding - whatever it was - into the ground before lifting

and throwing it away.

Bernice found she was terrified. She tried to gasp. Nothing.

Now her breath was coming in short gasps. Her chest felt

curiously numb. The paralysis had reached her lungs. It

would be a matter of moments now, and then, despite

Patience‘s actions, she would die.

She waited. Her view had changed now. She could see less.

She felt claws at her body, turning her, positioning her so she

could see. Patience growled and signed to her. Poison. How

mend?

Bernice stared straight ahead at the nearest of the

attackers. He was wearing a pouch. Perhaps there was

antitoxin in it. She tried to move, to nod or blink - nothing.

Total paralysis.

Patience was growling even louder now, a sound Bernice

could hear above the thrashmetal perimeter defence. The

raptor stalked the clearing, back and forth, poking Bernice,

Sara, Marillian. Nothing. No response from any of them.

What was she to do?

Poison. How mend? Poison! How mend?

Patience stopped. One of the killers was alive. Patience

bent slowly over the woman. Bernice could see the raptor‘s

breath ruffling the woman‘s hair. Patience opened her mouth.

The woman saw the teeth and moaned; she struggled to push

herself away. Her arm was shredded and she fell to the

ground. Patience leant even closer, her clawed feet upon the

woman‘s chest and stomach, instinctively moving to the

place of maximum vulnerability. Bernice tried to close her

eyes. No luck. The raptor was gearing herself to disembowel

the woman.

The claws flexed. The woman screamed. The teeth snapped

shut -

- and Patience stepped delicately away, leaving the woman

still alive.

Patience waited, head cocked, studying the fallen human,

then lowered her head and nudged something on the ground

near by. The blowpipe. Patience had found the -

Then the raptor was moving again, plucking one of the

darts from her own flank with clawed digits, clumsily holding

the dart towards the woman, then plunging it into her

shoulder. The woman screamed again and tried to move, her

struggles noticeably weaker this time. Patience stood back

and waited, head cocked, crest-feathers fluffed with

anticipation. The woman moaned and yanked the dart from

her shoulder; she held it up so she could see the poison still

smearing its tip. She slumped back on to the ground.

Patience studied her for a moment longer, then bit through

the pouch strap on the dead killer and nudged the pouch

towards the woman. The woman grabbed at the pouch,

opened it one-handed, and clumsily extracted a loaded

syringe.

Antitoxin.

Patience watched as the woman injected herself. Then she

stepped closer, took the syringe away from the woman and

managed to stick it clumsily into Bernice‘s leg.

Two hours later she managed to sit up; she was ravenous,

thirsty, her body aching from the effects of the toxin.

Marillian was already standing, Sara beginning to stir.

Bodymass made a difference sometimes, it seemed. The killer

was still alive, though delirious from the wounds Patience

inflicted. Patience was prowling the perimeter.

Marillian fished in the rover for a bottle of water and they

drank, then moved Sara into a more comfortable position

so that she could recover properly. Then, waving aside

Marillian‘s questions, Bernice crouched clumsily beside the

killer.

‗Why?‘

‗To... protect...‘ The woman‘s voice was a whisper. She

had lost so much blood it was hard to see how she could still

be alive. ‗To... protect... eternity…‘

‗From who? From us? Are you Templars? Are you here

with bloody Newton and Kepler? Tell me!‘

The woman reached feebly towards her neck. Bernice saw

a glint of metal there, a medallion, a familiar seal. She had

taken one similar from Zayad when he tried to kill her in

Cairo. ‗You... are... eternity

It was as much as Bernice could do not to shake the

woman in sheer frustration. ‗No! You don‘t understand! I-‘

‗...protect... from... GebMoses... and-‘ The woman

suddenly jerked. ‗No. Not him! Not -!‘ The woman slumped

in death, her eyes wide open. A blurred patch was reflected in

them, a shape which moved, which came closer as Bernice

turned.

‗What did she mean, ―You are eternity‖?‘ said Marillian.

His voice was hard, gravelly, a by-product of the toxin, his

face frozen at the sound of the woman‘s dying words.

Bernice shook her head.

‗You don‘t know or you won‘t tell me?‘

‗You‘re raking over old coals.‘ Bernice gently laid the

woman to rest. ‗We‘d better bury them, don‘t you think?‘

They buried the bodies of their attackers - the parts Patience

did not breakfast upon - and drove on. Nobody showed the

slightest inclination to discuss the incident. Marillian clearly

did not approve of Bernice‘s continued silence, while Sara

simply shrugged the attack aside as if it were no more or less

than any other surprise the jungle had thrown at them. In a

way she was right. Bernice too, tried to put the incident from

her mind, though with less success.

During the afternoon of the sixth day of their journey the

rovers were attacked by a tiger-willow, a rogue whose blasted

limbs indicated that it had been struck by lightning

sometime in the past decade, and which was now merely

enraged rather than frightened off by their audio defences.

Sara got enough warning to burn some of the vines; Patience

made a meal of the creature‘s brainroots. Patience was sick

for the whole of the following day but the tiger-willow finally

took the hint and ambled erratically back into the jungle. The

downside to this attack was that rover two blew a fan when

the intake was invaded by the tiger-willow‘s vines. The rover

sank two metres into a bog and they were unable to drag it

free. Sara marked the machine with an ownership buoy and

sealed it. They moved on, what supplies they could retrieve

crammed into the first rover and everyone taking turns to

walk.

A week passed without further serious incident. On the

evening of the eleventh day of their journey they made camp

amidst fog and heavy rain. Bernice and Marillian slept

fitfully in the rover, Sara and Patience prowled the campsite.

Since the attack Sara had been spending more and more

time with the raptor, studying her, learning the sign language

which the raptor was by now almost fluent in. Bernice

detected a closeness between them, a meeting of, if not

minds, then at the very least experiences. She wondered

briefly at this, prepared to push any mission-complicating

feelings aside, only to find to her surprise that she actually

had no opinion.

That night Marillian sat hunched in the driver‘s seat for

two hours, fidgeting and mumbling in his sleep, before

finally getting up and leaving the rover. Bernice sighed. She

hadn‘t slept properly for more than a week. God only knew

when they would reach the castle. Sara‘s GPS fix on the

geographical location depended solely on the fickle weather

- none too good at present - and what little sleep she had

managed to get was invariably plagued by dreams that after-

wards she had trouble remembering.

The door of the rover irised to allow someone to enter.

Bernice recognized the confident movements immediately.

Sara. Great. So much for another good night’s sleep.

Sara got into the driver‘s seat, stripped off her wet poncho

and shoved it into a plastic sack. She shivered, turned the

heating up and blasted the driver‘s compartment with hot

air. In the back seat, Bernice sighed and rolled over, trying to

ignore the stream of air and get back to sleep. No luck. Well,

that was a surprise.

‗Too hot for you?‘ Sara‘s voice was quiet. Bernice could

detect the stress in it. The journey was taking its toll of

everyone.

‗I‘ve been in worse situations.‘

‗I meant the heater.‘

‗Oh. Yeah. A bit.‘

A click; the stream of hot air dissipated, leaving her

deliciously warm. Beats a mutant sea-lion any day.

‗What?‘ Sara again. She must have spoken out loud.

‗Nothing.‘

‗Oh.‘

Another silence - just the thud of raindrops the size of golf

balls dancing a samba on the rover‘s canopy.

‗Bernice?‘

‗Yes.‘

‗Is there anything you want to say to me?‘

Bernice sighed and struggled into a sitting position. ‗You‘re

very direct.‘

‗I‘m like Mother in that way.‘

‗Life‘s too short to mess about with tactful fripperies.‘ It

was a push; Sara did not bite.

‗Basically.‘

Bernice drew her blanket more tightly around her

shoulders. ‗So. Care to tell me what it is you want me to say

to you? Only, you know, then I can say it and we can both

get some sleep.‘

‗You‘re married.‘

‗Yes.‘

‗Tell me about Marillian.‘

‗What do you want to know? He‘s a bloke. They follow

trends. Certain... characteristics. You know.‘

‗Like Daniel?‘

Bernice hesitated. ‗Yes.‘ She waited. Sara said nothing.

‗Like Daniel.‘ She waited again; again nothing. ‗Look, what

do you want me to say? I loved Daniel? I only married

Marillian for his museum pass? Both of those things are

true. Neither of them really has anything to do with you. And

in any case I can‘t do anything about them now, can I?‘

Nothing from Sara. I should shut up now and try to sleep.

‗Why did you send me the Templar journal?‘

Sara put her hands on the steering wheel and joggled it

absently. Bernice heard fans knocking in the drive system

beneath the seats.

‗You wanted to be direct. You wanted to talk. Let‘s talk.‘

A push, and this time Sara responded. She lifted her hands

to her face, and rubbed tears from her eyes.

Bernice blinked, feeling her own eyes sting; she held back

the tears with an effort. She licked her lips, lifted her hand to

Sara‘s shoulder, aborted the movement before making con-

tact. The arm fell back to her side.

Rain drummed on the roof.

Bernice took the Templar journal from her rucksack and

placed it on the front seat beside Sara. She tried to imagine

what she was thinking, what she was feeling.

Impossible.

‗I‘ve tried to remember what it was like,‘ she said

eventually. ‗When I lost him. Hearing him cry out as he was

carried off into the dark. I-‘ Her voice caught for a second,

then she said, ‗To tell you the truth I... I‘m finding this whole

journey difficult. Not because of how clear the memories are

but... because of how easily they fade.‘

Sara burst into tears. She reached down, grabbed the

journal, and flung it at Bernice. ‗Don‘t you think I don‘t

know? Are you really that stupid? That‘s why I sent the

journal to you. I wanted to forget. To move on. But you came

back! You were stupid and you came back, and now both of

us have got to go through it all over again!‘

Bernice felt her face burn with shame and embarrassment.

It was true. Oh God, it was true. How could she have been so

stupid? She tried to think of something to say; there was

nothing. No words. She wasn‘t even sure what she felt any

more; a terrible mixture of relief and hatred and anger,

something she was unable even to name, let alone under-

stand.

She drew the blanket more tightly around herself, feeling

she might go mad without its scratchy solidity bound tightly

around her. In the front seat, Sara hugged herself and cried

openly.

Neither woman moved until dawn, when the sun rose and

the fog burnt off to reveal Castle Arginy looming above the

tree-line like a circle of broken teeth bared in a sinister grin,

upturned to catch the driving rain which poured

continuously into its stone-shrouded throat; a puppet master

who had played them both for twenty years and who now

waited patiently for the final act to be played out among its

elusive secrets.

6

ETHIOPIA: 2575

The interior of the Church of St Mary of Zion resembled a

cross between a refugee camp and a greenhouse. There were

people - lots of people; some with children, some alone, but

all changing, slowly, into forms which were disturbing as

much for their familiarity as for their alien qualities. The

noise was disturbing too - even frightening. Marillian heard

people crying, praying, begging the Lord to spare them

punishment for a sin they did not know they had committed.

Unlike the people-trees beyond the church, these people had

not completed transformation and were clearly terrified of

what was happening to them. The monk - whose name they

still did not know - limped awkwardly among the

congregation, touching his one good hand to the heads of

crying children, comforting the adults where he was able.

Candles - hundreds of candles lit the interior of the church.

The light painted an image of warmth, but brought little

comfort to the congregation.

‗Whatever we‘re going to do here, we‘d better do it fast,‘

was Marillian‘s spoken thought. Ignoring his companion,

Jennings-Bankhurst began to ease his way through the

congregation towards the monk, now almost out of sight in

the candlelit interior of the church. Marillian stopped him

with a hand on the older man‘s arm. ‗The prophylactics have

a limited life span. Another hour, no more. If we enter the

church we may be open to infection. In any case we do not

have much time. According to my uplink the atomics are

being placed now. Detonation is set for five a.m. tomorrow

morning, local time.‘

Jennings-Bankhurst turned, his face shining. ‗The Ark is a

holy relic, the Word of God. It‘s supposed to be able to inflict

cancer, level mountains, stop rivers, lay waste to cities. But it

is more than that. Much more. We‘re talking about the

cornerstone of the Jewish faith. The most important religious

icon in history. The Ark is that which implements history.

History. God. Who is to say that they are not the same thing?

If the Ark is there we will know, once and for all, do you

see?‘

Marillian almost gasped with the simplicity of his sudden

realization. ‗You‘re going to stay.‘

‗How else to test the faith of the laity?‘

‗We‘re talking about atomics!‘

‗Your father would understand. What a pity you do not.‘

Jennings-Bankhurst stepped away from Marillian and

continued towards the church.

‗Wait.‘ Marillian glanced at Ondemwu, then both followed,

pushing more urgently between people who seemed unable to

accommodate their movements. ‗Henry, wait!‘

The older man turned, an arm‘s length from the monk.

‗You do not need to stay here. You should go.‘

‗I can‘t leave you here. You do not believe.‘

‗That‘s not the issue. I will be purified. I will see the glory

of the Ark and hear the Word of the Lord with my own eyes

and ears.‘

‗They won‘t be your eyes and ears if you‘re infected. You

won‘t see or hear anything - as a human being anyway.‘

Jennings-Bankhurst smiled, the old, tired smile of one who

has travelled long and who believes the end of his journey is

in sight. ‗You really should go now. You won‘t like it here

when the prophylactics wear off.‘

‗Come with us.‘

‗I don‘t think so.‘ The old man sighed; a deep breath of

candle-scented air held and expelled wearily, but also with

some joy. ‗You see, I find I am compelled to stay.‘

‗By what? Belief in a religion whose Bible has the laity

responsible for the death of the Son of their God?‘

‗That was a popular theory centuries ago. Things change.‘

‗How?‘

Jennings-Bankhurst smiled again. ‗The Timkat ritual takes

place every year. We know that. A wooden replica of the Ark

- a tabot - is displayed in the streets for the laity, to confirm

their faith and purge their sins, albeit symbolically. There

have been expeditions all over the world for centuries trying

to find the Ark. Even Adolf Hitler. All these years it has been

hidden in plain view of anyone who cared to look. Every

church under the sun has its own tabot, its own replica. Who

could have guessed that this one was the real Ark? Who but

us?‘

Marillian was on the point of responding when, from

beyond the church, came a terrifying sound - the whispered

chorus from the people-trees had risen to a choir of screams.

The congregation became even more nervous, sighing un-

easily, some bursting into tears. Monks moved among them,

offering comfort in the form of communion bread and sips of

wine.

‗They‘re burning the trees.‘

‗Why?‘

‗To protect the atomics? I don‘t-‘

Another blast of noise had the nearby congregation on

their feet. A child ran screaming for his mother, an adult

moved, knocking another; a wave of motion which had seven

people on the ground, including Jennings-Bankhurst. By the

time nearby people had pulled the old man to his feet the

damage was done - the left side of his face was bruised

beneath the protective film and his hand was bleeding, the

prophylactic seal there broken. Jennings-Bankhurst stared

at his hand wonderingly, then looked up at Marillian. He did

not speak.

Marillian sprayed the last of the prophylactic over the old

man‘s hand. ‗We have to go. Now.‘ His voice was terse,

brooking no argument.

‗The Ark-‘

‗-will rest in eternity, as it was always meant to.‘

‗No! It was not made only to be lost forever in man‘s

fire.‘

‗I‘m not arguing.‘ Marillian grabbed Jennings-Bankhurst

and tried to pull him back through the congregation towards

the entrance to the church. The old man was much stronger

than he looked, and the pressure of people all around pre-

vented movement.

Jennings-Bankhurst cried out suddenly, wrenching his

arm from Marillian‘s grip, and held it before him. Marillian

could see the skin discolouring beneath the prophylactic

shield. Infection had set in. Marillian saw a moment of pain

in the old man‘s eyes; then he turned and was forcing his

way through the people towards the monk.

From outside the sound of burning and the screams of the

people-trees were growing louder. Orange light beat at the

windows of the church. Marillian smelt smoke. The people

were openly panic-stricken now; it was as much as the

monks could do to calm them. There came the sound of

smashing wood. Someone had overturned one of the pews.

Marillian turned to Ondemwu. ‗Get out. Get the hover-

jeep, bring it as close to the entrance as you can. Then stay

with it as long as you can.‘

Ondemwu nodded slowly. ‗And if you do not come?‘

Marillian did not reply. Ondemwu turned without another

word and began to force his way back through the crowd

towards the entrance. Marillian turned to follow Jennings-

Bankhurst and the monk. He found them near the altar.

Jennings-Bankhurst was on his knees, head bowed while the

monk dabbed holy water on his brow. The monk finished the

ceremony quickly. As Marillian approached the old man

stood. Both looked at Marillian.

The monk spoke; Marillian did not understand the words

but the intent was clear. Was Marillian offering himself for

purification? Seeing no alternative Marillian knelt before the

altar. Outside the church came the sound of an explosion. A

lorry? A house? How much ground needed to be cleared to

place a few suitcase-sized bombs? Had it got out of control?

What if it had? Would the soldiers care?

Marillian felt a hand lifting him to his feet; the ceremony

was over.

Jennings-Bankhurst was smiling broadly at him; the skin

of his hand now resembled bark more than human flesh.

Marillian felt a scream building inside his head. How long

before his own protection failed and he too became infected?

How long before the fire reached the church and everyone

burnt to death?

The monk turned to the altar, to a bulky shape there, and

began to peel away layers of cloth. As he did this he spoke to

the congregation, who became instantly silent. Suddenly the

church was filled only with the sound of whispered breathing

and the voice of the monk, rolling solemnly among the

people. Even the crying children seemed to draw enough

comfort from the voice to be still.

The monk unwrapped the final layers of cloth. His voice

reached a crescendo. The people began to pray. Jennings-

Bankhurst stared, transfixed as the last layer of cloth was

peeled away.

Marillian remembered the monk‘s words: ‗―to protect the

laity from the gaze of the Ark…‖‘

And there it was, an arm‘s length from him: the most

potent symbol of the Christian world.

A wooden box, lacquered, lidded; blackened by time and

worn by generations of worshipping hands.

The Ark.

The Symbol of God.

Marillian waited. He waited for the miracle. He waited for

the Word of God.

The wall of the church shook, then burst apart; burning

timber rained upon the congregation.

Soldiers stood in the gap, Red Cross insignia glowing

upon their helmets, flamethrowers levelled at the interior of

the church.

The monk threw up his hands - one human and the other

transformed - and his voice thundered above the flames. The

congregation were utterly silent. The soldiers moved closer.

Jennings-Bankhurst swivelled his head from the monk to the

Ark, to the congregation, to the soldiers, a jerky dance of

sudden indecision. The soldiers came closer. The monk

prayed louder. Now the congregation joined in, a hymn that

reached into Marillian‘s ear and squeezed even as it pushed

back the flames for a few seconds longer.

The monk stepped towards the soldiers. His voice carried

even above the song of the congregation. Was he offering

them salvation? Absolution? Or telling them to get the hell

off God‘s doorstep while the Miracle happened?

It didn‘t make any difference to the soldiers; they had their

own ideas about purifaction.

Flame burst from the blackened nozzles of over-used

weapons, engulfing the nearest members of the congregation,

engulfing the monk; the church was suddenly alive with

capering demons of flame, screaming incendiary supplicants;

the Miracle of God was nothing more than death.

Marillian turned quickly back to the altar - then stopped in

amazement.

The Ark was -

- was -

It was gone.

Jennings-Bankhurst was running with it towards the rear

of the church.

7

ARGINY: 2595

Bernice listened to the rain thunder along the passages

beneath the castle as she moved with Patience into the dark,

stone-tunnelled labyrinth. Marillian and Sara had stayed

with the rover. Each had their reasons; Bernice hadn‘t asked

what they were. Instead she had packed a rucksack with

useful items, including the journal and a fresh can of aerosol

prophylactic, and then, together with Patience, she had

climbed across the crumbling castle walls and into the

courtyard.

The ground was overgrown; centuries of growth slick with

rain, the ground turning to mud and full of time-slashed

stone blocks that waited to turn the ankles of the unwary.

Trees pushed out of the walls, splitting them until little

remained except piles of rubble. The inner courtyard was

little better: more walls were intact, though the roofs had

collapsed where the stables and soldiers‘ quarters had been.

The main castle building was still intact, the single

crenellated tower defiantly reaching up towards the beaten-

metal sky. Windows were dark slits blurred with foliage.

Bernice heard eerie movement where once soldiers had

loosed arrows. Birds? Snakevines? Vines eating birds? It

didn‘t matter. She had to go in. She had to retread the road

that had brought her here so long ago. The road to Daniel.

The road to the Finger of John the Baptist. The Templar

treasure upon which the past and the future now rested.

If she were to believe what the Masons had told her.

The route into the castle interior had not changed, though

there was twenty years‘ more rubble to negotiate before

gaining the stairs which led down to the dungeon levels. She

moved warily from hall to hall, passage to passage, careful to

avoid loose blocks of stone. Patience moved quickly but no

less carefully, picking her way in a series of inquisitive

movements from one point of interest to the next, her snout

and feathered crest quivering as she examined everything

from torch holders rusting in the walls to the rotted remains

of furniture.

The stone staircase leading to the dungeons was wet, as

was the entire ground floor of the castle, the risers worn and

slippery with lichen. The lichen moved, peering at Bernice

with tiny, near-human eyes set into elastic stalks, blinking in

the beam from her torch as she descended. She ignored the

lichen - not an easy task when every step blinded fifty or so

eyes.

Patience followed her, snuffling the air, and making the

rhythmic chugging cough which Bernice had come to learn

meant the raptor was curious about something. Her crest

was rigid, the feathers along her spine standing out like

bright beacons in the darkness. The scarlet mottling at her

throat ballooned in time with her staccato breaths. Once she

scraped a clawful of lichen from the wall and tasted it. She

chewed, considered, swallowed, then found some more. Eyes

weeping, she waved a clawful of the stuff at Bernice, and

uttered an interrogative bark.

Bernice signed back in the negative; Patience uttered a

humorous growl followed by a complex set of snorts and

whistles.

‗Oh yeah? Let me see you say that at the next spicy-

chicken drive-through.‘

The labyrinth was as she remembered: infested with rats,

snails and overgrown with roots through which they pushed

and in which she occasionally became trapped. On these

occasions, Patience sliced her free with humorous barks.

Patience didn‘t get caught anywhere being smaller, heavier

and generally more powerful.

Half an hour‘s work brought them to the first of the trap

chambers. Bernice remembered this from her earlier visit.

The passage widened into a circular chamber whose floor

rose in a small hill covered with roots and creeping vegetable

debris. The Mountain of God - that was how the journal

referred to this chamber.

Patience coughed impatiently, then uttered a series of

ear-grating screeches.

Bernice frowned. ‗I know all about that. Just wait on a bit.‘

She placed a hand on Patience‘s shoulder to caution her to

stay put, then took out the Templar journal. ‗―For with God

nothing shall be impossible,‖‘ she read aloud, shining her

torch on the yellowed pages. She closed the journal,

repeating the words to herself quietly. Then she took from

her satchel a second book, one given to her in London. She

held the book reverently, inhaled, smelt the aroma of ink and

old paper. She opened the book, found a page, hesitated,

then drew breath and read, ‗―And the Mount of Olives shall

be divided in the midst thereof to the east and to the west

with a very great opening.‖‘ So saying, Bernice carefully took

a step into the chamber. The roots began to move, slithering

aside to reveal a hill of stone which split along its longitude,

the stone hemispheres rumbling as they moved apart,

rotating back and down like opening clamshells into the floor

of the chamber. ‗―And half the mountain shall be separated to

the north and half thereof to the south.‖‘ Another step. The

hemispheres split into halves, four quarters of stone now

moving, grinding, rumbling aside to leave a clear passage

with one entrance and three separate exits. Patience agitated

beside her, head moving to and fro, nostrils flared to catch a

hint of danger, eyes bright as she fixed her gaze on the

moving stone. Bernice signed her to wait, adding aloud,

‗―And it shall come to pass in that day that there shall be no

light. And in the time of evening there shall be light.‖‘

Bernice took another step. Stars came out above the cloven

mountain of stone - or rather tunnels opened through the

stone which allowed shafts of dim sunlight to lance down

into the chamber. A maze of light. A mountain of stone. ‗―In

that day there shall be one Lord and His name shall be one.‖‘

Bernice folded the book away. ‗―His name shall be one.‖

Now listen to me.‘ She took hold of Patience‘s arm and

signed carefully as she spoke. ‗Do not break the light beams.

If you do the ―mountain‖ will slam shut and we‘ll be crushed.

Get me?‘

Patience barked softly. Bernice let the raptor‘s arm go and

took a step forward. Patience cocked her head quizzically,

watching Bernice move carefully between the stones, slipping

sideways between the beams of light, ever careful to

touch none of them. Once her satchel slipped, but she

caught it before it could break a beam. She stood still, wiped

sweat from her face, then moved on. Daniel had been much

better at this than her. He‘d been thinner, more wiry. He

seemed to bend around the light. And she‘d put on weight

during the years between then and now. Another step.

Patience was still waiting, gauging Bernice‘s steps, feathers

ruffling as she watched, considering.

Bernice reached the intersection of the quarters. After ten

minutes of back-breakingly controlled movement she sighed

and stopped for another rest. There was no doubt about it;

this was a game for the young - and fit.

Bernice tried to ease a cramp building in her calf. A

sudden twinge made her yelp. Patience looked up sharply

and coughed a warning. Bernice felt warmth on the back of

her hand. She looked down. A patch of sunlight was creeping

across her fingers. She‘d broken the beam. Her breath caught

in her throat. She’d broken the beam.

Things happened very quickly after that.

Stone gave voice around her, sweeping upwards, deflecting

the beams of sunlight as she leapt forward, running as

never before, turning sideways as the stone closed on her

from four sides, rose to cut off her view of the chamber, of

Patience, to fence her in with swiftly moving beams of light

reflected from the polished rock; rock she could now see was

stained ochre with ancient blood.

She leapt clear of the hemispheres a second before they

slammed shut with an awful concussion, shaking loose

rubble from the roof, jerking Bernice to an abrupt, painful

halt by trapping the strap of her satchel with a perfect,

unbreakable grip, alive because of simple luck and the

retarding effect of more than a thousand years of

undergrowth.

Bernice shuddered, drawing breath in scalding gasps.

Every muscle in her body was screaming.

And where was Patience?

Had she started to move? She couldn‘t remember. Was she

between the stone when it moved? What if -

A gurgling screech cut short all speculation. Bernice

jerked her head upwards in time to see Patience finish a leap

that took her clear over the mountain to land in the passage

some metres in front of Bernice. She skidded to a halt, legs

flexing, arms and neck outstretched for balance, claws

striking sparks from the stone blocks of the passageway,

then she turned and headed back to Bernice uttering a series

of demented, delighted barks and snapping her teeth together

in a humorous rhythm.

Bernice showed Patience where her satchel was trapped;

the raptor cut through the leather with a simple movement of

her finger-claw.

Bernice caught her breath and grinned at the raptor.

‗Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound, huh?

Where‘d you hide your cape, buster?‘ She gathered her wits

to lead the way forward and then realized that the way was

not familiar, not what she remembered from her time here

with Daniel. Somehow she‘d got turned around while

running from the Mountain of God. She‘d left through one of

the other exits.

From now on the labyrinth was unknown territory.

Bernice flipped through the Templar journal again, running

her fingers along what she felt were appropriate routes, then

they moved off slowly, exploring each passage with torch

and eyes before setting foot in it.

There were other traps of course. Her mind blurred with

them; a maze of stone and death and old memories. The Wall

of Knives, The Well of Spears, The Tower of God. The

Journal provided clues and the Bible she carried provided the

answers, albeit couched in the most obscure terms. Her

respect for De Beaujeu and his fellow Knights grew as each

trap was successfully negotiated.

She did not think of Daniel much during this part of the

journey. This had the effect of both calming her and making

her feel guilty. In a way it was good that they were covering

new ground. The distraction caused by thinking of her former

lover had nearly killed her before. He‘d never been in this

part of the labyrinth so it was easier not to link them in her

mind. But still, she could not quite shake the last residual

images of his face from her memory, no matter what she had

told Sara in the jungle during their journey here. It was her

fault he died; all she could do was hope not to suffer his

fate.

Her memories of Daniel were driven home savagely in the

moment when she realized the path ahead was blocked by a

stone wall. A wall covered with damp slime. Turning quickly

to retrace her steps she discovered a similar wall dropping

into place from a slot in the roof of the passage. She

screamed at Patience - who sprang forward and slipped

underneath the wall in a flurry of feathers a second before it

crashed into the floor, separating them and trapping Bernice

in a space which, too quickly for comfort, began to flood

with riverwater.

She looked around. No way out. Obviously. But if this flood

chamber followed form there should be a stone platform and

a pile of rocks to trip the release mechanism. OK. There.

She‘d passed it twice without noticing it. Stupid.

The water was up to her knees, halfway up the block.

She splashed around, trying to find the expected pile of

stones. She found a handful, some marked with carved

pictograms of birds or animals. Were there enough? Why

shouldn‘t there be? She gathered all she could find, mostly

located in niches in the walls or strewn around the floor,

gathered armfuls and dumped them on to the stone platform.

By now the water had reached her thighs and movement was

difficult. And it was cold - near-paralysingly cold.

‗Patience! Can you hear me?‘

A distant bark.

‗Get to the reliquary chamber. The traps will reset! Can

you hear me?‘

More barking. Inquisitive. She doesn’t understand me.

Bernice piled all the rocks she could see on to the plat-

form.

‗The reliquary chamber!‘

Nothing this time. Just the gush of water falling into the

chamber, the bone-numbing cold in her legs which was like a

scream itself.

Bernice cast about for more stones. There were none.

Taking a breath she dived into the waist-high water, now

lapping about the top of the stone platform. She managed to

find a few stones which had been dislodged from their

niches. She retrieved them and dumped them on the plat-

form, gasping from the cold, her breath almost stilled in her

frozen chest.

She scraped at the stones, turning them, peering at them,

discarding those without pictograms, and those with

pictograms beyond the required number. As she worked she

imagined Daniel in a similar position twenty years before.

Cold, frightened, but excited, confident. They had the key. It

was a puzzle, an intellectual stimulation, nothing more. An

adventure, maybe. Not real.

How had he felt when the water had covered the platform,

then risen towards his face? When he realized the rocks were

eroded, the key to the lock of his life was broken? How did

he feel when the water reached his chin, when he could no

longer try random combinations of rocks because he had to

tread water just to breathe? How did he feel as he counted

away the centimetres of air between his mouth and the roof

of the chamber, hoping against hope the water would stop or

drain? How did he feel when, all hope finally gone, cheeks

pressed against the unyielding rock, the water finally poured

into his mouth to silence his desperate screams for help? To

silence her name - the last thing he had called out before the

silence had come.

Water slapped her face. What had she been doing? Stupid!

The water had covered the platform, the current disturbing

the rocks. Her torchlight rippled beneath the surface, the

reflections making an accurate assessment of their position

and number impossible.

And his voice came out of the darkness again. First joking,

then desperate, then fearful, finally terrified, all control gone,

driven aside by the realization that his life would soon be

over, and that it had all happened, turned almost, on a

whim. Of hers.

Bernice! Don’t leave me here! I love you!

Daniel. Oh, Daniel. I know. I know. I’m sorry.

She took the breather mask from her satchel and put it on,

blew away the water and gulped sweet air.

I’m sorry but I can’t die like you.

Her mask could last for twenty hours. More than enough

time for Patience to figure out on her own what had to be

done. In the event it took only five. Five hours alone in the

freezing dark, kicking and punching the water to keep her

circulation going, accompanied by rumbling silence and

twenty-year-old accusations.

Then the water fell away and the stone doors rumbled

open, and she ripped off the breather mask to lie gasping and

shivering on the stone floor of the passage, her teeth

chattering like machine guns as she struck her own body to

keep the blood flowing in her veins.

Twenty minutes later Patience appeared in the doorway

and led her from the chamber. Half an hour after that they

entered the reliquary chamber.

There were two coffers in the chamber. One small, one large

enough to hold a human body. Opening the smaller, Bernice

was shocked at the sense of anticlimax. A shroud of rotted

linen covered a crystal sphere in which rested a scrap of

mummified flesh. The Holy Finger of John the Baptist. She

lifted it carefully, wary of a final lethal trap, but there was

nothing. Just silence and dust and the smell of damp earth.

She moved to the second coffer, touched the lid, then

hesitated. If what she had been told was correct then

contained within this coffer was something human science

had never known before. An artifact capable of producing

miracles. Maybe even the Word of God.

Bernice took hold of the lid, hesitated, signed to Patience

to help her. Patience did not move. She shivered instead,

hackles raised, feathers quivering. Bernice frowned. Patience

was scared. She signed quickly. ‗It‘s OK. It‘s all dead.

There‘s nothing here that can hurt you.‘

After a moment Patience shook her head, screeched and

took hold of the lid.

They lifted together. The lid opened then slid to the floor

with a thud. Dust rose into the air. Bernice waved it away,

peering into the coffer; eyes widening with anticipation,

surprise and finally disappointment.

The coffer contained a dead body, mummified. A knight,

with shield and armour. The only sword was the sword

sheathed beside his rotting skeleton.

The Sword of Forever was not here.

Bernice began to laugh. ‗It must be the wrong coffer,‘ she

said, sitting on the floor. ‗Bugger me if the silly old duffers

didn‘t bring the wrong coffer all the way from Paris!‘

Which meant of course that the coffer supposedly

containing the Sword of Forever was still in the Templar

Mausoleum - in Paris - even deeper within the Alien Jungle.

Still giggling, Bernice packed the Finger into her satchel

and together they began to make their way out of the

labyrinth. It took almost four hours. When they emerged they

found Marillian and Sara trapped in the rover, under attack

from a tribe of ghosts.

The ghosts retreated as Patience sprang towards them, slower

than normal but still fast enough to be hard to follow with

what organs they possessed that passed for eyes. Now that

reinforcements had arrived, Sara emerged from the rover,

gun loaded, aiming careful shots into the mass of creatures.

They squealed piteously when hit and crawled away. In ten

minutes the area around the rover was clear enough for

Bernice and Patience to climb aboard. Sara then gunned

the engines and the rover managed a truly dramatic seven

kilometres per hour.

‗What do they want?‘ Marillian asked.

‗I have no idea and no intention of finding out.‘

‗What did you find in the labyrinth?‘

‗That we need to get waterproof clothes.‘

8

ETHIOPIA: 2575

Marillian forced his way through the burning congregation in

the wake of Jennings-Bankhurst and the Ark. All

around people were screaming. The church was alight,

burning fiercely towards the nave. Timbers popped and

sizzled; mortar exploded from the walls in crumbling

shrapnel which scraped at his face and hands. Breaching the

prophylactic seal? Maybe - there was no time to worry about

that. With any luck the fire would eradicate any bio-infection

before it reached him through any minor breaches in the

skinseal.

He was more concerned with Jennings-Bankhurst. He ran,

trying to move even faster against the flow of people also

trying to escape. Their voices were a wailing chorus of

despair and terror. He could well imagine why.

Where was their promised miracle? Their monk deliverer

was dead and the method of their deliverance looted. The

ancient fear had come true and he himself had helped. He

had brought Jennings-Bankhurst here. With his father he

had facilitated and financed this expedition. He was to blame

as much as the older man.

Marillian stumbled as a child grabbed hold of his leg. The

child sobbed, begging for something Marillian didn‘t need to

understand to divine the meaning. Help me! Save me! I’m

scared!

Marillian scooped up the child and continued to run,

pushing everyone else aside, though it tore at his heart to

do so.

Jennings-Bankhurst was at the entrance to the church.

Marillian saw him move outside, knocking aside the

beseeching arms of the congregation who clustered around

him trying to touch the Ark.

Marillian increased his own speed, bursting from the

church amidst a crowd of supplicants, some burning, others

transforming into biological visions he could not begin to

name. It was hell. He was in a hell he did not even believe in.

The hover-jeep stood foursquare among the confusion, its

black bulk ignored so far due to the Red Cross insignia

painted on its sides. Ondemwu was at the controls; Marillian

could see him standing up in the driving seat, head and

shoulders above the crowd, scanning the people for signs of

himself or Jennings-Bankhurst approaching.

Marillian waved and yelled but Ondemwu‘s attention was

caught by the arrival of the older man with his precious

cargo. Marillian turned to run, found his way blocked by a

family of four clinging together and screaming, dodged past

a man rolling the flames out of his burning clothes in the

dust, found himself caught between two suited figures, two

boiling jets of flame. He flung himself to the ground, rolled,

clothes smoking, skinseal crisping and peeling away. If he

wasn‘t open to infection before he most definitely was now.

Protected by the corner of an outhouse, Marillian dodged

around the church and ran as fast as he could through the

graveyard towards the hover-jeep. By the time he rounded

the building the entire ground floor was alight and flames

were creeping relentlessly along the gables and crenellations.

Plaster popped and burst, fragments stinging his exposed

skin, the noise of screaming obscured by the roar of flame

and shrouded in a maze of smoke.

Marillian turned the last corner, a voice crying out inside

his head. He stopped suddenly, heart hammering. Where was

the kid? Where was the kid he had been holding? When had

he let her go? Where was she?

He looked around. The hover-jeep was thirty metres away,

a dark silhouette against the roiling flames from the people-

trees drifting gently in the heat, Ondemwu standing tall and

thin in the driver‘s seat, Jennings-Bankhurst a black figure

loading the lumpy shape of the Ark into the cargo-space.

Marillian cast his eyes around for the child, hesitated,

started for the jeep, then was arrested by the sound of

sobbing from behind. He turned. The child was less than

twenty metres away, a soot-streaked ghost emerging from a

pall of smoke. Marillian turned back to the jeep. He took a

step. Hesitated. How could he leave this child to burn? He

turned, ran, scooped the child into his arms, felt her hot,

infected tears splash against the side of his face as he turned

back to the jeep.

It was gone, a wraith vanishing into the smoke as if it had

never been.

Marillian yelled, waved, ran after the vehicle; stopped

when he stumbled over a body lying prone upon the ground.

Jennings-Bankhurst lay still, a neat bullet hole puckered the

skin of his forehead, white hair splashed with his own blood.

Oridemwu, the jeep, the Ark - all were gone.

9

PARIS: 2595

The ghosts followed them all the way to Paris. The journey

was even slower because of the lack of one rover. The ghosts

wandered near by all the time; even the presence of Patience

- who proved several times how easy it was to disembowel

even a hybrid human - could not dissuade them from their

attempts to infect the travellers.

In the end they stopped and Sara held the ghosts at bay

with the flamethrower while Bernice and Marillian made a

platform from non-aggressive wood, lashed it to the rover‘s

canopy, and stacked the remaining provisions and equipment

there. Then with Patience taking up the rear passenger seat,

Bernice sitting on Marillian‘s lap in the front passenger seat,

Sara driving, and all five lift-fans protesting at the extra load,

the expedition continued.

From then on the journey went much faster. They reached

Paris in less than a week. Cross-referencing the Templar

journal against a download from an orbiting geosat made

locating the precise latitude and longitude of the Templar

Mausoleum if not easy, then at least much less hard than

they had expected. It took them only two days to find.

With the crumpled remains of the Eiffel Tower emerging,

Mayan-temple-like from the motile jungle, they set about

hacking their way into the Mausoleum itself.

* * *

That the building still existed was miracle enough for

Bernice.

Inside she marvelled at the workmanship; the architecture

and imagination which had created this place; the beauty of

the stone, now crumbling; the stained glass, now blocked by

the crawling jungle. It was like being underwater; the depths

of an ocean glimmering with dim phosphorescence, with

murky shapes swirling in the rippling darkness. It smelt of

damp earth, old bones and older gods. Or one God, anyway.

They set up the only remaining portable light. The shadows

it threw were angular and harsh, the colours revealed as

drab greens and browns. Yet beyond the spiky puddle of

light, in the glimmering shadows, some of the magic

remained.

Without stopping to eat, they began to explore.

Bernice and Marillian found the reliquary chamber. It was

long, rectangular, with semicircular ends and a vaulted roof

composed of mated arches. Columns supported the roof,

and an upper gallery of crumbling stonework. The walls

were overgrown, the roof and floor missing blocks, the

gallery collapsed in some places into stacks of rubble. Light

streamed through a jagged hole in the roof, the hole knitted

by time and vines. Rain dripped steadily into the chamber,

staining the floor and adding to the feeling of being

underwater. Arches debouched from the main chamber into

rustling darkness.

The entire chamber was filled with coffers.

Bernice had to concentrate in order to stop herself leaping

up and down in delight. Marillian was wandering around the

chamber, moving carefully on the slippery floor, eyes moving

restlessly over the architecture, the tombs, the stonework,

the blocked glass of the windows at each end of the chamber.

Bernice felt a sudden flush - in the excitement she had

forgotten about Daniel. How could she have done that? She

leant her head against the damp wall for a moment, letting

his memory soak away into the cool stone. I’m sorry. I have to

get on with my life now.

She lifted her head when she became aware that Marillian

was watching her, and made her own circuit of the chamber,

stopping frequently to examine the walls or coffers, her mind

a snow-flurry of speculation and wonderment. She moved

slowly, a smile playing about her lips, her fingers touching

the stonework, lost in a dreamlike montage of images,

passages from the Templar journal mixing with scenes from

old movies; a mating of reality and romance, the

juxtaposition laying bare the truth of two cultures.

Husband and wife met beneath the hole in the roof, and

Bernice tipped her face up to the fine drizzle of rain, letting it

splash across her brow and down her neck. She closed her

eyes and tried to imagine just for a moment what the water

would feel like were it not kept from her skin by the layer of

protective bioseal. Probably horrible. Dank and slimy. She

grinned, opened her eyes and found herself face to face with

Marillian.

‗What now?‘

She reached out, took his face in hers, and kissed him

softly on the mouth.

He blinked. ‗I thought we weren‘t-‘

She waved aside his words, closing his mouth by gently

pushing her finger against his chin. ‗It was just the moment.‘

She dug into her rucksack and produced the King James

Bible given to her in London. ‗I‘ve been doing some

reading.‘

Marillian half smiled.

Bernice frowned. ‗What?‘

‗Nothing. Just... well, you said you‘d read the Yellow

Pages before you read that particular book.‘

‗Did I? Well. A girl can change her mind. Anyway. This is

a kind of directory too. If you know how to read it.‘

‗Do tell.‘

Bernice flipped pages. ‗Luke, Chapter 9, verses 18-19.

―And it came to pass as he was alone praying, his disciples

were with him: and he asked them, saying, Whom say the

people that I am? They answering said, John the Baptist; but

some say Elias; and others say, that one of the old prophets

is risen again.‖‘

Marillian chuckled. ‗Herod beheaded John the Baptist.‘

‗Don‘t you believe in the Resurrection?‘

Marillian seemed almost to overreact to her words; his face

abruptly became very serious. ‗It‘s an old story. The verse

you quoted contradicts itself even on the most superficial

matter of claiming Jesus was ―alone with his disciples‖. If it

does that how can you see a truth in any of it?‘

‗My point exactly. With so much conflicting evidence

who‘s to say my theory isn‘t the more likely?‘

Marillian rubbed his chin; the blue patterns on his cheeks

shifted subtly. ‗So you‘re saying Jesus Christ was really John

the Baptist brought back from the dead?‘

‗It‘s as good a theory as any other.‘

Marillian looked away.

Bernice sensed a change come over him; the set of his

body was less relaxed. He seemed almost angry. She reached

out for him. ‗What‘s up?‘

‗Nothing.‘ He brushed aside her hand. ‗What now?‘

Bernice took the crystal sphere containing what the journal

called ‗the Holy Finger of John the Baptist‘ from the leather

pouch and dangled it before him with a grin. ‗―Let your

fingers do the walking‖?‘

It took ten minutes to sample genetic material from the

Finger. Five minutes to set the parameters into the detector.

Seven hours to find the right coffer.

Inside the coffer was a shape wrapped in the rotting

remains of cloth. The shroud broke as they lifted the lid,

fracturing like old cobwebs as Bernice reverently preserved

and lifted the relic from its resting place.

It was a head. A mummified head. The scalp was so old it

had the texture of parchment dusted with talcum powder -

but two things were immediately clear.

First - there were marks engraved upon the skull.

Second - there were a number of wounds consistent with

penetration by several hundred tiny sharp objects pressed

cruelly down into the flesh of the scalp. The wounds

penetrated to the bone.

Thorns.

Or maybe nails. Or... she frowned. No. They didn‘t have

neural samplers then. Did they?

Mind whirling with thoughts, Bernice set the head care-

fully down inside the stasis cube prepared for it and then sat

down. She was in a slimy puddle and didn‘t even notice. Her

head was filled with lightning, the thunder of screams.

- the hammers rose and fell -

- her hands what were they doing to her -

Christ. Possibly.

The Templars thought their treasure was nothing less than

the mummified head of Jesus Christ.

On it was engraved the Map of Forever.

It all happened peculiarly slowly after that. She supposed she

should have expected it. Just for once she felt safe; safe with

a man she was coming to have feeling for, maybe even love.

Big mistake - as usual.

Marillian took the gun from his pocket and the stasis cube

from her hands in one smooth movement. He put a bullet

into Sara‘s arm as she drew her own gun. He held the gun to

Sara‘s head until Bernice told Patience not to disembowel

him. He walked out of the reliquary chamber. He pushed

Sara back into the chamber as he left; shot the roof as she

sprawled bleeding on the floor.

Stone blocks crashed down, blocking the entrance, trap-

ping them inside.

From outside, she heard his voice. It was warm, intimate,

as she had imagined it often lately in her dreams. ‗As an

archaeologist and historian I respect you, Benny. I probably

love you too. I hope you don‘t die.‘

‗Why!‘

Her voice was a scream. The only answer was the whine of

the rover‘s lift-fans as Marillian gunned the engine and drove

away. Only afterwards did she think to wonder if she had

overplayed the surprise and anger. She hoped not. She was

taking a big risk letting him get away with the head. Things

could get very awkward if Marillian knew what she knew. Oh

well, there wasn‘t a lot she could do about it now. She had to

put a tourniquet around Sara‘s arm and try to work out how

to get all three of them out of there.

The tourniquet was in place and she had decided the best

way of leaving the chamber was through the broken roof,

when she realized the hole was already in use.

When the ghosts began to climb in through the broken

roof, the first to push aside the creeping vegetation and

drop silently into the reliquary chamber had the body of a

nightmare and the face of Daniel Beaujeu.

10

KAMPUCHEA: 2577

Marillian studied the temples of Angkor Wat through old-

fashioned binoculars from his position among the trees. He

rubbed old scars at his shins; the newly knitted bone there

still ached in the damp. It had taken him a year and a half to

track down Ondemwu and the Ark. A year and a half spent in

the hell of which Axum had been only the outermost region.

The girl had died of course - not in the flames which had

taken their lives, nor even by the torches of the Red Cross

soldiers who had tried to purify them both as they fled first

Axum and then Ethiopia, stealing a boat and following the

White Nile from its tributaries into Egypt. The girl had

transformed fully while on the boat journey, the lack of food

which had brought him to the edge of death no longer

affecting her body, which was now able to photosynthesize

sunlight. The child-tree bore fruit - the first of the people-

trees to do so in his experience, and perhaps due to mutation

from the minor fallout accompanying the purification of

Axum - fruit which Marillian avoided for many days until

hunger had driven him close to insanity. Then he had

plucked and eaten as much as he could.

He had been sick for a whole day and had fully expected to

die, yet had not. The sickness had clearly been due to his

prior starvation rather than the fruit itself.

So the river journey continued, he making sure the child-

tree was well watered and exposed to maximum sunlight and

she, in return, providing fruit for him to eat. In this manner

they had kept each other alive for weeks, until reaching

Egypt.

His own infections were secondary, consisting in the main

of minor skin motility and discoloration upon the exposed

areas of hands and face. He sometimes wondered whether

eating the fruit of the child-tree had blocked further

infection, providing immunity or at least greater resistance. If

this were the case Marillian knew he had the future in his

hands – the future of the human race. In any event he was

never to find out. Egyptian bandits found and burnt the

child-tree while he was foraging for normal food almost a

month into the journey. They took his palmtop (damaged in

the escape), all his disks and his clothes. It was only by

convincing them his credit cards were gene-coded that he

was able to avoid death at all. They kept him prisoner for

weeks, shooting him carefully once in each leg to avoid

escape; taking him occasionally to nearby towns to draw

cash for them. He did this gratefully, for each coded bank

statement was a message revealing his location.

A month later the bandits were killed by a sniper as they

drew money on his last card. The sniper was English; she

worked for his father.

The rest of the year was spent in research in London while

his wounds healed. The physical wounds healed in a matter

of months; the psychological trauma took longer. But

throughout it all, Marillian maintained his drive and focus.

He frequented the museums, the libraries, spent more time

on the Net than he did in the real world. He was looking for

signs of Ondemwu; rumours of the Ark. Anything that would

provide a trace, a direction, a scent to follow.

When his father died in a transport accident later that year

Marillian was devastated. He withdrew even further from

life, if that were possible. He did not attend the funeral in

Trafalgar Square, paid no respects to the monument erected

in his father‘s honour beside the restored Nelson‘s Column.

Though he had technically inherited his father‘s businesses,

he paid them no heed either. They were maintained by

various boards which had always governed them, only now

with slightly more autonomy they did even better business.

Eleven months after his escape from Egypt, on the

anniversary of the death of the child-tree he had rescued

from the fires of Axum, Marillian found the clue that had

brought him to Kampuchea, to the Palace of the Arch-Regent

Gebmoses HI, self-styled (and unacknowledged by any

existing world power) Emperor of the Third World.

Marillian had watched as the Emperor - a ridiculous vanity

for one of the lesser sons of a near-fatally inbred line - had

posed and postured before his people, openly defying the

world powers to intervene, politically or militarily. They had

chosen to ignore him; after all what power did the man,

clearly insane, have over them? His army consisted of three

hundred peasants, his technology little more than slave-run

factory-mills. Only the year before he had declared himself a

descendant of Egyptian kings and therefore immortal. He

was no more capable of posing a threat to the civilized world

than he was capable of performing simple arithmetic.

But Marillian knew better. He knew something no other

government official in any country knew. He knew Geb-

moses III possessed the Ark of the Covenant. Even Hitler had

known there was more power in that relic - even if it was

nothing more than a rotting wooden box containing only dust

- than in all the armies of the world. Because of one simple

factor.

The power of belief.

Marillian had tracked Ondemwu down to a bar on the

borders

of Rangoon. The translator had been three fourths drunk

when Marillian entered the shack and dead when he left.

Marillian had taken a crate of vodka with him and spent the

next week in a drunken stupor. He had caught a terrible chill

from sleeping outdoors in the annual rain, because he was

too frightened to find lodgings or claim his sub-orbital where

it was parked at the local airport. Killing a man had not been

as easy as he had thought it would be. Or rather, the killing

had been easy, but the aftermath, the feelings, had not been

easy. Oh no, not at all.

Another week passed in fever. He was found by a rice-

picker and nursed back to health by her husband. He repaid

their kindness by stealing food and clothes as soon as he

could walk and getting the hell out before they downloaded a

newscast which might contain news of the murder. Sure his

sub-orbital had been impounded but unable to check without

revealing his presence, Marillian had no recourse but to join

the community and earn his own food. This he managed by

the simple expedient of convincing the locals that he was a

wandering simpleton on the ragged edge of starvation who

could work with his hands but whose intellectual processes

were more than somewhat impaired.

It wasn‘t actually that far from the truth.

Another six months passed and Marillian began to forget

why he had come here. His mind bowed to the pressure of

work and his hands hardened to the task. Slowly, by a

process of social osmosis, he was absorbed into the fanning

community.

And then one day came the ritual.

The Timkat ritual.

The Emperor Gebmoses III had decided to show his Ark to

the laity.

Marillian had bought the binoculars and an old-fashioned

Colt revolver three months previously from a vagabond

trader. The weapon and its six bullets had cost him a

month‘s food. He had not even dared to test-fire it. If the

authorities found he had it the penalty was removal of the

hand used to fire it. If someone was actually killed by its

use...

Nonetheless Marillian knew he had to use this gun. Not

to kill a man - his mind still held enough instinct for

self-preservation to prevent that madness - but to perform

an even greater function.

Though his original mission had been to secure the return

of the Ark to his Chapter, it was clear to Marillian that

destiny had decreed the Ark would be destroyed in the fires

of Axum. It was clearly what God had wanted. Therefore

it should equally be what his Chapter wanted. Jennings-

Bankhurst had prevented that through a mixture of eager

curiosity and greed. Now it was time to correct the event. To

put destiny back on track.

To destroy the Ark - once and for all.

He watched the military cavalcade leave the Palace of

Angkor Wat and thread its unsteady way through the local

farms and villages. He saw the flatbed load-lifter on which

the Ark had been placed. He saw the altar which had been

constructed there to hold the Ark high above the heads of the

curious watchers. He watched. Waited. Carefully loaded the

gun. Moved slowly into position. Worked his way closer

through the farmer-workers as the cavalcade approached,

humming across the ungathered summer crops.

And as the load-lifter drew level he took out the revolver

and drew a bead on the Ark.

He pulled the trigger.

The gun exploded.

He lay upon the ground, his right arm missing from the

elbow, feeling slow blood pulse into the rice crop. Half his

face was gone; he knew that because he had no sight in his

right eye and heard nothing but a continuous cannon-blast

of noise in his right ear. Beneath his shredded skull, his

mind ached. He felt grainy and tired. Maybe he would sleep

now. Yes. That would be very good.

Then he felt hands lifting him. Pain beat against the shore

of consciousness, driving him ever further from sleep. He

blinked, felt hot blood run down his face. He couldn‘t turn

his head -

He was lifted, positioned before the Ark. A figure swam

into view. The Emperor. He was talking. Spouting words at

the crowd. Marillian was forced to his knees. It did not take

much effort. He saw blood fall from his face to stain his

knees and the ground.

The Emperor Gebmoses III had finished his speech; the

words, little more than dull firecracker noises, echoed away

into the distance. The military escort stepped close to

Marillian. He drew a gun - a modern pistol. He placed it

against Marillian‘s remaining temple.

The Emperor signalled for him to wait, and then turned to

the Ark. He carefully peeled away the layers of cloth

protecting the laity from its gaze.

He lifted the lid.

Marillian did not hear the shot which opened his skull and

emptied the life from his body. He did not feel the damp

breeze whistle past his face as he fell to lie prone among the

rice fields. He did not think of his father, or of the child-tree

he had saved from the fires of Axum; he did not think of

anything at all. He simply died, quickly, without any fuss or

bother, there on the ground among the ungathered summer

crop.

His last - and first - vision was the open Ark.

And when some time later the Emperor Gebmoses III offered

him the life he had recently lost in return for his eternal

loyalty, Marillian was simply too terrified of dying for a

second time to refuse.

11

PARIS: 2595

The ghosts fell - perhaps dripped might be a better word

for they undulated and shuddered as they moved into the

reliquary chamber. They squatted and scuttled and quivered,

slinking into the clinging shadows. Ten, twenty, a hundred of

them, all different sizes, all different shapes, yet all one

shape: not-human.

Bernice held Sara, and Patience moved in close as the

room filled with soft noises: slithering of flesh, crackling of

limbs, the swish of tentacles, eyes and teeth and glistening

sense-organs invisible in the rippling darkness, but

watching. Oh how she knew they were watching her.

And Daniel. Was he watching too? Was there any human

intellect left in that hybridized shell of flesh he now called a

body? If there was, how would it regard her?

She waited, the sounds and visions coming close on the

heels of her discovery and betrayal, driving her close to the

edge of madness. She gripped the Finger of John the Baptist

in one hand, the King James Bible in the other. Both arms

were wrapped around Sara, to keep her from the damp

ground. Patience was growling. The growls grew steadily

in volume, becoming coughs and then barks, interspersed

with hissing breaths. The raptor stamped from foot to foot,

muscles bunching in her legs, alternately lowering and

raising herself, her toe-claws grinding across the damp stone.

Every bit of fur and every single feather adorning her body

rose, like the hackles of a cat, until she seemed to double her

size and her body appeared to ripple in the darkness, with no

defined edges beyond her burning eyes and frequently bared

teeth and claws, scything repeatedly at the damp air before

her as she moved.

They waited.

Sara reached awkwardly for her gun-holster and took out

her gun.

They waited.

The apparitions, the ghosts, waited too.

Sara turned awkwardly, put the gun against Bernice‘s chin

and said, ‗I didn‘t come here to be nursemaided by you.‘

‗You didn‘t come here to die either,‘ Bernice whispered

back. Her head jerked as the gun dug into her neck. She

shrugged, let Sara go. The younger woman moved away, feet

sure amongst the wet stone and earth.

Bernice watched her while simultaneously trying to keep

everyone — every thing - else in sight as well. ‗You led me

here. You knew he was alive. You wanted him to find me,

infect me. It‘s your revenge.‘

Sara laughed. ‗See how the mind latches on to the first

plausible suggestion? Your words say more about you than

they do about me. And no. I didn‘t want you here at all.‘ She

glanced towards the ghost that had been her cousin. ‗But you

see... he wouldn‘t come for me. Oh no. But he‘d come for

you. Because he loved you. He didn‘t love me; he wouldn‘t

come for me. But if I brought you here he would come. And

then I could ease his pain. The pain you brought him

because he loved you.‘ She swayed, loss of blood making her

dizzy, but the gun arm remained rock steady. Only now she

turned it so the gun was aimed directly at the apparition with

the face of her cousin.

Bernice felt her body grow rigid, every muscle tight as

rope hauling against unyielding blocks. ‗No.‘

‗I saw him... a year after you left him for dead. But he

wasn‘t dead. I saw him at the edge of the jungle. He came to

see us. To say goodbye. He was hybridized by then. Begin-

ning to change. He couldn‘t leave the jungle, not and stay

alive. But he came. To see us. I saw him for a moment. A

moment that has haunted me... oh... so long. It was the

pain, you see. On his face. The pain of leaving us. The pain

of betrayal... But beyond that it was the pain of

transformation, the physical pain and the uncertainty, of not

knowing what he would become. I was seven then. Mother

was with one of the calving cows. I ran for her gun. Even

then I knew what I had to do. But when I got back he was

gone. Now... now... thanks to you... I can finish what you

started.‘

Her finger squeezed the trigger.

Patience moved, limbs a blur, claw striking sparks from

the gun as she hooked it from Sara‘s grasp and sent it

clattering away into the shadows. The bullet went wild,

struck stone, shattered part of the stained glass in one

window. Coloured glass rained into the chamber.

Sara sank to her knees, cradling her hand, sobbing openly,

as much with pain from the finger she had lost with the gun

as her failure to spare her cousin the pain she perceived

was his.

As if the sound of the shot were a trigger, the ghosts began to

move closer.

Sara huddled into a small shape on the floor, her back

pressed against one of the stone tombs. Bernice moved in

closer as well. The ghosts hadn‘t moved until Sara no longer

had the gun. Was that action deliberate? Premeditated? Or

were all these once-people acting on some animal - alien? -

level she did not understand? It didn‘t matter. There was no

way out. The shadows were full of movement; the nearest

limbs were already just metres away. Whatever they wanted

to do to them they were powerless to stop it. Patience leapt

and ran around the two women, slashing with claws and

teeth, not to kill so much as discourage. She could tell there

was no percentage in killing. Not when the odds favoured the

ghosts so well.

Nothing Patience did stopped the advance.

Then Daniel stepped out of the shadows. His face was

warped by time and alien DNA, half shadowed and backlit

from the hole in the roof. He took a step on legs which had no

feet, just chitin points, which clicked as they hit the stone

blocks.

His mouth stretched, an unfamiliar organ performing an

unfamiliar task.

He spoke.

‗Benny.‘ The voice was soft, oddly beautiful, a product of

who knew what changes to his vocal chords. His throat

resonated with the word, ballooning gently to allow a dozen

echoes to emerge from flapped openings.

Bernice shivered. ‗Dan... Daniel. You remember me?‘

‗Book. Want... book.‘ His voice was a rippling chorus, a

solo choir of aching remembrance. ‗Wanted me... to steal. . .

book.‘ Limbs moved, scooping dusty parchment relics

from nearby coffers. ‗Here books... Here... all... books.‘

The limbs deposited the relics at Bernice‘s feet. ‗Here all

books of Templars... all books want... all books, Benny. . . all

books for love.’

Bernice felt her heart banging in her chest as the

parchments banged against her feet. She tried to think of

something to say. Tried and failed. He was pathetic. A pitiful,

mewling creature. And she had loved him. She tried not to

feel the disgust welling in her chest. She tried not to feel the

guilt.

That didn‘t work either.

Daniel left them at the edge of the jungle. Bernice looked

around. Fields. Trees. Small buildings. A farm. A tractor was

garaged under a sheet metal roof near by. Bernice left her

credit implant on a small log in its place. Twelve hours later

they were in Arginy.

They took Sara to hospital. Her wounds were treated and

both she and Bernice were examined for signs of DNA

corruption. The doctors told them it would take a while for

the test results to come through. In the meantime they were

both to remain in bioseal to prevent the spread of any

possible infection to others in the town. It was a nuisance

but considering the only alternative was the cleansing flames

of a ghost- pyre, it was an acceptable one.

Bernice stayed with Françoise in the farmhouse. She tactfully

ignored the sobs emanating from her room for the rest of the

night.

Sara came home from the hospital. She showed Bernice

how to muck out the stables and groom the horses.

Patience learnt there was great fun to be had teasing sheep.

On the third night there were visitors. Françoise brought

them to the parlour and left them with Bernice. She frowned

when she saw the identical grey suits, grey smiles, grey

lenses. ‗If it‘s not the dynamic duo. How perfectly bewitch-

ing to see you. Can I offer you a glass of wine?‘ Her voice

hardened. ‗Or perhaps a punch in the eye for nearly getting

me killed?‘

‗Thank you-‘

‗-a glass of wine-‘

‗-would be lovely-‘

‗-it was a long journey-‘

‗-and though we‘re not exactly tired-‘

‗-the country is quite rough-‘

‗-and we do have rather a lot to discuss.‘

Bernice‘s gaze flipped from one to the other like someone

watching a tennis match. Her expression hardened to match

her voice. ‗Now you listen to me, both of you. I did what you

wanted. I got your precious Head back for you. It‘s not my

fault my blasted husband made off with it at gunpoint –

during which jolly jape, I hasten to add, three people nearly

got themselves killed. I think you owe me some answers.

More specifically you owe me the answers you promised me

in Scotland.‘

A thoughtful exchange of glances between the Masons led

to, ‗Well, you might have a point-‘

‗-especially since your actions were particularly selfless-‘

‗-and may we just say that what we are about to reveal-‘

‗-that is to say what Anson the pig has discovered for us-‘

‗-is far too sensitive-’

‗-not to mention dangerous-’

‗-for the ears of those such as the woman and the reptile-‘

‗-outside the Order.‘

Bernice sighed impatiently. ‗Three points. First, she‘s

neither a mammal, nor a reptile; don‘t show your ignorance.

Second, if anything‘s happened to my favourite pig you‘re in

big trouble. Third, would you please just get on with it before

I have to resort to transplant surgery so I can live long

enough to hear the punch line?‘

Newton and Kepler exchanged looks - not quite smiles,

but somewhere teasingly close. Bernice poured three - large

- glasses of Françoise‘s own wine, then settled down to

listen to what the Masons had to say. She listened closely

and carefully, and as they talked she felt her anger, already

at breaking point, grow even further.

Her only satisfaction came after they had offered to help

her break into the Royal Palace at Angkor Wat and steal back

the Head of Christ from ‗Emperor‘ Gebmoses III, when she

had the immense satisfaction of watching both Masons get so

drunk so fast she could swear she saw their eyes cross

behind their grey contact lenses as they leant drunkenly

together on the sofa and began to snore.

‗Revenge,‘ she observed succinctly while undressing the

two Masons, entwining their arms about each other, placing

a can of aerosol prophylactic between them and finally

covering them with a thick woollen blanket, ‗is clearly a dish

best served mulled.‘

Bernice‘s amusement at seeing the expression on the

Masons‘ faces when they woke up the next morning wrapped

around each other was livened first prior to breakfast when

Newton found a moment to be alone with Bernice long

enough to ask circumspectly how much Bernice knew about

what had happened the previous night because, she added

candidly, she somehow found herself unable to remember the

precise sequence of events which led to her waking naked,

wrapped around her fellow agent; and again an hour later

when Kepler had diligently created an opportunity to ask

exactly the same question. To both Masons her answer had

been the same - an enigmatic smile and a zipping motion of

two fingers across her lips. When pressed on the point,

Bernice admitted she might be able to remember events

proportional to the amount of information the Masons were

first able to provide for her.

That

information

was

more

readily

forthcoming.

‗The IFB have known about Marillian‘s connection with

Gebmoses III for some time since-‘

‗-we‘ve been watching the so-called ―Emperor‖ carefully-‘

‗-not because we‘re frightened of him –‘

‗-though fear itself is a useful tool-‘

‗-but because we fear the power he is gaining. You see-‘

‗-it‘s been clear to us for some years that Gebmoses was

little more than a harmless imbecile-‘

‗-but now since he has gained access to Marillian‘s

inheritance-‘

‗-that is to say, his money-’

‗-the trend of events has been both more predictable and

less containable-‘

‗-and he has become-‘

‗-unofficially at least-‘

‗-the third richest man in the world, so-‘

‗-when you couple that with a-‘

‗-bent, a definite bent-’

‗-towards the religious purity found hitherto only in such

figures as Adolf Hitler and Margaret Thatcher-‘

‗-you can see why his long-term-‘

‘-obsession-’

‗-with the accumulation of Christian religious icons-‘

‗-such as the Spear of Longinus, the Crown of Thorns and

the Holy Grail-‘

‗-together with his desire to become Emperor of Earth-‘

‗-attain the alarming proportions that they currently have-‘

‗-and why we must ourselves stop at nothing to make

sure-‘

‗-that he‘s stopped before he gains enough political power-‘

‗-to achieve his goal.‘

Bernice had long since found staring at her wine glass to

be less painful on the neck than watching each agent speak

in turn. Now she looked up. ‗Which is?‘

The Masons exchanged looks but said nothing.

Bernice sighed impatiently. ‗All right, let‘s cut to the damn

chase. I ran interference for you guys because you told me

you‘d let me in on some big secrets about the Sword of

Forever. I did that and almost got three people - includ-

ing myself - killed. OK, so the guy wants a few mouldy

Christian icons. So what? It‘s not like he‘s going to open the

Ark of the Covenant and destroy the world, right?‘

Newton and Kepler exchanged glances.

‗Is he?‘

The Masons licked their lips, both at the same time.

Top lip, bottom lip. Perfect mirror images. She waited.

Neither spoke. She sighed, ‗Well, if you‘re so worried about

this maniac why let him get into a position where he can

steal the head of Christ in the first place? I mean, you‘re

Masons, right? Descended from the Knights Templar. The

most powerful organization since the Inquisition. Keeping

secrets is practically a genetic trait with you guys, am I

right?‘

The Masons simultaneously rubbed their eyebrows, Newton

her right, Kepler his left. They said nothing.

Bernice shrugged. ‗OK. I‘ve had it with you two. I‘m

going to saddle me up Françoise‘s prime Appalachian in the

stable there and I‘m out of here.‘

‗No-‘

‗-please, Bernice-‘

‗-we‘d be very grateful if-‘

‗-you wouldn‘t do that.‘

Bernice frowned. ‗Well. You know what I want.‘ She

waited. The Masons shuffled uneasily. ‗I‘m waiting.‘

Newton said eventually, ‗We really don‘t want you to go.‘

Kepler added, reluctantly, ‗What do you want to know?‘

Bernice thought for a moment. ‗All right, let‘s start at the

start. Tell me about the Sword of Forever. I thought we were

coming here to Arginy to find an artifact, not some

mummified head-shaped pencil holder. Please tell me I‘m not

going to have my skull engraved and then be eaten alive for

the sake of a metaphor.‘

Newton and Kepler halted the movement of identical

knifefuls of jam towards their croissants.

‗No-‘

‗-The Sword of Forever is not a metaphor-‘

‗-it‘s real enough-‘

‗-although we never had proof until we were able to

access your marriage records-‘

‗-and confirm your own DNA was a perfect match-‘

‗-for that associated with certain relics our Order has

knowledge of.‘

Bernice dunked her croissant in her orange juice and took

a big bite. ‗Tell me something I can‘t figure out. What is it

then, if it‘s not a mouldy old head?‘

‗Our records tell us the Sword is an artifact-‘

‗-a Holy artifact-‘

‗-a force placed at the gates of Eden to protect it from the

impure-‘

‗-a force capable of carrying out the Word of God Himself.‘

Bernice offered round the coffee. There were no takers.

‗Oh, come on. You don‘t really believe in all that nonsense

about the Ark, do you? That it could level mountains and rot

armies and what have you?‘

Kepler said, ‗And lay waste to cities and send forth plagues

and dry up oceans and change the face of the world-‘

Newton said, ‗-Of course not-‘

‗Oh good, because I thought for a moment I was going to

be dealing with a couple of raving-‘

Kepler interrupted, ‗-The Ark itself is merely the control

mechanism -

‗-it contains the operating instructions-‘

‗-the user manual, if you like-‘

‗-to the Sword itself.‘

Bernice raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‗I get you. Like a

computer, right, with peripherals and bolt-on hardware?‘

‗And a human operator-‘

‗-directing the power of God Himself.‘

Bernice broke into a sudden grin. ‗This is a legpull, right?

A little game to make up for last night?‘

‗I can assure you it is no game-‘

‗-the Sword is real-‘

‗-the Ark is the control centre, the operating system if you

like-‘

‗-and the Crown of Thorns, the Spear of Longinus and the

Holy Grail are the-‘

‗-bolt-on extras-‘

‗-as you put it yourself, so succinctly.‘

‗So... let me get this straight... You‘re trying to tell me

the operator of the Sword has to be crucified in order to use

it?‘

‗As far as we know.‘

‗Doesn‘t that rather defeat the object?‘

‗That depends what the objective is. For example-‘

‗-if the objective is the creation of a myth figure powerful

enough to change the world, then-‘

‗-death and resurrection would seem to be a more than

adequate way.‘

‗But you‘re talking about cloning... We have it already.‘

‗The resurrection of Christ was a symbol that changed

the world. Clearly the world has outgrown such symbols.

Power is no longer vested in metaphor. Power is vested in

accomplishments.‘

‗Are you telling me the Sword has the ability to... remake. . .

the world? Physically change it?‘

‗The texts are unclear-‘

‗-though we believe that to function properly no other

alternative is possible.‘

‗Does the Emperor know its capabilities?‘

‗We believe so.‘

‗How?‘

‗Through Marillian.‘

‗Your husband was a second order Mason before he joined

the Emperor.‘

‗Was that one of the reasons you tried to kill me? Because

of my association with Marillian?‘

‗And your search for the Sword, yes.‘

‗We know now it was a mistake, of course.‘

An embarrassed clearing of throats and then, ‗We‘re

actually quite-‘

‗-sorry about that little misunderstanding-‘

‗-and hope it won‘t prejudice you against-‘

‗-working with us in the future.‘

‗You guys are impossible, you know that?‘ She sighed

tiredly. ‗I assume Marillian knew all your dirty little secrets.‘

‗Some of them.‘

‗Did he know how the Sword worked?‘

‗Detailed information about the Sword is known only to

the head of our Lodge-‘

‗-at least it was-‘

‗-until we were authorized to impart that information to

you.‘

‗Hadn‘t you better tell me then?‘

Twin hesitation - a mirror glance. Concern? Fear? Bernice

wondered if the Masons were supposed to be telling her all

this.

‗No record exists of the precise means by which the Sword

functions-‘

‗-we only know what it is capable of-‘

‗-how it is used-‘

‗-and the use to which is was supposedly put.‘

‗And that is?‘

‗To build worlds-‘

‗-by creating time itself-‘

‗-since without time, matter cannot exist.‘

Bernice needed to think about that one for a moment.

‗You‘re saying this thing can create time?‘

‗Oh yes. Create time-‘

‗-change its direction-‘

‗-recreate life from a supplied pattern-‘

‗-turn energy into matter-‘

‗-build worlds-‘

‗-and populate those worlds.‘

Bernice felt her head spin. ‗You‘re talking about the power

of creation. Resurrection. Biblical miracles.‘

‗Yes-‘

‗-we are.‘

Bernice shook her head wonderingly. ‗Then... you‘re not

talking about an artifact belonging to God. You‘re talking

about God Himself.’

‗You might think that.‘

‗We couldn‘t possibly comment.‘

‗Well, OK...‘ Bernice struggled to find a way of expressing

the intensity of emotion she felt. Hopeless. Best to dive

straight back into more comfortable waters. ‗How does it do

all this? Perform these miracles?‘

‗Again the texts are less than precise-‘

‗-though it would appear that the one who operates the

Sword does so through an act of faith-‘

‗-for no reward comes without sacrifice-‘

‗-and as to the mechanism-‘

‗-we suspect that what happens is that the operator is

subjected to a life-ending experience-‘

‗-and a chemical record made of the neural patterns

within the brain at the moment of death so that-‘

‗-if the subject is of sufficiently pure intention, the last

recorded thought will be the objective they wished to achieve

via the Sword.‘

‗There is of course a complication-‘

‗-a safeguard, if you like-‘

‗-and that is that the operation of the mechanism would

appear to be invariably fatal

‗-you could say that he who wields the Sword of Forever

will be killed by it, even as it achieves his aims.‘

Bernice chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. ‗A neat way

to ensure that anyone with psychopathic tendencies won‘t

live to enjoy the fruits of their desire.‘

‗Actually we suspect this side effect is incidental-‘

‗-and that the Sword was simply never designed to be

wielded by anything more fragile than a god.‘

Bernice uttered a humourless laugh. ‗Why am I not

surprised?‘ She hesitated, afraid of asking the obvious

question. In the end, of course, there was no choice. ‗So

break it to me gently - what‘s my involvement?‘

The Masons exchanged brief looks.

‗We would have thought that was obvious, Bernice-‘

‗-especially to a scientist of your experience and

imagination-‘

‗-because you yourself have found evidence to suggest

that-‘

‗-when the Sword of Forever is finally used-‘

‗-and a culture is created travelling backwards in time-‘

‗-the human operator who dies creating that culture-‘

‗-will be you.‘

And the two Masons smiled; simultaneous grey smiles that

told Bernice if she thought she was in trouble before, it was

quite clearly nothing to the trouble she was in now.

PART FOUR

THE BLOOD AND THE FLAME

1

ANTIOCH: 2595

Bernice tied back her hair and stared up at the crumbling

stone edifice that was the Church of St Peter. The high walls

had clearly once been smooth and, though plain, must have

exuded a measure of calm and strength. Now the walls were

shored with a layer of concrete which itself was wearing

away, and the illusion of power was revealed to be just that -

an illusion. The church was just a building. The town just a

town. Bernice glanced around at the streets and people

and cats and thought that, despite the number of download

antennae, nothing very much had probably changed in the

last six thousand years.

She glanced down at the guide book she held, acquired for

an extortionate amount of money from the local tourist

office. The picture of the church must have been taken

several hundred years ago, judging by its condition. Bernice

flipped pages and began to read.

Three days after the Muslim army under command of

Kerbogha, the Turkish ruler of Mosul, invaded the city of

Antioch and retook it from the Crusaders, a thief named

Bartholomew had a vision. The vision was of the blessed

Apostle Andrew who, he claimed, appeared to him one night

as he slept in a cloud of light and told him to announce to the

struggling people that a source of consolation had fallen

from Heaven for them, through the finding of the Lance

which opened the side of the Lord. Bartholomew claimed that

the Lance lay hidden beneath the earth within the church of

St Peter. And it waited therefor the Crusaders to find and use

to defeat the invading army.

For three nights the visions continued, while Bartholomew

tossed and turned upon a rack of indecision. Should he

speak? Would he be believed? What if the Lance was not

there? Was he going mad?

On the sixth day after the army of Kerbogha retook

Antioch, Bartholomew was sought by Raymond of Toulouse

who had heard rumours of his visions. Bartholomew

admitted the truth. That same day men began to dig. The

Lance was found on 14 June 1098, exactly seven days after

the invading Turks had retaken the city. Three weeks and four

days later their entire army was destroyed, and the Lord

Jesus Christ transferred the entire city of Antioch and a

thousand Muslim men also to the Roman religious faith.

Bernice closed the guide book and walked up to the

entrance to the church. The wooden door was open and

through it she could see the interior was shrouded in

parchment-coloured light. She closed her eyes for a moment

and imagined the church as it might have been, walls smooth

but doused in the blood of Turk and Christian alike, screams

and the sounds of fighting done but new fear arising from

starvation and the knowledge that to survive the famine, the

Crusaders were going to have to drink the blood of their own

horses. That was his world. His life. Bernice opened her eyes

and was confronted with the infinitely more tranquil present-

day reality. And she smiled. Because Bartholomew had been

a liar and a thief. What the guide book hadn‟t said was that

his claims were false and that he himself had secreted an

Arab spear into the area of the dig and that was what had

been found by the Crusaders. The ironic thing was that it

hadn‟t made any difference when, with the „Spear of

Longinus‟ at their head, some few hundred of them took on

the entire Turkish army and kicked some serious arse.

The even more ironic thing, Bernice thought to herself,

was that if they‟d dug another few feet they‟d have found

the real Lance. Because according to the documents she‟d

retrieved from the Templar Mausoleum in Paris, the ones

offered to her by Daniel shortly after Marillian had taken the

Head of Christ, the Spear was exactly where Bartholomew

the thief had said it would be. Under the ground behind the

altar.

All she had to do was go in there and dig it up.

Three hours and a considerable number of bribes later she

was back in her hotel room. She placed the Lance (just the

head, the wooden shaft had long since rotted away) into a

stasis cube and tossed it on to the bed beside the Grail and

the Crown of Thorns, poured herself a very large drink and

settled down in the somewhat dilapidated armchair to watch

the sunset, and try to figure out what to do next.

While she watched the sun slide gradually around the orbital

mirror, she thought. It was inevitable really; the hotel room

her own little Gethsemane. Her moment of reflection before

the altar of choice. Because that was what it all boiled down

to in the end. Choice. Her choice to believe or not believe.

Her choice to be herself or like herself or change herself if

she didn‟t.

She drank deeply as the sun sank across the pale stone

town, its last dusty fingers creeping slowly up the grimy

hotel walls as if to pinch off all choice with the light.

Why was she here? Why was she doing this? Why had she

taken this self-destructive course? OK, so she was unhappy,

but why was she unhappy? She had a good job, quality

friends; her life had been an adventure Tom and Huck would

have robbed Injun Joe blind to experience.

So what was it then?

Why this feeling of guilt? Of fear?

Why this obsession with the Sword? The relics? With

God?

She tipped back her flask and guzzled more booze; felt the

old fire dig into her stomach though, to her surprise, she

took no comfort from the familiar sensation.

Maybe that was it.

Whatever else you might say about her life it was comfort-

able. It fit her like an excavating waldo. It was tight, familiar -

comfortable. Except... well, now it wasn‟t.

Why?

What had changed?

She sighed, tipped the flask again, blinked when she

discovered it was empty. She rang room service and had a

bottle of Bolivian Red delivered. It arrived later, a slightly

cold but nonetheless very acceptable substitute for the con-

tents of her flask.

She drank.

She drank some more.

She was happy with herself, wasn‟t she?

She was happy with her life, wasn‟t she?

Well - wasn‟t she?

Another bottle of wine followed the first. By now the

moon was up, painting the town with ghostlight and faerie

shadows - shadows she had last seen in London. London.

Marillian. Husband. Jason. Cock-up.

There were things in her life she was unhappy with, of

course there were. Everybody had them, didn‟t they? Every-

body had something they felt guilty about, or shied away

from thinking about, or -

- wanted to change?

Was there something about herself she wanted to change?

Surely not now. Not this late in life. For God‟s sake, she

was... well, she was old enough to know that she ought to

be happy with her life - not regret the things she hadn‟t done,

even if she had once thought they were for boring people. For

Heaven‟s sake! Of course she didn‟t regret not having a

family. Children. Even a steady bloke who she could respect

and be comfortable with. Her? The ace adventurer, Benny the

bolt Summerfield? Surprise was her middle name. She liked

it. Craved it. She lived for the moment. Time was her enemy.

Experience her prey.

She needed an average life like a... well, like a... hm,

well, like something she didn‟t need very much, anyway, that

was for sure.

Bernice realized the second bottle of wine was empty

when it slipped from her fingers and didn‟t splash when it hit

the carpet.

All right. Be honest now. You’re upset about something.

There’s something missing from your life. Family, car, penguin,

something.

That was true enough. But here was the clincher.

Are you sure filling the gap with God is going to make it

right?

She stayed awake until sunlight made a rosy reappearance

at her hotel window, but it was two days before she found an

answer.

When she did she unfolded her palmtop and keyed in

Marillian‟s address.

Marillian arrived later that day. His knock upon the door was

polite but firm.

„It‟s open.‟

He came in and closed the door carefully behind him.

Bernice tried not to stare. His clothes, his face, nothing had

changed. Why had she expected they would?

„Hello, Bernice.‟

„Hi.‟

„You‟re not dead then.‟

„I v-mailed you, didn‟t I?‟

„So what do you want?‟

„Got a present for you.‟ She hesitated. „Three presents

actually.‟ She nodded at the bed. He followed her gaze, his

expression carefully neutral. When he saw the relics his jaw

dropped like a ten-pound sledge.

„Four if you count this.‟ And she crossed the room, took

him in her arms and kissed him.

He pulled away almost immediately. „“I‟m not having sex

with you.”‟

She looked up at her own words. „Oh, that‟s cruel.‟

„So‟s stealing the Head and leaving you for dead.‟

She stepped back, considering. „I suppose so.‟

„Then why?‟

„Because...‟ She hesitated, then went on with sudden

resolve. „Because the Emperor knows more than the Masons

about the Sword of Forever. Newton and Kepler have led us

all up the garden path. You‟ve never lied to me. Omissions I

can deal with - it‟s just a matter of asking the right

questions. In a way it‟s my own fault you betrayed me in

Paris. But I can get beyond that... if you can answer one

question.‟

„Ask it.‟

„When you said you loved me... did you mean it?‟

His answer did not come straight away. „Not when I first

met you, no. But then I realized who you were. Your

significance.‟ Another hesitation. „You think I rescued you

from the Masonic Lodge in Scotland.‟

Bernice wondered if her expression was as out of control

as she felt. „I don‟t understand. How else could I be...‟ She

stopped.

He said flatly, „When I reached Loch Ness you were dead.

They‟d killed you.‟

‘That was an accident!’

„No.‟

Bernice closed her eyes, remembered the pain, the drugged

drink, knew he was right.

„Why else would they tell you the truth if they weren‟t

planning to kill you afterwards?‟

Bernice found herself sitting down suddenly. Her mouth

worked but no words came out.

„You asked me if I loved you. Not then, though I thought

of us as friends. But after. After I brought you back. Then I

loved you. Because in all the world you were the only one

who knew what it was like to die and be reborn. You were the

only one. Because we were the same.‟

„I... don‟t...‟

Marillian crouched beside her, taking her hand. He had to

hold it tightly to stop it from shaking. „I have died and been

reborn through the power of the Ark.‟

„That‟s utter... I need a drink.‟

„Think about it. Me. Patience. Now you. All three with

essentially the same experience. A Holy trinity. We have

been blessed, Bernice, blessed by the Word of God. He took

our mortal remains and remade them in His image.‟

„Oh yeah?‟ Her voice was hoarse, her body shaking so

hard her teeth chattered. „How... how do you acc-ccount for

the fact that Patience... is a bloody... bloody raptor

then?‟

Marillian just smiled. „It‟s a metaphor. We‟re all alive.

Alive as God is alive. In our hearts. And in the Ark.‟ His

smile was radiant. „You asked if I loved you. If all I have said

is true how could I not love you?‟

Bernice found herself shaking angrily. „That‟s tosh and

you know it.‟

Marillian sighed. „I know.‟ The blue patterns on his face

swirled agitatedly. „Funny how things never turn out how

you expect, isn‟t it?‟

„What do you mean?‟

He sighed, moved to the window, looked out across the

sea of stone, the flapping washing, the eye-achingly bright

sunglare. „I‟m going to tell you something you probably

won‟t believe.‟

„You‟d be surprised at some of the things I‟ve believed.‟

„I‟m sure. Well, here it is. I used to be a Mason. Second

Order. I worked with your friends Newton and Kepler. My

Chapter had what you might call special responsibilities. We

were supposed to maintain the status quo if anyone ever

made a discovery.‟ Somehow the word discovery came out

in huge capitals. „Then we got word of an expedition. A

man called Henry Jennings-Bankhurst had supposedly

found evidence to suggest the final resting place of the Ark of

the Covenant. Well, of course, he couldn‟t be allowed to find

it.

It would change the world. I was placed on the expedition

to make sure he didn‟t. By whatever means was necessary.‟

„You killed him?‟

„No. I did try to destroy the Ark though, because by then it

had been stolen by agents of the Emperor.‟

„What happened?‟

„I was caught trying to destroy the Ark with an old

handgun. I was - and this is the bit you‟re not going to

believe - I was executed.‟

Bernice uttered a humourless laugh. „The other one‟s got

bells on.‟

„I‟m serious. The Emperor shot me. There were several

hundred witnesses to my death... and to my resurrection,

when he let the Ark look upon my dead body.‟

Bernice felt her head spinning. „That‟s crazy. It‟s nonsense.

You Masons are all round the ruddy bend!‟

„It‟s true. The Ark remade me. I served the Emperor. How

could I not? I have experienced death. It is indescribable. The

terror in the moment of knowing immediately prior to the

end of life is something that would change your life forever,

if you ever survived it.‟

„So you joined the bad guys.‟

„Yes.‟

„Willingly.‟

„Yes.‟

„Why?‟

„Because... because... Gebmoses gave me life. He took

it away and then gave it back. Try to understand what that

could be like for someone fundamentally Christian in their

belief.‟

„You think the Emperor is God?‟

„I did for some while.‟

„And now?‟

„No.‟

„Why?‟

„Because of you. Because I know now how you fit into

things. I know about the Ark, and what it does. And because

I know the Emperor is a madman.‟ A momentary hesitation,

then, „He‟s a madman, Bernice, with the power of God at his

fingertips. He wants to change the world.‟

„We all want to do that.‟

„Not like him. You don‟t understand, Bernice. You don‟t

know him like I do. You see... I thought he was right for a

great many years. Right to want to cleanse the Earth. Right

to want to banish the evil in man from Eden, right to want to

clone an army from the DNA of the Templar Christ in order

to accomplish it. He thinks he‟s purifying the world, Bernice.

But he‟s simply going to remove every bit of uniqueness and

individuality from it by destroying everything and everyone

in favour of his perfect race. The People of God. Literally!‟

„I have to stop him.‟ It wasn‟t a question.

„Yes. I‟ll help if I can.‟

Bernice realized she was crying. „They said I would have

to, and they said I would have to die. Sodding Masons! Don’t

let them be right. Marillian, I believe in free will. I have to or

my whole life’s a lie. Don’t let them prove me wrong. I don’t

want to be a puppet or a sacrificial lamb or a metaphor for

anyone’s damn religious icon. Don‟t let Gebmoses kill me.

Promise me!‟

Marillian nodded. „I promise.‟

Two hours later they and the relics were aboard Marillian‟s

transport, heading East into Kampuchea for a meeting with

the man who would be Emperor of the Earth.

2

PANGAIA: 80 MILLION ANNO QUINCUNX

And the days of the Lord grew long and the people fell

from their great heights many times. And always when

they fell there came among them the Saviour, bringing

love and death among them to strengthen them against

adversity.

But the last time She came among them She saw with great

sadness that their lands and cities and farms had fallen to

weeds and ruin, and she spake unto them, saying, „Why do

you lie humble like beasts when the Lord hath given you the

knowledge of the Stars?‟

And they made no reply to Her, and She spake again,

saying, „Live you so close to the beasts of the land in manner

that you cannot speak?‟

And one among them said, „We toil not for the world turns

younger with each day. And what future have we who know

that future is not the boundless Heaven which the Lord

promised us but which, instead is naught but a fire in which

the world shall end.‟ And the people rose in fear, saying, „It is

said that the Lord has forsaken us and this fire is the fire of

Hell and it shall swallow us all.‟

And the Saviour smote her own forehead and furiously

spake. „You stupid, ignorant buggers! That‟s not the end of

the world, that‟s its birth. Why else do you think you were

supposed to develop spaceflight? Heaven ain‟t infinite, but it

does run to billions of years yet - assuming you can get your

asses off this sorry rock.‟

But the people understood not the Saviour‟s words, and

instead they smote themselves upon their foreheads in

emulation of Her divine action and went back to their mud

fields and their crumbling cities and their wasted lives.

And the Saviour, knowing Her task with Man was at last

done cast about the Land for another to anoint with the

knowledge of the stars.

She searched among the beasts and fowl, among the fish

that swam in the sea and the birds which flew upon the

wing. She searched among the crawling things and flapping

things which dwelt within the earth. And so She came, after

many years had passed in despair of finding that which She

sought, to the Land, and there she waited.

And it came to pass that her gaze alighted at length upon

other life. Heathen, true, and godless, but she could change

that. She could lift them from their destiny of extinction and

give them the stars forsaken by once-chosen Man. She could

give them God. But first She had to give them Life.

She waited in the hills of the Cold Lands for many more

years, until one such came among the struggling animals

that had been Man. And she called that one to her in her

temple within the hillside and said unto it, „What manner of

creature are you? For you seem familiar to me, yet I have no

knowledge of you.‟

And the visitor spoke weakly, for she perceived it was

wounded, and it replied in its own voice, „I am Old and I am

dying.‟

And she said to it, „Shall I make of you a Man to have

knowledge of life and stars, and to go forth from this place

unto your people and teach them of things which I shall

decree and which shall make them stronger and wiser that

they shall inherit the earth where others have failed?‟

And Old said, „You speak of that which I crave like life

itself. You speak of knowledge.‟

And the Saviour said unto him, „“And the Angel of the Lord

appeared to him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a

bush; and he looked, and behold, the bush burnt with fire,

and the bush was not consumed.”‟

And Old understood the Saviour‟s words, saying, „You

speak of life and death.‟

And the Saviour replied, „I speak of life from death. I

speak of worlds and stars. All this I offer to thee and more.

All I ask in return is worship and obedience.‟

„Knowledge is its own master.‟

„Then I shall gift you with that which you seek.‟

And the Saviour took Old, of the race of Raptor and

remade him in Her own image.

And later, she died with no regrets, for her task was done,

and the Sword of Forever had a new guardian, and she came

to the Lord with open eyes and heart and was seen no more

in

the Land.

3

KAMPUCHEA: 2595

Bernice stared at the woman. She was a dancer, an apsara.

Her left elbow had been shattered by gunfire and both legs

had severe bullet wounds. Her left temple was missing,

hollowed by yet more gunfire into a gaping crater which

began at her brow and continued up into her headdress. Her

face was aged yet ageless, still beautiful. At least the bullets

hadn‟t touched her there.

Bernice shook her head. The woman may have been only a

relief, one of many thousand figures carved from stone upon

the walls of the temples of Angkor Wat, but that did not

diminish the tragedy of her injuries, inflicted by Khmer

Rouge weapon-fire more than five centuries before Bernice

herself had been born. She stood now as an endless

monument to the one thing an archaeologist dreads - not

wind or acid rain or organic rot but the apparently eternal

folly of human nature.

Beside Bernice, Marillian told the load-lifter which had

brought them from the spaceport to go to the garage. The

vehicle immediately took itself off to park somewhere out of

sight. Bernice ignored its movements, instead tracing the

outline of the stone dancer‟s face with her finger, trying

desperately not to let the stone maiden‟s fatal injuries bring

back to life the still-too-vivid memories of her own death.

Marillian said, „“The one who goes through the water of

the clouds.”‟

Bernice felt her hands tremble as she touched the stone.

She imagined gunfire, screams, the death of many who were

not made of stone. She imagined mass graves, barren fields,

a people trying to claw their way back from a hell on earth.

Just as she was. „Twelfth century Khmer.‟ Her voice was a

whisper. „She lived untouched for eight hundred years.

Survived wars, storms... the twentieth century took her from

us.‟ She took back her hand, still feeling the grain of the

stone impressed into her skin. „Time took her from us.‟ She

looked at her husband with carefully neutral eyes. „I‟m ready

to go in now.‟

If Bernice had expected Marillian would take her straight to

the Emperor she was mistaken. The first thing he did was

bring her to a suite of rooms located in a summerhouse

within the ornate temple gardens, which he told her had been

provided for their use. He asked if there was anything he

could get her to help freshen up.

Bernice grabbed her toothbrush from her satchel and

waved it at him. „Travelling light has become rather a forte.

You could find me something to wear though. Somehow all

this‟ - she looked down at her grubby trousers, boots and

shirt, torn in France and recently patched, then out of the

window of the suite, which overlooked the south-eastern

corner of the moat, and the irrigated fields beyond the temple

wall - „seems a little out of keeping with the general

atmosphere.‟

Marillian nodded. He turned to leave, hesitated, seeming

to want to kiss her. Bernice waited.

„Benny, I -‟ Marillian turned suddenly and left the suite. It

was the last time she saw him before she died.

Bernice took off her clothes and made a bee-line for the

shower. The water washed over her and she couldn‟t help

thinking of the people she had seen working in the rice

fields, protected from the sun by the checkered cotton

krama bound like a loose turban around their heads. She

remembered the thousands scrambling aboard the daily

train to Battambang as she and Marillian had entered

Phnom Penh. What lives did they have here, she found

herself wondering. What quality of life? At least they were

still human - she supposed that must count for something -

with the „Emperor‟ at least.

Now she was here. But what would she do now? Was she

capable of carrying out the one thing she knew she must? If

Newton and Kepler were telling the truth, she had little

choice. It was her life balanced against the survival of an

entire culture. But she was still very scared. As scared as she

had ever been.

Finding herself shivering, Bernice turned up the shower

temperature. The water poured down on her in steaming

torrents; for a short while she could forget what she had

to do.

Not for long. When she emerged from the shower wrapped

in a large towel, a man was waiting for her. He was armed; a

soldier. Bernice didn‟t need to ask why he was there. „I‟ll

need to dress.‟

The soldier nodded; surprisingly politely, she thought.

The soldier led her from the suite and through the grounds of

the temple. By now it was afternoon; the sun was high and

hot, stretched in its mirror-arc across the sky. The soldier led

her through carefully tended gardens to the eastern wall and

then left.

Ten minutes later Bernice was still looking at the temple

wall, unable, quite, to decide whether it should more properly

be considered architecture or art. She supposed in the end it

didn‟t matter. The wall was a symbol as well as a defence and

in a historical sense the two were indistinguishable.

Depicted on the wall, as on all the stone surfaces of the

temple, were carved reliefs. The one which she was looking

at now stretched for more than fifty metres. She tried to

count the figures - the stone apsaras - depicted there but

could only estimate their number at several hundred, at

least. She tried to retrieve any scrap of knowledge about the

carvings. In truth it was not so much out of scientific

curiosity as a desire to put off thinking about what was

inevitably to come.

In any event she had no further time to consider. There

came the soft tread of sandals on grass. She turned. Geb-

moses in was a slight man, but tall. He was dressed in a

conservative cream linen suit. His face was thrown into sharp

relief by the high sun. His eyes were deeply shadowed, his

lips a slash of flesh-colour in his pale skin. Bernice shivered

as she looked at the thin face, the fine-boned hands. This

was the man who had taken her husband. Taken him before

she had ever met him, taken him and made him his own. The

man who could snuff out her life at a whim. For the first time

she felt fear. She became aware that her hands were

clenched into fists, the nails digging painfully into her palms.

She unclenched them with an effort, then wiped them on her

trousers.

He moved towards her, unsmiling, and now she became

aware of other movement. More soldiers. His guards. In case

she tried anything? Bernice thought about allowing herself a

smile but didn‟t, afraid it might come out wrong and betray

her real feelings.

Gebmoses III moved close to her - too close - before

stopping. His eyes held hers. Why did he want to meet out

here? In the open? Why the soldiers? Was he afraid for his

life even here in his own palace? Could he be frightened of

her?

He smiled; she wouldn‟t have believed the transformation

had anyone else told her of it: the face which only

moments before had been a disturbing mask now radiated

comfortable familiarity and benevolence. He nodded

towards the carving on the wall. „A Hindu creation myth.

Churning the Sea of Milk.’ He moved closer, hands moving

elegantly to outline details of the stone relief, „The central

figure is Vishnu, closely associated with the builder of this

temple, King Suryavarman II.‟ He waited. Bernice waited

too. He continued, „To the left are the asuras, or demons,

led by Ravana. To the right, the celestial gods led by the

monkey god Hanuman. This between them is the serpent,

Vasuki, a most important figure. Vasuki, you see, creates

the ambrosia of immortality. It is a symbol of the king‟s

beneficence.‟

Bernice nodded without speaking.

Gebmoses touched the stone with his bare hand, almost

seeming to sense the story being told within the rock.

„Immortality. A hard gift to attain, I am sure you would

agree.‟ It wasn‟t a question. „Originally this wall was protected

by a vault - a roof. It has been missing for several centuries.

Here, you see these dark patches? That is damage caused by

water evaporating through the stone itself.‟ A finger moved,

scraping residue from the stone, rubbing it away against a

palm. „The residues are destructive. The stone dies, slowly,

inevitably.‟ A minute hesitation. „Time. Some call it the great

healer. I prefer to think of it as a tireless predator. The

ultimate predator. Wouldn‟t you agree?‟

Bernice shrugged.

Gebmoses‟ thin lips narrowed thoughtfully. „You have

questions. Ask them.‟

„For a man who professes an obsession for Christian

symbols you seem remarkably well acquainted with the

Hindu religion.‟

„I am familiar with many religions. But I believe in only

one. Only one faith will purify this earth. Only one God will

provide forever for His chosen believers.‟

Bernice shivered.

„My belief frightens you?‟

„Oh yes.‟ There was no point in lying.

„Good. Purification can only be achieved through fear.‟ A

moment, then, „There are many things here you would find

interesting. I could show you a selection. Would you like

that?‟

Bernice shrugged. „Under normal circumstances.‟

Gebmoses said, almost bleakly, „The world being the way

it is you may be properly thankful these circumstances are

not normal.‟

Bernice shrugged. „Whatever.‟

Bernice was led into the temple proper through a vaulted

entrance. The tour was unhurried, Gebmoses an ingenuous

host. Frequently they stopped to examine this relief or that

statue, some recovered from museums or private collectors

over the last twenty years. Gebmoses would give a small

commentary about each. The stops punctuated a tour which

consisted of a bewildering array of laboratories, special

research units, prayer rooms. The temple, clearly refurbished

to Gebmoses‟ own unique vision, was a strange combination

of science and religion.

The tour continued, moving away from the temple in

a small convoy of military load-lifters, wafting along the

impressive walls of the Eastern Baray, one of four artificial

reservoirs designed to irrigate the fields with collected rain-

water from the monsoons. Bernice could not help but be

impressed. The Barays were more than a thousand years old

yet still provided a perfectly adequate irrigation system. The

skill and beauty of its construction would have easily placed

it among the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

„The Khmer were gifted with an integrated view of the

universe.‟ Gebmoses spoke with a dreamy half-smile playing

about his lips. „A powerful political organism, a strong,

centralized and uniform society, and fabulous technical

organization.‟

„“And a partridge in a pear tree.”‟

Gebmoses frowned. „Not precisely. No partridges here,

you see. Wrong sort of climate.‟

Bernice‟s expression did not change. „How silly of me.‟

„Well.‟ Gebmoses signalled the driver and the load-lifter

ground to a halt at a small temple to the south of the Baray.

When Gebmoses took her hand to usher her from the vehicle

it was as much as Bernice could do not to break his arm.

* * *

The interior of the Temple of Pre Rup was unlike any she had

seen previously. She recognized it straight away from

descriptions she had read during the research she had

conducted into the Egyptian culture while in London, and

also from her Masonic sojourn in Scotland.

„An interesting combination.‟ Bernice gazed interestedly

at the faced stonework, the pillars, the precise design as

familiar to her as the patterns of a snowflake.

„You recognize the influences?‟

„The Temple of Solomon. The Pyramid of Unas.‟

„The place from which the Ark of the Covenant vanished

from living memory.‟ Gebmoses seemed pleased she had

recognized the styles. „The Pyramid of Kings.‟ A moment,

then, „The Pharaohs thought they were the embodiment of

Horus while a man, and that they would be reborn into

eternity as the god Osiris when they died.‟

„And you expect to do the same?‟

Gebmoses‟ face explored the boundaries of another thin

smile. „That would be a convenient cliché, wouldn‟t it? Fuel

to the fire of your own scepticism? No, Bernice. I do not seek

the wisdom of ancient gods. My own God has already

offered me immortality. I have a more important task to

achieve.‟

„Oh yes, I‟d forgotten. “Nobody expects the Spanish

Inquisition.”‟ Bernice did not smile.

Gebmoses moved into the centre of the stone chamber,

raised his hands, and said loudly, „“Forgive them, Father, for

they know not what they do.”‟ He drew back curtains

concealing a space behind the altar and beckoned Bernice

forward. It didn‟t take much to figure out what the cloth-

covered, box-shaped object sitting on its stone dais was.

Gebmoses waited for the echoes of his previous words to

subside then continued, „They seek to forgive. To accept. To

embrace. They seek to pollute the purity of Earth with the

seed of the heavens. They do not realize it is time to cast out

the Serpent. Time to build a new Eden. And you, Bernice.

You will help me in this. You will be my architect. The

Architect of Eden. Together we will purify Earth.‟

„Just don‟t ask me to carry any bricks - I‟m useless with a

hod.‟

The somewhat desperate humour was lost on Gebmoses.

He smiled; a mindless killer‟s smile she had last seen on the

face of a shark.

„It won‟t be that sort of Eden.‟

4

THE ORIENT: 4500 ANNO QUINCUNX

It was a time of miracles but the people did not rejoice.

What should have been harmony was disharmony; what

should have been unification was diversity. Whims and

passions were indulged; Man prayed for intellectual pleasure

- and preyed for visceral pleasure - upon Man.

So it was when the Saviour came for the third time and,

walking among the people She spoke to them, saying, „The

knowledge that I have brought among you is gone, scattered

as your people were scattered generations since by the Word

of God. You failed Him then as you fail Him now. You do not

remember the wrath of the Lord or your promises to his

Saviour.‟

And the people, fearing the wrath of the Lord rose up

against the Saviour and cast Her from their midst, saying,

„Go thou from this place of intellect and decision lest your

Master, who is no longer our master, visits his vengeance

upon us and lays our wombs and lands barren and scatters

us as once before.‟

And the Saviour spake unto them, saying, „Fools. In your

ignorance you are scattered. You simply do not know it.‟

And She travelled for many years throughout the wilder-

ness, and strove mightily, seeking a solution to the ignorance

of the people that they would accept, lest the knowledge of

the Sword of Forever be once more lost to time.

And it came to pass after some years that She came to the

Land of the East and there She spoke with learned Men who

maintained the Way of the Lord, and bade them use their

skills to preserve forever the knowledge that was hers by

inscribing it unto her shaven head that even in death she

might be its progenitor.

And the wise men made a gift to her of their ability and so

she was Marked, and by her Mark would she be forever

known, and the Mark was this:

„That whomsoever beareth the Crown and spilleth blood

by the Crown and by the Spear, and holdeth that blood

within the Grail and placeth that matter within the Ark of the

Covenant, and obeys the Law of God as written therein, so

shall they wield the Sword of Forever, the Sword which can

kill death, the sword which can bear time itself as a child.‟

And so the Saviour passed again from living memory

though Her gift of knowledge remained.

5

KAMPUCHEA: 2595

The Temple of Ta Prohm, a mile to the west of the Ark‟s

resting place in Pre Rup, held a complex genetics laboratory.

State of the art facilities and personnel; mid to high level

computer operations performed by pigs servicing a serious

AI. Bernice did a double-take as she noticed one pig staring

at her. Was that Anson?

Hooked up to a gene-sequencer via a computer interface

was the relic described by Templar lore as the Head of Christ.

As Bernice watched, Gebmoses bent forward so that his face

was on a level with that of the mummy. He blinked, wriggled

his eyebrows and set his mouth into a number of different

positions, trying to match his expression to that of the relic.

Bernice had to stop herself from smiling. It was as though

Gebmoses was pretending to look in a mirror; his reflection

the mummified face.

Gebmoses turned suddenly, straightening to fix Bernice

with a direct gaze. He smiled, a blink-and-you‟ll-miss-it

expression of humour. He nodded towards the Head. „Ugly

fellow. But powerful. Had the world in his hands. Gave it

all up for his people. They killed him for it. And he let

them.‟

Bernice did not have to feign interest. „A mistake you are

not going to repeat, I presume.‟

„On the contrary. Look at what he achieved through his

death and resurrection. I will achieve all that and more. I will

achieve Heaven on Earth.‟

„How?‟

He shrugged, placed his hands at the scraps of flesh that

were the Head‟s ears and gently tugged. He poked his tongue

out at his „reflection‟ and waggled his finger reprovingly.

Bernice bit her lip until she tasted blood.

„Umm... I‟m not sure I want to tell you. You might think

I was mad. Then again, you are part of it, so I suppose it‟s all

right after all... All right. I‟ll tell you. It‟s very simple. The

Sword of Forever is not a metaphor. It is a real artifact. The

will of God made manifest as a set of Holy relics.‟

„The Ark, the Spear, the Grail, the Crown. Tell me some-

thing I don‟t know.‟

„Well, Bernice, let me put it like this. You are born. You

grow old. You die. Straightforward enough, correct?‟

She nodded.

„All one direction, unchanging, unchangeable, correct?‟

Another nod.

A self-important catch of the breath. „Well, you see,

Bernice, that isn‟t actually true. Everything you‟ve heard

about the direction of movement of life through time - well,

that‟s wrong too.‟

Bernice felt her head spin. „I don‟t -‟

„Oh, but you do, Bernice. You do understand.‟ A beat,

then, „“The Christian Bible tells us God made the world and

everything in it: but no thing can exist without time to define

it. Did God make time as well?”‟ Gebmoses rubbed his

hands together in delight while Bernice shivered at the sound

of her own words, spoken so long ago, it seemed now, to her

then-new husband.

„You see?‟ he said. „You do understand. So simple. God

exists outside time and space. He made time and space. He

wrote the rule book for the universe. He made the dice. Every

so often he gives the tumbler a shake and - whoops! - he

mimed rolling dice, „- sometimes they come up sevens.‟

Bernice folded her arms impatiently. „Meaning what

exactly?‟

„Put simply, the Ark can create life from death, order from

chaos, time from no-time. God made the Earth in seven days,

right? Oh, I know it was all supposed to be just a metaphor

to allow for the intrusion of evolution into someone‟s until

then neatly reasoned religion. But... suppose it was true?

How do you suppose He did it? What mechanism do you

think enabled the conception of everything we know?‟

„Bet your life it wasn‟t inner-city planners.‟

Gebmoses beckoned conspiratorially. Cautiously, Bernice

followed him to an observation port set into the length of one

wall. Through the port she could see a vast chamber filled

with what seemed to be life support systems. Incubation

pods. Each was connected to a web of medical and computer

systems. They were in rows of twenty. She could not count

the number of rows.

„Bernice,‟ said Gebmoses in a whisper. „Meet the

resurrection.‟

She followed his eyes into the room, found herself pulling

focus to the image of the mummified Head reflected in the

glass.

„You think you‟re cloning Christ.‟

Gebmoses smiled gleefully. „Yes.‟

„Lots of Christs.‟

„Oh yes. A considerable number. Tens of thousands.‟

„At once?‟

„Oh no. A few thousand at a time.‟

„An army.‟

„The Army of God.‟ He considered. „I like that. It has a

nice ring to it. Yes. An army. Perhaps. If the need arose.‟

„To purify Earth. Kick out the aliens, the non-believers.‟

„Mmmm... I sense tongues have been wagging... no.

Not quite.‟

„What then?‟

Gebmoses touched a control on the wall and the port

opaqued. „It‟s a matter of symbolism. Christ sacrificed him-

self for his people. I shall do the same.‟

„I see. So you‟re going to jump up on your jolly old wooden

cross and hold your arms out and say, “Here I am,

chaps, bring on the hammer and nails”?‟

„Mmm... yes, essentially.‟

„And the Ark will bring you back to life.‟

„As it did your husband when I killed him twenty years

ago.‟

She shuddered. „And I suppose you‟re going to kill me as

well?‟

„No. Like Barabbas your release is secure. You may leave,

or be witness, as you choose.‟

„Why?‟

He looked at her and his eyes were unfathomable.

„Because I know you‟ll understand.‟

Bernice tried to ignore the moment of connection between

them. „I want to know more. What if this isn‟t Christ‟s

head?‟

He shrugged. „It is only important what people believe.‟

A moment, then, „I have employed teams of scientists to

research the relics. They‟ve been working for two decades.

The power of the Sword of Forever is the power of creation.

Not of space but of time itself.‟

„But time already exists.‟

„Linearly, yes.‟

Bernice rubbed her eyes. „You‟re talking about non-linear

time. You‟re talking about...‟ Her mind raced as she

grasped the concept. The image of worlds, whole universes

existing in parallel, connected only at points of temporal

rotation made her dizzy.

He said, „Think of a data storage crystal. Read by lasers,

the information is stored on planes. Rotate the crystal a

fraction of a degree and another plane of information is

brought into view. How many planes can co-exist in the same

block of space? Hundreds? Thousands? I only need one.‟ His

voice took on a poignant tone. „God made the world pure but

now it has become tainted. Eden lies in ashes and the Sword

guards its gates from any return. I will therefore create a new

Eden. A new world for the pure, for the sons and daughters

of Christ the Saviour. A new universe. A new frame of

temporal reference. Time,‟ he added quietly, „for a new

time.’

Bernice laughed out loud. „You‟re insane if you think

that‟s true.‟

„You think so? Then watch.‟

After that it happened very quickly. Robed figures (priests?

soldiers?) took Bernice from the presence of Gebmoses, took

her back to the Temple of Pre Rup, to the reconstruction of

the interior of the Pyramid of Unas. There she was given a

robe and told to wait with several other robed and cowled

figures. More priests or soldiers? Witnesses? There was no

way to tell. She tried to talk to them but they all ignored her.

Realizing eventually that no one was going to talk to her, she

walked towards the temple entrance. No one tried to stop her.

She came back. That achieved an equally blank response.

She was on the point of exploring the temple further when

the main doors opened and a robed figure was brought in.

The figure was hooded but she knew who it was. The shape

of the body told her it could only be Gebmoses.

Bernice found herself watching the ceremony with a

mixture of fascination and dread. Gebmoses was led into the

centre of the room and made to kneel before the altar. Now

she saw that the altar held a rectangular shape covered in

cloth. The Ark. The figure of a high priest stood before

Gebmoses and lifted back his hood. His head had been

shaved. His face was blank, covered in a faint sheen of sweat.

He was frightened! Bernice swallowed hard. She knew from

her experience in the Masonic Lodge in Scotland how he

must feel.

The priest began to speak.

„Thou standest, protected, equipped as a god, equipped

with the aspect of Osiris on the throne of the First of the

Westerners. Thou dost what he was wont to do among the

spirits, the Imperishable Stars. Thy son stands on thy

throne, equipped with thy aspect; he dost what thou wast

wont to do aforetime at the head of the living by the

command of Re, the Great God; he cultivates barley, he

cultivates spelt, that he may present thee herewith. All life

and dominion are given to thee, eternity is thine, says Re.

Thou thyself speakest when thou hast received the aspect of

a god, and thou art great thereby among the gods who are in

the estate. Thy Ba stands among the gods, among the spirits;

fear of thee is in their hearts. Thy name that is on earth

liveth, thy name that is on earth endureth; thou wilt not

perish, thou wilt not be destroyed for ever and ever.‟

Bernice found herself shivering. Substitute „Re‟ for „God‟

and it was the same prayer pronounced over her in Scotland.

A movement caught her eye. Curtains were being drawn

back. The wooden cross she had seen before was carried by

seven robed figures into the centre of the room and set into a

receptacle in the stone floor. Upright, it stretched as high as

two men.

An upholstered footstool was placed before it.

The priest turned to the altar, back to face Gebmoses

holding something. The Crown. Bernice recognized it easily.

The priest placed the Crown upon Gebmoses‟ shaved head

and pressed down hard. Gebmoses was held tightly but did

not move as blood began to run down the side of his face.

The crown in place, he was raised to his feet.

Gebmoses was led to the footstool and climbed it without

protest, turning to stand with his back to the wooden

upright.

Bernice was unable to look away, unable to separate the

horror she felt at what was surely a ridiculous and pointless

death from the stomach-churning relief that it was not her

up there on the cross.

And then, as Bernice watched, unable to look away, his

robe was removed and he was crucified.

„Let the Spear be brought forth to open his body.‟

A movement; a robed figure took the relic from the priest

and raised it to Gebmoses‟ side.

„Let the Grail be brought forth to hold his blood.‟

Another figure held the stone Bernice had found to catch

the blood from his wounds.

Gebmoses struggled, his voice emerging in blurting gouts

of words. „Verily I say... unto thee... today shalt thou be

with me... in... Paradise.‟ The last word was a breath-

starved, agonized gasp.

Bernice could stand no more. Unaware she was crying,

she turned and moved towards the temple entrance. Three

robed figures blocked her path. She tried to move around

them. One stepped forward to hold her, removing its cowl

to reveal -

„Marillian! What

A finger at her lips silenced her voice.

Two more cowls fell back to reveal the grey faces of

Newton and Kepler.

„I don‟t understand -‟

„Be silent -‟

„-be still —‟

„- and wait.‟

By now Gebmoses was writhing upon the cross, his chest

working, every rib defined, every muscle dripping sweat. His

breath came in shallow, pain-filled gasps. Slower. Slower.

Until finally he exhaled and did not again draw breath. He

slumped. The quivering upright figure vibrated once and was

still. He hung silent. Still. Dead.

The priest spoke again.

„Let the sight of God be upon these proceedings.‟

He turned and began to unwrap the Ark.

Bernice held her breath, forgotten tears coating her face,

her heart hammering at her own ribs, her ears ringing with

the precious movement of blood.

The priest unwrapped the Ark. The Spear and Crown were

removed from the hanging body and, together with the stone

that was the Grail, were placed inside the Ark.

The body was removed from the cross and taken from the

temple.

The priest re-covered the Ark and left the temple.

The robed observers slowly left the temple.

That was all.

„I don‟t...‟ Bernice turned to her companions. „Is that it?‟

„Not quite -‟

„- the body will be taken to the people -‟

„- so they can see that Gebmoses is dead -‟

„- before his resurrection takes place.‟

„Here. You‟ve been crying.‟ Marillian used the sleeve of

his robe to wipe tears from her face.

„What now? I suppose we could go to the incubator

chamber and stop the machinery cloning Christ. No need for

an army when the general‟s dead. And if we can keep him

dead...‟ She tailed off, aware she was probably talking utter

gibberish due to the shock.

„No.‟ Newton.

„Have you forgotten what we said?‟ Kepler.

„There‟s something you must do here first.‟ Marillian, his

voice soft, his eyes wet with tears.

Bernice uttered a noise between a laugh and a sob.

„“You are eternity.”‟

„“You must die so the future past may live.”‟

„You know, I was wondering when you‟d get around to

mentioning that again.‟ Bernice followed both their glances

towards the blood-stained cross.

6

JERUSALEM : 3355 ANNO QUINCUNX

And it came to pass that there was a war upon the land. For

it had been more than three hundred generations since the

Lord had created this place, and the people now were

arrogant and divided and improperly appointed with weapons

and the knowledge of how to use them.

But for one weapon there was more strife; for it alone had

been jealously guarded by those defenders of the Temple of

Bernice Surprise Summerfield, to the exclusion of those who

now coveted it. And it was called the Sword of Forever, and it

was said that whoever held the Sword held the reins of time

itself.

So it came to pass in the fortieth year of the greatest battle,

the Temple was sundered and the Holy of Holies was taken

by the people from the Place which the Saviour had decreed

it be kept.

And while the people lamented there came among them for

a second time the Saviour.

And, walking among them, friend and foe alike, She saw

what had come to pass and said unto them, „“And I will

execute vengeance and fury upon the heathen such as they

have not heard. For a man‟s enemies are the men of his own

house.”‟

And those that lay seige knew that it was so because they

had coveted what was not theirs, but so also did the

defenders know that it was so because they had hid from

them that coveted what might have belonged to all.

And the Saviour saw that they knew this, friend and foe

all, and said unto them, „God is jealous and the Lord

revengeth and is furious. The Lord has His way in the

whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of

his feet. He rebuketh the sea and maketh it dry. The

mountains quake at him, and the hills melt, and the earth is

burnt in his presence, yea, the world and all that dwell

therein. His fury is poured out like fire and He will make an

utter end of this place thereof, and darkness shall pursue his

enemies wheresoever they shall be found.‟

And the people, be they friend or foe alike, fell to their

knees in fear at the sound of Her voice and the sight of Her

judgement, but She recanted not and instead bade them

unwrap the Holy of Holies and lay themselves and their

world bare before their God.

And the Saviour said unto them, „You‟ve been naughty

boys and girls and you‟re going to get a spanking,‟ and She

threw open the Holy of Holies and God sundered the world

and scattered the people to the four quarters, and many died,

but many also travelled to the East and many to the West, as

the sun rises and time passes, and never did the people meet

again for their worlds were different now and their tongues

were different and they travelled in opposite directions not

only across the land but also in the direction of their lives

and in time.

And so the people were scattered and all knowledge of the

Sword of Forever was lost. All save the sons and daughters

of the Saviour, unto many generations of generations, for

they were given a great gift, and that was the gift of

knowledge, and a burden was laid upon them and it was the

burden of protection of the knowledge of the Sword, and the

knowledge of it was signified by the emblem of an All

Seeing Eye bounded by a Compass and a Square and these

symbols stood for Truth and Righteousness and Compassion,

for it was without them that the world had been sundered.

But even this knowledge passed with the generations of

the Saviour into obscurity and myth, and unknowing.

7

KAMPUCHEA: 2595

They helped her on to a footstool and her right arm was

yanked out in a straight line above her head where it was

held in place by a rough nail driven between the radius and

the ulna bones just above the wrist and

Jesus, turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem,

weep not for me but weep for yourselves, and for your

children, for behold the days are coming in which they shall

say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bear,

and the paps which never gave suck and

her left arm was pulled out sideways and nailed at full

stretch and

verily I say unto thee, Today shalt thou be with me in

paradise and

the footstool was kicked away, causing her right shoulder

to dislocate instantly as the full weight of her body was

transferred to the vertical arm and

a darkness remained over all Earth until the ninth hour

and

a third nail was hammered between the second and third

metatarsal of the right foot and

the sun was darkened and

the knees bent upwards so that both feet could be pinned

flat against the wooden shaft and

the veil of the temple was rent in its midst and

she screamed and

all the people that came together to that sight, beholding

the things which were done, smote their breasts and

tried to ease the pain in her arm by standing on the spike

which skewered her feet but

all his acquaintance and

the angle of her knees made even this small relief

impossible and

the women that followed him from Galilee stood afar off

beholding these things and

Marillian pressed the Crown of Thorns against her head

and

Patience pierced her side with the Holy Spear of Longinus

and

Newton took her blood upon the Grail and

Kepler flung open the Ark of the Covenant and

into thy hands I commend my spirit and

Bernice cried out to the Lord and

cried with a loud voice and

welcomed Him into her heart and

gave up the ghost and

died and

A rain of dimensions.

The word of God.

Time without time.

The moment of creation.

8

KAMPUCHEA: 150 ANNO QUINCUNX

The Saviour came first among them at a time of strange

peace. Many generations had passed since God had created

their world. They were a pitiful people by then, inbred, on

the ragged edge of extinction. The Saviour looked at what

they had become and shook Her head in despair. In Her

image had they been made, yet now they had fallen, their

aspirations, hopes, dreams, all dashed as a bottle containing

a cry for help might be smashed against unyielding rock by

the merciless sea.

They were animals.

Like animals, She culled them; feeding the survivors,

teaching them the skills they had lost, yanking them by their

bootstraps into a world and a future which had all but

forgotten them.

And when She had done this, and saw that it was good,

She instructed them in the construction of a place of great

worship and learning. And She said unto them, „This Temple,

which Shall be named for Solomon, is to have two rooms,

one‟ of which shall be a crypt. And the hall shall have

fourteen free-standing pillars, twelve of which are matching,

but the ones in the southeast and the northeast shall be

unique, and these pillars shall be known, the southernmost

of them as Boaz and the northernmost as Jachin, and they

shall be named, the southernmost of them for Strength and

Patience, and the westernmost of them for Establishment

and Stability.‟

And so it came to pass. For years the people toiled, and the

temple was built. And She looked upon their work and saw

that it was good. And She called the people to Her, the

learned and the ignorant among them as one, and said unto

them, „“Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his

kind, and it was so.”‟

And in their ignorance they did not understand Her words.

But She walked among them and said, „The fruit of the tree

of knowledge shall be yours.‟

And still they did not understand Her.

And She said unto them, „The knowledge of enzyme

analysis of DNA shall I give to thee. The knowledge of

nucleotide sequencing and messenger RNA and codon signal

chain termination shall I give to thee. All these shall I give to

thee, in the name of thy Saviour, whose name is, was and

ever shall be Bernice Surprise Summerfield, and whose word

is the Word of the Lord.‟

And still the people did not understand Her.

And the Saviour looked upon them in their ignorance, and

verily She said unto them, „Look here. I‟m a scientist. I‟m

here with a message from God. You‟ve got a bit of a problem

in the old gene-pool department at the moment. Not un-

expected considering that you were all cloned from the same

DNA. But trust in Me and everything will work out just

fine.‟

And the people, hearing the Saviour‟s words, were fruitful

and multiplied, unto many generations of generations, all

across the living earth.

9

QUINCUNX

There were no words to describe what she experienced. How

could there be when words were defined by thought and

thought by time and time itself was being reborn? She

existed, that was all, but without definition; a point, a

singularity of conception within the mind of something more

powerful than herself. A mind that saw her and knew every

detail of her existence right down to her memories of

scooping sand into a plastic bucket, throwing the sand,

watching the crumbling lumps scatter across the beach as

she leapt, clapping and squealing delightedly, ‘Daddy, look,

look what I can do I can knock them all down —’ and her

father said, ‘Why don’t you build something, Benny? Use the

sand and build with it?’ And she stopped jumping and

clapping at the tone of her father’s voice and, crying, she

began

brushing dirt from the skeleton, slowly removing the debris, a

double O brush working to expose fossilized bones with

painstaking care as, in her head she leapt, clapping and

shouting delightedly, ‘I found one, check it out—’ and her

teacher said, ‘Why don’t you learn from it, Bernice? Take the

fossil and use it to build on your knowledge of the past.’ And

her excitement faded at the tone of her teacher’s voice as,

quietly determined, she began

operating the controls of the gene-sequencer, breaking down

the cell sample, watching the strands re-form on the computer

screen, incomplete as yet but still enough to make her

clap delightedly. ‘Look at the DNA, it’s forming -’ and her

professor said, ‘Why don’t you try to build a whole strand?

Take the structure, determine a possible nucleotide sequence

to replace the missing sets; use the past to build the future?’

And her excitement grew at the sound of her Professor’s

voice as, mind buzzing with endless possibilities, she began

to do as He said.

EPILOGUE

THE BIRTH OF FOREVER

KAMPUCHEA: 2595

She awoke in a hospital bed. Newton and Kepler were

standing next to her. ‘Did it... work?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘We don’t have your frame of reference.’

‘But we know that you died.’

‘And the Ark brought me back?’

‘We can show you the body if you like.’

She shook her head. ‘If I don’t see the body then I can

pretend I never really died. And maybe then my life won’t

change too much.’

The Masons nodded, twin admissions of sympathy which

somehow left Bernice wishing for the threatening hostility of

their rare smiles.

LONDON: 2595

She said goodbye to Marillian over a bottle of wine in the

same restaurant in which they’d first dined. It was predict-

ably messy; he wanted her to stay and she badly needed a

friend. And as he said, they had so much in common. Life.

Death. Life.

But as she had told him when, in Antarctica, he asked her

why she had come to Earth in the first place, she eventually

had to acknowledge that it was time to go home.

DELLAH: 2595

Bernice took Patience with her back to Dellah. As far as

Earth was concerned they were both strangers in a strange

land. And Bernice was fairly sure she could get the raptor a

job on the teaching staff, once she’d had a vocoder fitted and

programmed.

The load-lifter from the spaceport got her home as the sun

was setting across the Sz’Enszisi Range. She placed the

Templar journal on a shelf next to her own diary - a fitting

symbol, she thought. And a fitting parallel.

The air was musty so she opened the window. She gazed

across the snowy peaks of the Sz’Enszisi Range and thought

of Marillian, staring down from his lofty penthouse as a

child, watching the people he could see go about their daily

lives. She held up her right arm - the wrist was smooth, the

skin unbroken. It was as if everything that had happened,

somehow had not happened. The sun slipped behind the

mountains and she lowered her gaze from the heights to the

bustle of the university.

She closed the window, picked up a few stray pieces of

homework which had somehow escaped her notice. The first

was Stephen’s last essay, one she hadn’t yet been able to

mark. She smiled. Taking out a pen, she opened the

notebook and settled down to read.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

ELEPHANT SURFING

A word of explanation: the quote printed on the back cover

of this book no longer appears in the text, though it was very

definitely in the original plot (along with many other scenes

dragged kicking and screaming from the final typescript).

The reason for this is simple: due to the difference in printing

lead-times between colour and black-and-white, the back

cover copy needed to be set some time before the book was.

As a consequence I was required to provide a quote from a

book I had not yet written more than twenty pages of. If ever

I had need of a time machine this was it!

As ever I am indebted to any number of people, but

particularly:

Simon and Peter: for being so patient

(and getting me some cash when I

needed it)

Paul Hinder:

for helping to resurrect a terminally

crucified plot

(and letting me share his internet

address for so long!)

Allan Adams:

for providing research, book titles and

Fortean Times articles above and beyond

the call of nature

Roger Clarke:

for providing televisual entertainment

above and beyond the call of his VCR

engineer

Nige and Debs:

for the loan of Deborah Jennings’ Very

Important Book

Louise and Paul:

for laptops and rhubarb jam

Special mention for:

Andy and Sue:

shortly about to pass a First Frontier of

their own.

An extra-special mention for the usual cast and crew (in

order of appearance): June, Jop and Andrea, Jo and Steve;

Trees; Umbo; Kurt; Jon, Alison and Ziggy, Lynne and Lizzie;

Audrey and Nakula; The Jolly LightWorX Crew; Alan and

Alis, Dave (cheers for the Doc Savage books, meladdo) and

Martin.

An extra-extra special mention for Jo who was kind enough

to loan me her elephant, her flying saucer and her raygun (all

right, hands up, it was a couple of cushions, a drainpipe and

a trowel, but that’s the magic of Photoshop) and still have

enough good humour left over to play Benny in the unused

alternative cover for this book. Which if it doesn’t make it into

these pages will be available on my website (which should be

sorted by now) - for details check out JimMortimore@compuserv.Com

An extra-extra-extra special mention for Steve Parsons and

the Exe-Wing Fundraisers who made Star Wars Day Two go

with such a bang. Steve raised more than £1200 for the

Exeter Leukaemia Fund, so if there’s anyone out there who

feels like bunging them a donation they can send it care of:

Steve Parsons, 11 Badger Close, Honiton, Devon, EX4 8XG.

For anyone who’s interested, a more sensible account of

the Templars, the Crusaders, the Pharaohs, the Ark, et al.,

can be found in the following fun literature: The Hiram Key

and The Second Messiah by Christopher Knight and Robert

Lomas, The Keeper of Genesis and The Orion Mystery by

Robert Bauval and Graham Hancock, Fingerprints of the

Gods and The Sign and the Seal by Robert Hancock and

The Chronicles of the Crusades edited by Doctor Elizabeth

Hallam; the creation of Patience owes a considerable debt to

Robert Bakker’s Raptor Red (thanks Anthony!); and the idea

for a culture doing what it does in this book first appeared

(to the best of my knowledge) in a book called Collision

with Chronos by Barrington J. Bayley, although in a some-

what more sensible form. Anyone who wants to check out

some barnstorming pictures of the temples of Angkor Wat,

together with a very good history of the monuments and the

country, can find it (if you have a time machine, of course) in

the pages of National Geographic Magazine 161/5 (May

19B2).

In the meantime, remember that the First Frontier to Cross

is Not Space (It’s Ourselves); and if anyone can tell me where

I can get hold of any Doc Savage Novels (and believe me

you’re going to have to go some to beat Dave’s personal

best) I’d be very grateful; but until then I’m -

Outtahere -

Jimbo

Document Outline

Front Cover

Back Cover

PROLOGUE

1 EGYPT: 1287

2 ARGINY: 2562

3 PARIS: 1307

4 ARGINY: 2560

5 PARIS: 1314

PART ONE

1 ANTARCTICA: 2595

2 PARIS: 1314

3 ANTARCTICA: 2595

4 PARIS: 1314

5 EGYPT: 2595

6 PARIS: 1314

7 LONDON: 2595

8 ARGINY: 1354

9 LONDON: 2595

PART TWO

1 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

2 LONDON: 2595

3 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

4 LONDON: 2595

5 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

6 THE MIDLANDS: 2595

7 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

8 GLASGOW: 2595

9 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

10 LOCH NESS: 2595

11 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

12 LOCH NESS: 2595

13 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

14 LOCH NESS: 2595

15 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION BC

16 LONDON: 2595

PART THREE

1 ARGINY: 2595

2 ETHIOPIA: 2575

3 ARGINY: 2595

4 ETHIOPIA: 2575

5 ARGINY: 2595

6 ETHIOPIA: 2575

7 ARGINY: 2595

8 ETHIOPIA: 2575

9 PARIS: 2595

10 KAMPUCHEA: 2577

11 PARIS: 2595

PART FOUR

1 ANTIOCH: 2595

2 PANGAIA: 80 MILLION ANNO QUINCUNX

3 KAMPUCHEA: 2595

4 THE ORIENT: 4500 ANNO QUINCUNX

5 KAMPUCHEA: 2595

6 JERUSALEM : 3355 ANNO QUINCUNX

7 KAMPUCHEA: 2595

8 KAMPUCHEA: 150 ANNO QUINCUNX

9 QUINCUNX

EPILOGUE

KAMPUCHEA: 2595

LONDON: 2595

DELLAH: 2595

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: