What if the US Central Intelligence Agency and the Vatican knew there was secret advanced technology from an alien civilization in Iraq before the United States Invaded it? What if the invasion and its “Weapons of Mass Destruction” excuse was a ruse? What if this technology is needed to save the Earth? What if our planet has barely twenty-five years left before mankind has to face an ancient race of awesome and terrible power?
and a DENOUEMENT
Chateau de Sarcenat
par Oreines,
Puy de Dome
Auvergne, FRANCE
Chateau Residence of His Excellency,
Latham Eugen Bischoff von Anhalt, Vampyre
Chateau Security Cadre:
– Team Leader: Bashmat
– Soldato: Kedar
– Soldato: Abdeel
– Deceased Soldato & Impaled Head: Ashtoreth
– Soldato in Hiding: Hugar
– Soldato in Hiding: Paran
– Consigliere in Hiding: Lorcan
– Deceased Soldato: Canaan
– Deceased Soldato: Azurad
– Four Unknown Butchered von Anhalt Coven Vampire Soldatos
The vineyards are uncharacteristically silent today. No sounds of tractors, haulers, grape combines or groups of Frenchmen in rugged, dusty clothes, chain smoking Gitanes and yelling orders at each other. No harsh voices trading insults, bickering over politics or telling indecent jokes as Frenchmen do. They’re gone. Scared off by what greeted them when they arrived for work this morning.
von Anhalt and three of his most radical followers are making their way down the canopied drive that stretches from the Chateau itself to their massive wrought iron gates. von Anhalt isn’t pleased – and wants explanations that his soldatos are struggling to provide. His right arm is being steadied by a Vampire security team leader called Bashmat as the old man shambles and stumbles up the rutted gravel driveway. von Anhalt’s left arm is supported by another Vampire security “Heavy” named Kedar. At the rear of this comical, staggering group is another Vampire named Abdeel.
In the fading daylight dark shadows from the massive maples, poplars and ash trees that line their path bleach across the roadway, hiding potholes and depressions that farm equipment make worse each day. Walking this distance is treacherous and exhausting for the old, decrepit Vampire von Anhalt. He’s wheezing and heaving for breath, dragging his feet through each laborious step. Between staccato gasps of air he curses and spasmodically wrenches his arms free from his aides helping hands to physically gesture his outrage and condemnation of all who challenege him. He is a wounded medieval potentate screaming oaths of retribution to his captive cadre of extremist followers, each of whom look like they’re at the end of their patience with the almost incoherent blowhard.
“WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN??? HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN???? WHERE WAS THE REST OF YOU???? AM I SURROUNDED BY IDIOTS????
von Anhalt is worked up into a lather, drooling down his chin and shaking like he has some kind of palsy. His Assistants dutifully maneuver him around the roadway obstacles and pothole traps towards the front main gate. Slowly, a vivid picture unfolds before them – in vibrant technicolor. They stop and go quiet.
It’s…….a…….PILE……a smoking..…….insect covered………….foul-smelling……….steaming heap.…….of severed…….arms………legs……..hands………feet and viscera ……..all swimming in a greenish-bluish goo that has long since congealed into a sluice of chunky, acrid sewage. The foul substance is seeping and running into the ruts and gullies of jagged driveway depressions, sunken stones and gravel voids. Smoke is wafting over this gruesome stack of carnage, forming a sticky fog that bleeds over the cold, damp driveway gravel – a creeping maisma of nauseous slaughter. Visible holes in the confused jumble of torsos and mismatched limbs pulsate and glow from deep within where bullet shards are fulmonating and cooking these once-alive body parts like charcoal embers searing T-bone steaks at a picnic cookout.
Not twenty feet ahead of the pile is the wrought iron main gate – two gates chained together, actually, meeting in the middle, designed to open outwards – and crowned with a triumphant bronze fleur-de-lis at its center. It usually makes a regal impression on everyone. But not today.
Impaled on the fleur-de-lis peak is the head of Ashtorath………severed at the neck and driven onto the bronze spear-like top of the “lilly of the field” national symbol of France itself. Ashtorath’s dead eyes are gazing down on von Anhalt from on high – vacant and battered. Dripping greenish-blue slime is running down the iron gate like tree sap, pooling below. Ashtorath’s teeth are – very obviously – torn out. His ripped gumbs glisten from the barbaric, impromptu dentistry and his shredded lips gape open as if he’s still screaming in agony.
Carved deeply into his forehead is a supporating Ansuz Rune – and nailed into the side of his skull is a putrid, bluish-green, mucus-covered letter folded in half.
“WHAT IS THIS??? THEY BUTCHERED ASHTORATH AND HIS FOUR -MAN SECURITY DETAIL!!!! LOOK AT THOSE TORSOS — THERE! THERE!! AND THERE!!! WHY DO THE BODIES SMOKE??? WHY IS THERE GLOWING HOLES IN THEM???? WHAT IS GOING ON HERE??? CLIMB UP AND GET THAT GODDAMN LETTER!!!!”
Old von Anhalt is screaming at the top of his lungs. He’s beside himself. Abdeel hurries towards the gate to retrieve Ashtoreth’s toothless head with the incongrous, morbid note nailed to it. Bashmat and Kedar turn and start dragging von Anhalt back to the Chateau.
“We’ll send out an investigation team once we get back to the Chateau” the security team leader, Bashmat announces. He continues yelling to Abdeel as they wrestle the old man’s heavy carcas over the gravel…….
“That Ansuz Rune can only mean one thing – those Varang Death Squads we’ve been hearing rumors about. We’ve got Goddamn Varang Death Squads after us now!!!! GET THE LETTER!!!! GET THE LETTER!!!! The burning holes in the bodies are from those Goddamn Vampire bullets that Lorcan showed us!! And where the Hell is he now???
“His Excellency” von Anhalt is waving his arms, wildly gesticulating with his hands to emphasize his increasingly irrational words and pathetic oaths.
“SCREW THEM ALL!! I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE. I’LL KILL ALL THE VARANG!!! ALLLL OF THEM, HEAR ME???” von Anhalt is gasping for air so badly he’s sagging like dead weight as Kedar and Bashmat try to drag him back to the Chateau. In the recent weeks his mind has degraded further, fueling more frequent and even greater outbursts of buffoonery. He now whines and protests incessantly like an old, fat clown.
Abdeel scrambles up the old wrought iron fence structure and knocks Ashtoreth’s head off the bronze ornamental fleur-de-lis. It rolls towards the steaming pile of dead Vampire parts and comes to rest gazing upwards. Abdeel pulls the soggy, gore-soaked letter from the nail driven in just above Ashtoreth’s right ear. It’s stench is overpowering. There’s a prominent Ansuz rune engraved on the top of the paper, so deeply colored red that it almost looks purple. The words on the letter make him shudder.
“TO ALL WHOM THESE PRESENTS SEE, MARK WELL THIS ANSUZ RUNE. LET IT STRIKE FEAR INTO YOUR CURSED HEARTS. KNOW THIS:
1. A VARANG BROTHER WAS SLAUGHTERED BY ASHTORETH – of the von ANHALT COVEN – IN PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC. ASHTORETH LIES DISASSEMBLED BEFORE YOU;
2. A VARANG DAUGHTER WAS SLAUGHTERED BY CANAAN AND AZURAD – both of the von ANHALT COVEN – AT A “WEDDING SUPPER” IN TARRYTOWN, NEW YORK. CANAAN AND AZURAD WERE BUTCHERED AND DIED SCREAMING;
3. HUGAR, PARAN AND LORCAN – all of the von ANHALT COVEN – WILL BE HUNTED AND EXTERMINATED LIKE VERMIN. THEY WILL BE HACKED TO PIECES WHILE THEY STILL LIVE AND WATCH THEIR ORGANS BE TORN FROM THEIR INSIDES;
WE KNOW YOUR NAMES. WE KNOW WHERE YOU HIDE. OUR MACHETES ARE SHARP AND YEARN TO CLEAVE YOUR FLESH.
WE, WHO PROUDLY BEAR THE ANSUZ RUNE AND THE HOLY ORTHODOX CRUCIFIX OF JESUS CHRIST, OUR LORD AND SAVIOR, SWEAR ETERNAL VENGEANCE ON VAMPIRES WHO DEFILE OUR BLOOD AND TRIBE. THE ACT IS DONE.”
OAK GROVE ESTATE LIBRARY
Village of Southampton, Long Island, New York
Home of The Ansuz Group
Assembled:
– Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar – Interloctor Generale’ et Bestiat Terrible’
– Katrina Kozub, Commander, The Ansuz Group
– Jon Croft, Consigliere, The Ansuz Group
– Franco Targier, Sergeant Major – Security, The Ansuz Group
– Lorcan, Vampire Consigilere in Hiding & Prisoner
– Five Security Detail Soldatos, The Ansuz Group
– “Thrice-Blessed” Ninhursag – Great Old One, Vampire Creator and Venerated Goddess, In Spirit
– DAGON a/k/a Jack-In-The-Box, Lover of Ninhursag and Great Old One, In Spirit
Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar – Interlocutor Generale’ et Bestiat Terrible’ – is in the house. The old man is actually sporting a high-collared cape over his usual black Beau Brummel getup. His fashion sense never disappoints our taste for the macabre. He’s got tucked under his left armpit a small, wooden box – engraved and seemingly ancient – with gold hinges and clasps. North African looking -something you’d find in a market in Morocco. Suitably ancient and arcane. Presumeably it contains Mahfooseh. It better – Lorcan’s in a bad way.
The library has only a few stanchion lights on. We’re keeping the ambiance dark for a reason. Lorcan’s eyes are worsening – and I’m sure Pindar is more comfortable in the shadows, too. Sergeant-Major Franco Targier and five security team Soldatos are nearby, armed to the teeth. Katria and I are standing back, taking it all in at a distance. If shooting starts we don’t want to be in any lines of fire. Katrina has made herself clear: “If any bullshit happens, kill ’em all!”
Pindar hasn’t changed a bit. Frock coat from his Charles Dickens collection. High starched-collared white shirt. White silk cravat with a Edwardian blood-red emerald stick pin. Snug trousers strapped under highly polished – and foppish looking – bespoke booties. Membrane-covered fish eyes and lizard lips. Leathery ears pasted to the sides of his parchment-pissy tinctured head skin. Sunken cheekbones and pointed chin. Smelly mouth barely concealing grey gumbs and yellowed distended teeth. Emaciated hands with sickening, moldy fingernails filed to weird and talon-like points.
Then there’s his ever-present grimace and croaking voice. But Pindar is quite the peacock – every inch the pompous and untouchable Napoleonic Ambassador we’ve seen before under this roof. He struts into the library like he owns the joint, clacking his ornate walking stick all over our hardwood floors. Past the towering columns of precious books and manuscript folios that line the room and the gigantic fireplace. He heads straight to where Lorcan is slumped – almost unconscious – in a wooden chair. Lorcan looks a tad blue-collar in his US Air Force regulation work coveralls and boating sneakers. No Seville-Row fashions for our Vampire Princeling these days. My – how the mighty have fallen. Pindar pensively observes Lorcan for a few minutes, then kneels next to him – on an exqusite Persian throw rug – and lays his walking stick down on the floor. He carefully places his ornate wooden box down, too, and positions it for ready access.
Pindar mutters some unrecognizable words to Lorcan, who seems to stir and rally upon hearing them. Pindar touches Lorcan’s jugular vein area and intently stares off into the distance while taking his pulse count. He draws down Lorcan’s eyelids and studies his eyes. He smells Lorcan’s breath and finally shakes his head a negative manner.
“His condition is grave”. Pindar croaks in his distinctive cancerous voice tonality. “I will administer the Mahfooseh…..”
Pindar opens his box. Inside are eleven, alabaster-like pointy-topped vials. He breaks off the top of one and pours its contents down Lorcan’s throat. He breaks off the top of another vial and allows Lorcan to gently suck on it and lap up its contents. Lorcan slowly -but visibly – regains some vigor. We watch the old man perform his medical tasks. He’s surprisingly gentle – almost nurturing. Like a father by the side of his small son’s bed spooning chicken soup into his fevered child’s mouth. Pindar keeps muttering gibberish words to Lorcan. Gutteral sounds that we’ve never heard before – but sounds that obviously mean something to Lorcan. Lorcan responds with his own gibberish.
Time drags on and Katrina and I stoically watch the spectacle. Almost imperceptibly at first – then more obviously, bit by bit – Lorcan starts waking and looking about the room. But then he glares at Pindar. He’s repulsed by his ministrations. Lorcan faintly pushes him away. He’s angry but too mired in stupor. He’s slowly regaining energy – and he’s spoiling for a fight. Lorcan’s ramping up his Vampire temper. I’m glad he’s still wearing shackles………Katrina’s idea – she takes no chances.
Lorcan finally spits out what’s on his mind. He’s muted and foggy but he will not be denied his moment. He has disparaging and antagonistic words for Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar – and they are astounding.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!! YOU PARASITE!!!! You RESCUE me so my own kind can KILL me? I did what I was BORN to do!!! I’m a KILLER!! I NEED HUMAN BLOOD!! Don’t act like you’re so virtuous YOU GODDAMN OLD HYPOCRITE……YOU!!!! Our BELOVED, trusted Apothecary and Alchemist!!!! You’ve MANIPULATED us for CENTURIES!!! MY RACE IS POLLUTED AND DYING!!!! YOU FILTHY POLITICIAN!!!! THE DESTINY OF VAMPIRES IS TO WITHER AND DIE!!! ADMIT IT!!!!! You old liar……..”
Lorcan’s weak arms are drunkenly flailing about as he delivers his incoherent rant.
He finally slumps back into the chair, exhausted, and mumbling over and over – “It’s all a lie…….a lie from the beginning…..Ninhursag made us fail…….Ninhursag designed us to fail……”
Pindar’s withered, grimaced face stares stoically at his patient. His eyes – wrinkled and sagging like melting alabaster – look even more disconsolate than when he entered the room. His hands ball into boney fists in his attempt to rein-in what appears to be emotion. Suddenly the regal Pindar is not such an inscrutable mystery to us. We are seeing something unprecedented. The old man’s croaking voice barely registers a whisper. He looks like he’s about to cry. He speaks quietly, with resignation…..and almost palpable regret. But resolutely. Rapping his walking stick on the floor for emphasis. Does Pindar have feelings? Apparently so….
“Please do not blaspheme the Thrice Blessed Mother, Ninhursag. Yes – I have failed you….but she did not.
Thrice-Blessed Ninhursag provided for Vampires in ways that her human children could only dream of. The Holy Mother shared with Thoth, Ursus, Diometer, Alsace, Hoth, Flamel and myself the secret of the “Salvation Catalyst” to transmutate elements that allowed Vampires to enjoy a never-ending supply of Gold. Wealth to sustain yourselves throughout the Centuries. While humans toiled and broke their backs – Vampires enjoyed lives of splendor and comfort. You became the idle rich, a fraternity of excessively indulged and spoiled killer-hedonists!!! Blessed Ninhursag provided for you all – and you took advantage and spurned her love…..you spat it back in her face!!!
Why did your Elders keep Vampires fom studying the teachings of Ninhursag? Why did they only tell you their interpretations of what her sacred words said? Why did you never actually see her Chronicles and Writings for yourselves? The Magnificent Old Ones taught Vampires writing first! But Ninhursag’s writings are banned even today – except to Preists and Coven Leaders. Why?
Because Vampires were lied to.
Blessed Ninhursag taught Vampires in her venerated manuscript, The Guiding Principles, THREE RULES that Vampires were NEVER to violate:
1) Human blood was addictive and destructive to Vampires – DO NOT DRINK IT!
2) Vampires were trusted with maintaining PARITY of the races, keeping population numbers in balance to spark EVOLUTION;
3) Eating human flesh was an infamy and a sacrilege – TO BE AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS;
The first to break these rules were Vampire Elders. They partook of the Human “Blood Sacrament” secretly – as a profane Preisthood – and gradually embraced its “Blood Ecstacy” as a birthright of their status as Nobility and Coven Leaders. As years passed, standards became lax and Vampires all partook liberally of the “Sacrament”. Blood intoxication became the sole raison d’etre, the primary motivator of Vampire existance. This addiction spread species-wide and Vampires eventually became enslaved, driven to consume ever increasing quantities of their intoxicating elixer……They began radomly slaughtering more and more humans to get it.
Humans were seen as little more than blood bags full of candy that Vampires craved. Gone was even the hubris that Vampires were keeping “parity” of the races. Blood was their ultimate prize. To be “Blood Drunk” was a Vampires’ greatest calling. Thrice-Blessed Ninhursag was right. Ingestion of human blood – and human flesh – was the beginning of the Vampire end. Vampires squandered their infinite potential and future whilst consuming Ninhursag’s forbidden fruit. Humans evolved and worked – they invented and discovered tools to conquer adversity. Vampires degenerated themselves chasing pleasure and stupifaction.
Vampires today are mere shadows of Ninhursag’s original design – perhaps caricatures is a better term. Vampires are prisoners of their own depravity. Your proud and intellectual race is no more.
When you need more Mahfooseh, reach out to me. Your time is limited, Lorcan. Don’t waste it on self-pity, recriminations or cursing your Creator-Mother, Ninhursag. She loved you – perhaps too much. Prepare yourself for what is coming.
Farewell, Lorcan.”
Lorcan turns away his head away from Pindar. He’s chasened and goes silent. He’s back to his morose self.
Pindar approaches Katrina and I. Our heads are still reeling from the no-so-tender homily that he just laid on his Vampire patient. Pindar’s voice is strained.
“Lorcan muttered about boxes in the old Vampire language. May I see them? You know….the boxes that were with DAGON…..”
Katrina says what jumps through my mind. “DAGON?”
“Yes” Pindar responds. His demeanor and voice is once more composed – although his words sound more croaky than ever.
“Jack-In-The-Box” is, of course, not his real name……..he is DAGON. Lover of Ninhursag. Palace intrigue among the Old Ones. That is why he was murdered and left behind here on Earth when all the rest of their royalty went back to Nibiru”.
Katrina gets Sergeant Major Franco Targier’s attention and calls him over.
“Sergeant Major, where are the boxes?”
Franco looks alarmed and starts shaking his head emphatically – in the negative.
“NO…..NO……be CAREFUL, Major…..our radiation badges glow next to those Goddamn things – readings about the strength of dental x-rays. Who knows how strong the radioactivity is inside of them. I say leave them alone until we can get some lead shielding in place around ’em. They’re lined up on the floor – over there……”
Pindar, Katrina, Franco and me walk over to the other side of the library where four boxes are laid out on the floor, covered by a tarp. Each box is about the size of an old-fashioned wooden milk crate that would hold about twelve heavy glass bottles of milk. Franco pulls away the tarp, revealing four magnificently engraved black stone boxes.
Pindar kneels next to the boxes and gently runs his emaciated fingers over the engravings on each, eyes closed – like he’s a blind man reading braille. He’s obviously unconcerned with any radioactive signature the things may have.
He finally reaches down the front of his starched shirt – under his silken cravat – and produces a small silver tube that’s hanging around his neck on a gold chain. It’s covered in the same kind of engravings that the boxes are covered in and elaborately carved on both ends.
He bends over and blows into the silver tube – it’s a kind of flute or whistle. He blows into it again – causing strange shrill and discordant weeping sounds. Notes of music emerge that are etherial, inelegant and highly disturbing to our ears. The equivalent of fingernails scraping on a chalkboard. Pindar is playing the object close to the center of the box on the floor closest to him. He looks like he’s a snake charmer playing music over a basket with a cobra inside.
Then we hear it. Loud and clear. A snap – or more like a “snick” – like an internal lock being disengaged. Katrina and I stare in awe as the top lid of the box next to Pindar pops upwards an inch or so.
“If Lorcan is going to help you work on this project he’ll need the boxes opened………..” Pindar says, as he reprises his skills as a magic floutist towards the other boxes in line.
Katrina and I stare dumbfounded at each box as its top lid pops upwards an inch or two. Instinctively, we both back away – heeding Franco’s warning about radioactivity risks.
Finally, Pindar stands up and faces Katrina and I.
I trust your men returned safely from their mission in Auvergne, France at the Chateau Sarcenat. I can officially advise that your message was received by all concerned. All Vampires re-commit themselves to the letter and spirit of the Kronengarde Pact and wish to emphasize their preference for accord rather than conflict. No one seeks a return to the old days. All pledge their oath to a more civil approach in keeping with the Articles of Parlay set forth in the Treaty. Please convey my message to your principals.
I’ve a long flight ahead of me tonight – to London. I regret that I can’t share with you further hospitality. I offer to my sincere condolences on the passing of Dr. Roland Sarkisian…….he was a gentleman and a scholar of the old school…..I will miss him.
“Now…… I must take my leave. Good night.”
The next words almost choke my throat as I say them. “Thank you, Monsieur Comte de la Mer……for your help.”
We watch him strut out of the room clacking his absurd, archaic walking stick against our floorboards. He wafts out of our presence as enigmatically as he entered – cape and all. I keep reminding myself over and over in my head – “This guy’s NOT a Vampire. He’s a breathing, talking five-hundred year old alchemist that looks and smells like he sleeps in a pickle jar filled with brine……..”
“Looks like The Ansuz Group got the job done in Auvergne, France. Congratulations.” I say to Katrina. She has to be proud of her results.
I’m relieved our Chateau Sarcenat raid went off without any hitches. The fresh Varang and Spetsnaz recruits from Europe proved themselves worthy. At this very moment they’re settling in at the new compund across the street, Hill Grove. The Ansuz Group is growing. Commander Katrina Kozub and Sergeant Major Franco Targier are building an awesome corp of Vampire killers. They’re a force to be reckoned with. Absolutely top grade. I’m sure rumors are flying around the world right about now about a new Sheriff in town. A Sheriff who doesn’t blink.
After a few minutes of staring down at the popped-open boxes, we hear Pindar’s Bentley pulling away, crackling down our gravel driveway. Suddenly, I get an idea. By my look Katrina knows something’s up.
“WAIT A MINUTE……the boxes are open, right?
What if they’re rigged to automatically slam shut again? What if we clean them out – and then return ’em???? How about we clean them out AND substitute something else inside to match the weight they were when we found them – and get ’em back to HERO. Nobody will be the wiser!!!
That way if the Central Intelligence Agency is expecting to see Jack-In-The-Box and four pieces of his special luggage they get exactly that – Jack and four boxes of special luggage. The boxes won’t contain any alien secrets BUT the CIA won’t know it until they discover Pindar’s magic flute trick!”
Katrina is smiling from ear to ear. She turns to Franco and speaks slowly for emphasis.
“Sergeant Major, please follow my instructions exactly:
– Watch out for radiation – wear proper gear;
– Get these OPEN boxes over to our lab guys. DON’T SHUT THEM WHATEVER YOU DO!!
– Get a digital record of all the engravings on each box for Lorcan to decipher;
– Clear out the first box. Weigh it. Fill it with something to approximate the weight it was originally – then TEST SLAM it shut;
– If the box locks, then repeat the process with the other boxes – that is, unload them and re-fill them with similar weight. Then slam them all shut like you did the first one;
– Get them all back to CAMP HERO. Have Henri Bouchard kill the Security Cams up there again so you can slip in and out quickly.
– Deposit all four fake-filled boxes inside Jack-In-The-Box’s sarcophagus where they were originally discovered;
– GOT IT? Call me if there’s any complications. I’ll be waiting for your report.”
Katrina and I start dinner late – but it’s magnificent. The duck is scrumptous and the freshly-baked baguettes with whipped butter are enough to keep me smiling for days. We eat – and drink ourselves into a stupor. We’re celebrating our evening triumph – absconding with DAGON’s mysterious box contents and tricking the CIA.
We’ve already cracked into our third bottle of Shiraz (or is it Malbec?) when Katrina’s phone buzzes. It’s Sergeant-Major Franco Targier. We’re using ranks and formality more because, well……….we’re running a business now. We’re not just a bunch of free-agents anymore. Serious business.
Katrina puts him on speaker. I notice that his voice seems……….aggitated. Bothered. Something is up.
FRANCO: “THE BOXES SNAPPED SHUT – AFTER WE CLEANED ‘EM OUT AND MATCHED THE WEIGHTS THAT WERE INSIDE. WE BROUGHT THE CLOSED BOXES BACK TO CAMP HERO AND PLACED THEM INSIDE THE SARCOPHAGUS. NO PROBLEMS. CONTENTS ARE……. MOSTLY ANIMAL SKINS WITH THAT WEIRD WRITING ALL OVER THEM. IT’LL TAKE LORCAN MONTHS TO MAKE SENSE OUT OF IT ALL…….”
KATRINA: “ANYTHING ELSE?
FRANCO: “THERE WAS A BEAUTIFUL SWORD INSIDE ONE OF THE BOXES……IT’S AWESOME…..MADE OUTTA’ BRONZE BUT HARDER THAN A DIAMOND……IT’S GOT AN ORNATELY CARVED POMMEL AND CROSS-GUARD……AGAIN, THOSE WRITING SYMBOLS ARE CARVED ALL OVER IT…….ITS A COKE BOTTLE SHAPE, RAZOR SHARP ON BOTH SIDES……. IT’S PROBABLY A DAGGER TO A BIG GUY LIKE DAGON – BUT TO SOMEBODY MY SIZE IT’S A SHORT SWORD. IT’S PERFECTLY BALANCED…….BUT LIGHTER THAN ALUMINUM……AMAZING. HOW DO YOU HARDEN BRONZE LIKE THAT?”
KATRINA: “I’M STILL WAITING…..”
FRANCO: “WELL……LIKE I SAID…..MOSTLY DOCUMENTS…….BUT……..THERE’S SOMETHING LIKE AN ORNATE, THICK CHEST AMULET – A PIECE OF JEWELRY HANGING OFF A THICK BRAIDED GOLD CHAIN – HEAVY AS ALL HELL. IT’S ABOUT THE DIAMETER OF A SMALL DINNER PLATE. YOU KNOW – IT’S FOR A BIG GUY, RIGHT? THE AMULET HAS CARVINGS ALL OVER IT – EXCEPT IN THE MIDDLE. THERE’S A BIG ROUND RED EMERALD OR SOME OTHER PRECIOUS STONE EMBEDDED IN IT……….”
KATRINA: “AND THIS IS SIGNIFICANT, WHY? STOP BEATING AROUND THE BUSH, SERGEANT-MAJOR”.
FRANCO; ME AND HENRI BOUCHARD WAS LOOKING AT IT UNDER THE MICROSCOPE……TURNING IT OVER AND OVER…..AND I PUSHED DOWN ON THE RED EMERALD CENTER………..IT MOVED INWARD – STOPPED – AND THEN POPPED BACK UP………THERE WAS A CLICK.”
KATRINA: “AND WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?”
FRANCO: “THE RED EMERALD STARTED PULSATING A BRIGHT RED LIGHT……….AND THEN…….THE THING…….STARTED BEEPING. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT…….
KATRINA: “YOU MEAN IT’S BEEPING LIKE AN EMERGENCY BEACON – A HOMING TRACKER – OR A BOMB TIMER?”
FRANCO: “A TRACKER. I THINK IT’S A BEACON. A TRACKER. LOOK, I THINK WE’VE JUST SENT OUT A DISTRESS SIGNAL….. IT’S STILL BEEPING. WE CAN’T SHUT IT OFF.”
Looks like we just accidently reached out across the solar system. Hello, Nibiru?
Katrina is silently staring out the magnificent windows that are a few feet beyond our dinner table, looking as shocked as I feel.
I raise the half-full bottle of Malbec and reach over to her glass. My voice is numb.
“More wine?”
