The Seventh Plague

22

By the time the guards came to collect him, Painter knew something was wrong.

Hartnell had given him an hour — until eight o’clock — to decide whether or not to cooperate in helping them capture Kat and Safia. That hour had come and gone, leaving him pacing his cell. Finally, after another two hours, a pair of guards barged into his room, guns raised, and forced him to don a parka and thick boots before cuffing his wrists in front of him and marching him out.

The delay was worrisome. Had something happened to Kat and Safia? Was his cooperation no longer a concern? If so, where were the guards taking him?

The outerwear and lack of ankle restraints suggested he’d be doing some walking, likely into the cold. Even the guards wore heavy coats. He tried to ask questions of them, only to be rebuffed.

They headed down three levels, rather than out.

It made no sense.

Where are we going?

At last, they reached a set of steel doors. One guard unlocked the way with a keycard and headed through first. The second man pushed Painter forward with the muzzle of his assault rifle.

The reason for the warmer clothes was immediately evident. The passage ahead had been cut out of the island rock. Though naturally insulated from the elements, the air was still Arctic-chilled. Each breath puffed white into the cold. The rough tunnel extended several hundred yards without a single door or side room. A wired string of caged bulbs lit the way.

Painter lifted his chained arms and ran his fingertips along one wall.

Must be an old mine tunnel.

He suddenly suspected where they were headed. At the far end, another identical set of steel doors sealed the passageway. His group followed the same dance to pass out of the tunnel and back into the modern age. Steel, glass, and concrete block opened around him, revealing another section of the station.

This extension of the base curved to either side, walled by blast windows across its front, all looking out into the tiered pit he had spotted from the air when he and Kat had first flown here. While this piece of the station failed to completely encircle that quarter-mile-wide hole, it did hug the half on this side, with its length subdivided into various workstations. People in lab coats and coveralls of various hues scurried about or sat hunched at monitors. Chatter was low, as if they were all inside a cathedral.

And maybe they were, but one built to worship science.

As Painter drew near the thick window, he could see storm clouds rolling darkly past the sky. He estimated this U-shaped perch was positioned halfway up the excavation’s wall. Down below, lit by giant spotlights, the flat bottom of the old mining pit supported the massive square base of Hartnell’s new incarnation of Wardenclyffe Tower. Steel beams rose past the window, forming a pyramidal skeletal skyscraper, ending at a massive bowl of concentric rings of copper and colossal electromagnets, all cradling a conducting sphere.

No, not a sphere.

From the air, the top of the tower had looked like a perfect globe, but from this lower vantage, Painter realized that what he had viewed was only the rounded top of a giant egg.

He pictured Clyffe Energy’s logo — the Egg of Columbus.

Was this design purposeful or only a conceit?

“Ah, there you are!” Simon Hartnell came striding toward him from one of the stations. He wore a silver parka, unzipped at the moment. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“I’m on your schedule.” Painter glanced at all the activity. “What’s going on? This looks far busier than what I would imagine to be a typical workday.”

“So it is, so it is.”

The man set off again, clearly intending for Painter to follow, so he did. Not that he had much choice with the two guards at his back. Hartnell collected another figure in a parka along the way, a short Indian man with a pinched, concerned face.

Hartnell introduced him. “This is Dr. Sunil Kapoor.”

Painter recognized the name of the physicist. He had won the Nobel Prize for his work with plasma, specifically involving a novel way of creating it using vaporized metal. Clearly Hartnell was standing on more than just Nikola Tesla’s shoulders to complete his vision.

“We’re about to head out and do a final systems check of the remote monitoring stations.” Hartnell set off. “It’s all very exciting.”

Kapoor did not look as enthralled. The man kept glancing over his shoulder at the steel pyramid outside. Still, Hartnell would not be refused.

As they crossed along the curve of the tower’s command station, a new window appeared, opposite the other. Painter slowed and peered through it to a neighboring cavern. It was nearly as deep as the pit outside, but not open to the sky. A black lake filled the bottom, but lights along an elevated catwalk revealed the water to be a deep crimson.

Painter went cold at the sight, knowing what he was seeing. Here was the fuel for Hartwell’s vision. The bastard had cultured a whole sea of Tesla’s Pestis fulmen. Men in hazmat suits worked along the catwalk, holding clipboards and shining lights along steel tubes that ran from the lake below to the roof above.

Oh my god…

“Everyone aboard,” Hartwell said, welcoming them into the car of a funicular train whose tracks angled along the sloped wall of the pit, running the length from top to bottom.

Painter climbed inside with the others. A window of glass allowed him to peer at the tower as the car jerked and began to climb upward. “From all the commotion, I take it that you’ve moved up your schedule.”

“Indeed. Upon further consideration, I thought it prudent.”

Painter understood his logic. The man didn’t want anyone interfering with his test run, especially if Kat and Safia reached outside help.

Painter turned to Hartnell. “So you’re still planning to seed the ionosphere with the microbe as part of this test run.”

“No reason to take half measures.”

Painter looked at Dr. Kapoor. “And you have no qualms about this?”

The Indian physicist glanced to Hartnell, then back to Painter, and gave a small shake of his head.

Not exactly the most ringing endorsement.

“We’ve run countless scenarios,” Hartnell assured him. “Considered every variable.”

Painter looked to the sky. “When it comes to hacking the planet, you can’t know all the variables. You could end up setting fire to the atmosphere.”

Hartnell scoffed. “The very same concern was raised with the testing of the first atomic bomb, but it didn’t stop the Manhattan Project from continuing.” He cast a doleful eye at Painter. “Likewise, the same charges were made against HAARP.”

That was certainly true.

“If we stopped progress for every Chicken Little’s claim that the sky was falling, nothing would ever get done.” Hartnell sighed loudly. “We’d still be huddling in cold caves, afraid of fire.”

The train car reached the lip of the pit, and they all climbed out into the blowing wind and dry snow. Parkas were quickly zipped. The group set out across the steel forest of antennas. Thigh-thick cabling ran across the rock and through patches of stubborn snow.

Hartnell took them along a gravel path that led out of this forest.

No one spoke, hunched in their jackets, cheeks pulled into their hoods.

Far to Painter’s right, a Boeing cargo jet was being hauled out of a hangar and into the storm. It looked sturdy enough to withstand the gale, especially as the storm had calmed slightly over the past hour.

Painter knew the payload the jet was set to carry, picturing that black lake.

The group reached the fringe of the array and found two vehicles waiting for them. One looked like a golf cart with a sealed cab and large knobbed tires. Painter imagined it would be used by Hartnell and Kapoor to make their survey run.

This was confirmed when Hartnell lifted an arm to the other vehicle, a Sno-Cat. “Here’s your ride.” He pointed to a neighboring tall hill. “We maintain a communication shack up top. It offers the tallest vantage for direct-sight-line communication during solar storms. It’s to be your base of operation, to coordinate with Anton in convincing your companion and Dr. al-Maaz to deliver what they stole. For our sake and theirs. It can be very dangerous out there.”

“And if I still refuse?”

Hartnell looked disappointed. “You can be part of the solution or part of the problem.”

Painter imagined problems were promptly eliminated here.

He eyed the armed guards.

“I’ll try my best,” he said. “That’s all I can do.”

“And that’s all I ask.” Hartnell stared out at the storm. “It’s what we should all do when faced with a challenge — at least try to do something about it, to make the world a better place.”

Painter nodded.

I intend to do just that.

Kat shivered as she poured the last of the diesel into their vehicle’s thirsty tank. She estimated they had enough fuel to travel another eighty miles over such unforgiving terrain, maybe farther if she nursed the engine. Still, she had to accept that they might not reach the Canadian outpost at Alert.

And it’s not like we can hoof it.

Without parkas, they would freeze.

And then there was Safia’s deteriorating health. Her fever had been steadily climbing. She had been exposed six hours ago at the lab, so this was likely still the early stages of the disease.

For the moment, Kat and Rory both seemed fine, but trapped in the enclosed cab with the sick woman, how long would that last?

And what choice do we have?

She climbed back into the Cat and got them moving again. They were traveling along the northwest shore of Lake Hazen. It stretched forty miles long and only eight wide and pointed straight toward Alert. Unfortunately, beyond the lake’s tip it was still another hundred miles over a treacherous terrain of mountains and glaciers.

At least the wind and snow had let up slightly, but she knew this was only a respite before the storm rallied again. The skies rolling toward them from the west were far darker.

As she stared in that direction, she caught tiny flashes of light along the mountains. She prayed it was lightning. It was not entirely unlikely, but she pressed the accelerator harder, speeding them up, forgoing any attempt to eke out better gas mileage.

She kept watching the west, but the lights never reappeared.

Safia stirred in the passenger seat, her lips dry, her eyes glazed with fatigue and fever. “It’s hot…”

“You’re burning up,” Kat said. “Just try to rest.”

She shared a glance in the rearview mirror with Rory.

“She needs medical help,” he whispered. “Maybe if we go back…”

Kat knew that would be certain death for Safia. The station would not risk exposing everyone. Plus Kat refused to turn over their hard-won data. Safia had risked her life — and now might be paying with it — to keep that information out of Hartnell’s hands.

“No,” she said. “We’re not turning back.”

Rory’s gaze shifted to the windshield. “Kat, look! Out on the lake.”

She focused forward. Off to her right, a trio of hide tents, frosted white by the snow on their windward sides, sat on the ice. In front of each tent, small circular holes glowed blue, with poles planted next to them, trailing lines. The grumbling noise of their approach stirred the ice fishermen from their warm tents.

From this distance, they looked like small bears in fur coats and thick pants.

“I think they’re Inuit,” Rory said, leaning forward as much as his restraints would allow.

Safia showed no interest, even shading her eyes from the sight. “It’s bright,” she mumbled.

Kat’s worry for her friend flared. One of the signs of encephalitis was photophobia, an aversion to light.

Safia’s head lolled back, her eyes rolling even farther. “So bright…”

Safia struggles to turn her face from the sun. It stings her eyes, hanging in an achingly blue sky. She gasps at the heat, each breath fiery. Her bare feet sink in the burning sands as she struggles toward the cool promise of the river.

“Safia, Safia… you have to drink…”

She searches for the voice.

The world shimmers before her, shaking the palm trees. Through the ripples of the mirage, she sees a strange white land, frozen over and dark. Her ears hear distant thunder.

“C’mon, just a few sips…”

Then it’s gone, and she sees only sand and death again. Fly-encrusted beasts lay bloated all around. Scavengers tear into their flesh, screaming at her passage. She continues stumbling forward, cresting a dune to look upon the river.

As thirst closes her throat, she sees her salvation is a lie.

The river runs red with blood, draining the life from the lands.

She searches the heavens, begging.

“Drink, Safia…”

Beyond the river, the sky is black, coursing with lightning, angry and punishing. It falls toward her, toward the world, intending to crush it.

She backs one step, then another. “It’s coming…”

Then a coolness flows down her throat, spills along her neck.

She is drowning under the sun.

“Stop fighting, Safia, please…”

Again the world shimmers like a veil. The sun dims to darkness, and sand becomes snow, and a shadow becomes a face.

One she knows.

“Kat?”

“I’ve got you, honey. I’ve got you. You’ve had a small seizure.”

She can’t help it and begins to sob.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something bad… something horrible is coming.”

At least they’re consistent.

Painter waited for the first guard to key open the communication shack. It sat at the summit of a tall hill, a squat concrete bunker festooned with antennas on the roof.

As he waited at the threshold, he took a moment to appreciate the view from here. To one side stretched the Arctic tundra; on the other, the breadth of Aurora Station. The spiral of the array was clear from this height, as was the tower poking from the old mining pit.

The cargo jet he had spotted earlier was parked near the runway, its rear-loading ramp lowered. A fleet of laden forklifts headed its way.

Beyond that island of activity, nothing else moved out there. It was as if everything was holding its breath for what’s to come.

“Quit gawking,” the guard behind him said, urging him at gunpoint into the shack. He clearly wanted out of the cold.

Can’t blame him.

Painter sighed, slumping into the one-room bunker. He paused at the threshold, noting a rumpled bed to one side. The back of the space was packed with communication gear, including multiple radios, even a VLF transmitter used to contact submarines.

In the center of that nest hunched a heavyset young man wearing headphones. With his back to his new guests, his only greeting was a raised arm.

“How’s it going, Ray?” the first guard asked.

The other man poked Painter again.

About time.

Painter twisted sideways and stepped back. With the barrel of the rifle now across his belly, he swung his arms up and hooked the links of his cuffs around the startled guard’s neck, then lunged at the waist and tossed the man over his shoulder and into the room.

The first guard spun, firing in his direction.

Painter had already dropped to his butt, shielded by his choking prisoner. As the first panicked rounds pelted into the man, Painter drew his bound wrists in front of the prisoner, as if hugging him from behind. Painter’s hands found the wounded man’s weapon, and he snagged a finger on the trigger.

He strafed wildly.

A lucky couple of shots hit the exposed guard: in the knee, in the chest. The man crashed to the side. Painter firmed his aim and only needed one more shot, which he took. The guard slumped. Still cradling his prisoner, who gasped and choked in his arms, Painter swung the rifle toward the radio operator, who sat stunned, a deer in headlights.

“Hey, Ray, how about you pat down your friend, find the keys to these cuffs, and let me free?”

Ray hesitated, glancing back at his equipment, then to Painter.

“Now, Ray, either I shoot you and find the keys myself, or you help me and you end up wearing these cuffs and live to see another sunrise. And up here, that might be a good long while.”

In the end, Ray proved to be a reasonable guy.

Painter rubbed his wrists after cuffing the operator to the bed and tying his ankles with his own headphones. For good measure, he had also stuffed a sock in the man’s mouth and duct-taped it in place.

“Okay, Ray, unless you have an objection, I’m going to take that Sno-Cat out there and go find my friends. And you’re not going to say a word, right?”

The man nodded vigorously.

So very reasonable.

Painter grabbed one of the rifles and pocketed the two extra magazines found on the dead guards. Armed, he headed out into the cold, climbed into the Cat, and put his back to Aurora Station. The open tundra spread before him.

Now down to business.

Simon stood at the helm of the command station for the Aurora array. His heart pounded as he stared through the window at the massive tower, a testament to Tesla’s genius.

And my own.

Men and women continued to prepare for the test firing, triple- and quadruple-checking every system. He had green lights across his board from all stations.

On a monitor to his left, he watched the Boeing cargo jet steam across the heated runway, gaining speed. Its flaps dropped and it lifted skyward, carrying its package toward the heavens.

Simon grinned, following its trajectory toward the clouds.

Then he heard the patter of feet behind him and turned to see a man in black coveralls rush to his side, one of Anton’s crew.

“Sir?”

Simon hoped it was good news from the search crew, but from the man’s pale face, it was not. “What is it?”

“We just got word that the prisoner who was being escorted to the communication shack has escaped, killing the guards. According to the radio operator, the man took off with a Sno-Cat, going after his friends. He was well armed.”

Simon clenched a fist in frustration, his cheeks flushing, close to exploding. Clearly Painter Crowe was far more than a DARPA investigator. Still, Simon forced his fingers to relax and to take a deep breath.

Look at the bigger picture.

Nothing had fundamentally changed. With the two women still free, the situation here was already compromised — but fixable. This new development did not significantly worsen matters.

At least not for me.

He took a deep steadying breath. “Let Anton know what has happened. Tell him to watch his back out there.”

“Yes, sir.” The security guard turned on a heel and dashed away.

Simon shook his head at Painter Crowe’s futile actions.

Where does he think he can go?

Painter crouched in the cavernous hold of the cargo jet.

Under his boots, he felt the vibrations of the jet’s four engines as they fought the storm winds. The plane jostled and rocked. Cargo creaked and shifted around him ominously, threatening to crush him.

He was aboard a wide-bellied Boeing C-17 Globemaster, normally used by the military for long-haul transport, moving troops, equipment, even battle tanks. It was uniquely built for dropping air loads in midflight from its rear hatch. While the behemoth had recently gone out of production, Hartnell must have acquired one that he had redesigned and configured for his needs.

After leaving the communication shack, Painter had set out into the storm in the Sno-Cat. He drove it deep into the blowing snow until he reached a relatively open stretch of tundra, then jammed a crowbar found in a tool chest against the gas pedal and sent the vehicle trundling away on its own, leaving a false trail.

He didn’t expect his ruse to last for long. He just needed enough time to backtrack to the station and over to the idling Globemaster waiting on the tarmac.

Using the cover of the storm, he had run behind hillocks of plowed snow and through netted piles of crates until he could get under the plane. He had flown aboard these big birds in the past, back when he was still with the Navy SEALs, which seemed a lifetime ago.

Still, some things never changed.

He knew when you packed a big bus like this there were plenty of places to hide.

So he scurried to the aft of the plane, to where its rear-loading ramp still touched the tarmac. He slid under it and waited for a forklift to back out, turn, and zip away. A couple of peeks and he saw his opportunity to roll onto the ramp and dash into the hold.

As expected, the entire space was crowded. Two rows of pallets, nine to a side, held aluminum crates as tall as Painter, each crowned by parachute-like pouches. They sat atop a hydraulic air delivery system designed to push the two rows of cargo out the rear hatch in midflight.

Painter wasted no time cramming himself between two of the pallets, dropping low, ready to shift to keep hidden if necessary. Though he doubted anyone would dally too long with a search of this hold. Red biohazard labels were plastered on each side of the aluminum crates.

He knew what these containers held.

Cultured vats of Pestis fulmen.

The parachutes on top must be Hartnell’s weather balloon system. Painter imagined they must self-inflate once the crates were ejected, carrying aloft their deadly cargo. Once high enough, the crates would burst open like toxic seedpods.

Picturing that, Painter stared at the label near his cheek.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea.

23

We need to keep moving…

With the sun hovering low on the horizon, Gray wanted to take advantage of what little day they had left. He remembered the blasts and gunfire heard over the phone with Monk. Matters were worsening by the hour in Cairo, and likely to boil over throughout the volatile region and beyond.

If there was something to be found here, they dared not delay.

To that end, Gray had gathered with his team on an open wooden deck overlooking Lake Ihema, the second-largest lake in Rwanda. They had flown by bush plane from Khartoum and landed as close as they could to the X marked on Livingstone’s map, setting down at a dirt airstrip in Akagera National Park. They were awaiting the arrival of a local guide who had worked here for twenty-five years.

From the park map spread on the table, they certainly needed someone with boots-on-the-ground knowledge of this place. Akagera National Park spread across five hundred square miles, encompassing rolling savannas, papyrus swamps, and mountainous jungles. It held a labyrinth of lakes and interconnecting waterways, all branching off the Kagera River, which formed the park’s eastern border.

Jane ran her finger along the same river on the map. “This must be the correct tributary, right?”

Back in Khartoum, the group had charted the rivers flowing into Lake Victoria — which served as the headwaters for the White Nile — trying to determine which of its many feeders best corresponded to the one drawn on Livingstone’s secret map. The Kagera River was a perfect match, flowing west out of Victoria and coursing between Uganda and Tanzania before turning south along the Rwandan border.

Still, they couldn’t be a hundred percent sure.

“Look at this,” Derek said.

While they waited for their guide, he had been seeking further corroboration, using his tablet to study more maps, both new and old. He showed them a chart of the region with the Kagera River highlighted and some measurements drawn on it.

“As you can see,” Derek said, “the park lies about eighty miles due west of Lake Victoria.”

“And that’s significant, why?” Gray asked.

Derek pulled up the sketch that Livingstone had drawn of the butterfly and caterpillar. He zoomed in on the latter.

“Look how the caterpillar is drawn with eight segments. I think Livingstone was using the worm as a legend for his hidden map. As a yardstick, if you will.”

Gray nodded. “Eight segments, eighty miles.”

While not definitive proof that they were on the right course, it did support the case. Even Jane smiled, patting Derek’s hand appreciatively. Plainly they all needed this little measure of reassurance.

Seichan turned from the deck rail, where she had been watching the lake and skies. “I think this is our guy coming.”

A rumble of a motor grew louder and drew them all to her side. An odd-looking watercraft charged toward the dock below. The boat had clearly seen some rough miles over the years. The scarred green metal hull bore dents along its sides, and the windshield had a crack in it that looked ominously like a bullet hole.

“Lake’s low,” Seichan noted. “Not sure he has enough draft to dock here.”

This fact did not seem to concern the man behind the wheel.

“He’s not even slowing,” Derek said, backing a step.

The craft reached the dock — and continued past it. The bow lifted as the boat hit the bank, riding up to reveal a pair of treads, like the undercarriage of a tank. The amphibious craft continued out of the water and rode up alongside their deck and finally stopped with its port-side gunwale even with their rail.

The driver smiled, clearly enjoying their surprise. “Muraho!” he greeted them in his native Kinyarwanda. He wore a khaki safari jacket with matching pants. Despite being sixty, he looked fit, with only some specking of gray in his dark hair.

“Welcome to Akagera,” he said. “My name is Noah Mutabazi, and while I don’t bring an ark with me”—he patted the flank of his boat—“I assure you this vessel will not disappoint.”

But the method of arrival wasn’t his only surprise.

He hadn’t come alone.

Kowalski retreated two steps. “Okay, what’s with the lion?”

From behind his seat, a creature rose into view, spine arching in a typical feline stretch. A yawn revealed long fangs and a pink tongue.

“Ah,” the guide said, “that is my navigator. His name is Roho, which means ghost in Swahili.”

The name certainly fit the beast. The lion’s coat was a tawny white, his eyes a rich amber. The mutation that produced white lions was not albinism but a rarer genetic trait called leucism, which resulted in only a partial loss of pigmentation.

Noah scratched his partner’s neck, earning a rumble that served as the equivalent of a feline purr. “He’s just a cub.”

“That’s a cub?” Kowalski asked.

Gray understood the man’s shock. The cat had to weigh over a hundred pounds.

“He is indeed,” Noah said. When the man spoke English, his words took on a slight British accent. “His first birthday is next month. So hopefully he’ll soon grow into this.”

Noah tussled a mohawk of brighter white fur that ran from the crown of the cub’s head and down his neck. “As you see, his mane is still immature. In fact, he’s not even learned to roar yet. He won’t do that for a few more months.”

Roho growled, pretending to bite at his hand, as if insulted.

Jane looked like she wanted to go pet him. “How did you acquire him?”

Noah’s face grew more serious, glancing across the lake to the breadth of the park. “Two years ago, seven Transvaal lions were reintroduced to our park, in an attempt to restore a population that’s been gone from these lands for decades. With the addition of the lions — and perhaps one day, black rhinos — Akagera may soon return to its full glory.”

He turned to them, his face wistful with hope.

“And Roho?” Jane pressed.

“Oh, yes, one of our new lionesses was pregnant when she arrived. She gave birth to three cubs, one of them Roho. Since survival rates are poor for cubs in the wild, we culled him from her litter to give the other two cubs a better chance of surviving, but also because we feared poachers might hunt him for the color of his pelt. And as indiscriminate as such men are, Roho’s presence risked the lives of the entire new pride.”

“So you kept him.”

“To train him. The hope is still to release him, when he’s older and better able to fend for himself. He’s now of the age when his mother usually begins teaching him to hunt, so I take him whenever I can.”

Gray glanced to the sun as it sat lower over the lake. “We should be going. I want to be at the site we mapped before sunset.”

Noah climbed from the boat to the deck. “Show me. I was told basically where you wanted to go, but perhaps I could offer further guidance.”

Roho followed him with a single leap, plainly ready to do the same.

“He’s friendly,” Noah assured everyone while crossing to the maps strewn on the table.

Gray joined the guide, while the others took the opportunity to meet Roho.

“This is where we were thinking of going.” Gray pointed to a region to the north that most closely corresponded to the X marked on Livingstone’s map.

Noah studied the chart while inhaling deeply. “May I ask, why there?”

“Is it a problem?”

“Compared to other places in Africa, Akagera sees few visitors. When I lead a safari, I am often the only one out there. And that’s in the southern end of the park. Up north, no one goes there. Not really.”

“Why doesn’t anyone go there?”

“Difficult terrain. Mountainous, thick jungles. It’s as untouched as you’ll find in Africa. Many believe those dense forests are haunted. Even rebels and poachers don’t go there.”

Gray looked at his amphibious boat. “But can that get us there?”

“To the edge, certainly. Beyond that…” The man shrugged. “But again, why there? What are you seeking?”

Gray frowned. “Elephants.”

Noah’s eyes widened, looking relieved. “Oh, that is easy then. No need to go all the way up there. I can show you many elephants. Much closer. Here in the south.”

“And what about in the north?” Gray stared at the map. “Are there any elephants up there?”

Noah considered his question. “Not yet. While the park has had good success at reestablishing an elephant herd here — we have over ninety now — they mostly stay in the south. Even they don’t like to venture into the northern jungles, preferring the savannas and marshlands.”

Gray took stock of what he had just said. “What do you mean by reestablishing the park’s herd?”

“Like with the reintroduction of the lions, elephants were added back to the park in 1975.”

“What happened to the original herds?”

He shrugged again. “Poachers, big-game hunters. All I know is that the indigenous elephants vanished some sixty years ago.”

Vanished?

Gray’s stomach sank with despair. If there was some cure to be found here, was it already gone?

Are we decades too late?

Noah shook his head. “When I first came here as a young man, some of the older guides would talk of the park’s former glory. There had been many herds back then, even shy forest elephants who roamed those northern mountain jungles. No longer, but hopefully, those times will return.”

“But can you be sure?” Gray asked.

“Of those times returning?”

“No, of those forest elephants being gone.” Gray looked at the spot on the map. “You said those mountains are rarely traveled, even avoided. If the elephants were truly that shy, maybe a few of them are still up there.”

Noah looked skeptical.

Gray straightened, eyeing the sun. “What’s the harm in looking?”

Jane sat with Derek in the middle of Noah’s amphibious ark.

Ahead of them, Gray murmured with the ship’s captain, while Seichan crouched at the point of the bow, her gaze alert for any threat ahead. Kowalski did the same in the back, sprawled in the stern, his shotgun across his knees.

Jane did her best to ignore the peril.

Instead, she stared at the beauty around her, enjoying the tropical weather after the searing heat of the Sudan.

All around, the flat waters of Lake Ihema mirrored the blue sky, marred only by the boat’s wake, which dappled the last rays of the sun across the water. It looked like they had the vast lake all to themselves.

But she knew that wasn’t true. Though they might be the only boat, the lake teemed with life. Hippos bobbed along the shoreline as their craft plied past their roosting spots, sometimes opening their massive jaws in territorial displays of threat. Elsewhere, hidden in the papyrus, the long black logs of crocodiles were reminders that swimming these waters was a sport only for the most foolhardy. A few brave creatures took that risk, but those lumbering adult Cape water buffaloes had little to fear.

She gazed out at the flocks of crowned cranes and open-billed storks working the shallows. They weren’t the only hunters of the lake. An African fish eagle dove down, snagged something wiggling and silver, and shot back skyward. Thousands of other birds flitted and darted, too quick to identify, too numerous to even try.

Out in the surrounding marshes and grasses, life spread far and wide. Herds of klipspringer antelope grazed alongside impalas and zebra. In the distance, the stately bob of giraffe necks moved through a savanna, like the masts of tall ships.

With the sun sunk to the horizon, shadows stretched everywhere, adding dark brushstrokes across the meadows and hills.

Jane sighed, knowing how easy it would be to be lulled into the pace of this land, but they still had much to do.

A sharp slap reminded her of this.

Derek rubbed his arm, leaving a tiny smear of blood from whatever had bit him. Throughout this region, it was those same bloodsuckers that spread disease and death: West Nile, dengue and yellow fever, even Zika, which originated in a Ugandan monkey. She had also learned that those same pathogens were all flaviviruses. Same as the virus harboring inside the microbe they hunted, a genetic Trojan horse capable of killing male offspring.

So maybe it’s no surprise we ended up here.

As she dwelled on this fact, the wonder of the park faded.

She sank back into her seat. Derek followed her. She took his arm and pulled it over her shoulders, wanting to feel his solidness. She nestled into him.

Derek must have sensed her dismay and tried to combat it. “I keep imagining the likes of David Livingstone and his fellow explorers, trudging through these swamps, battling the elements, wild animals, not to mention”—he lifted his bitten arm—“the smallest of predators.”

He craned around. “Livingstone likely searched this very region. We know Stanley famously found the good doctor languishing in a village along the shores of Lake Tanganyika, which lies only a hundred miles away. And while Stanley returned home, Livingstone remained to continue his quest for the source of the Nile. His explorations might have very well led him here.”

“As I recall, it was along those same shores where a tribesman gave him his talisman.”

He nodded. “The same tribe honored him later, burying his heart under a local plum tree.”

“Then mummified him,” she added sourly, thinking of her father’s fate.

“Out of respect. They packed his remains in salt and shipped him home in a coffin made of bark. He’s now buried in Westminster Abbey.”

“But was it worth it? He gave his life to add a few lines to a map.”

“Perhaps, but he also helped many of the natives here, fighting against slavers, teaching them. And besides, even if he never did any of that, the pursuit of knowledge is never for naught. Each line drawn on a map gets us closer to understanding the world and our place in it.”

She rewarded him with a small smile. “You, Dr. Rankin, are a better person than I.”

He drew her closer. “I’m not about to dispute that.”

By now they had reached the end of the lake and entered the labyrinth of lakes, rolling hills, and swamps that separated them from the low mountains darkening the horizon. The terrain here proved the utility of their unique mode of transportation. No matter the challenge — deep water, slippery mud, sinking sand, or tall grass — Noah’s amphibious ark forged on.

Still, not everyone was content.

A growled complaint rose behind Jane. “Why does he keep licking me?”

She turned to find Roho nosing the big guy, smearing a long wet tongue across his cheek. Kowalski pushed him away.

Seichan commented from the bow. “He’s tasting you, Kowalski. Seeing if you’re worth eating.”

Noah gave her a scolding look. “It’s just the salt from your sweat.”

This information failed to calm the man. “So he is tasting me.”

Jane turned back around and nestled deeper next to Derek. “What was that about knowledge always being a good thing?”

Valya wanted as much intel as possible before acting.

Seated in the copilot seat, she ordered the Cessna to bank wide again, to keep its reflection off the wide lake below. In the back cabin, Kruger had the side cargo door slid open. One hand clutched a grip against the wind, the other held a pair of binoculars. He watched their targets progress across a landscape of lakes, marshes, and grasslands, likely recalling his teammates killed by those below.

She was tempted to order the Cessna to dive down, to fire one or both of their Hellfire missiles at the amphibious craft. But while that would certainly annihilate them, it would fail to be fully satisfying. She absently rubbed the hilt of her grandmother’s athamé.

No, not nearly satisfying enough.

Plus there was a practical reason. She and Kruger had decided to follow the others, see where they might lead. And if the situation presented itself, they would grab whatever prize might be hidden down there for themselves.

To sell to the highest bidder.

Best of all, she knew someone who had a personal stake in all of this and who had very deep pockets. It was time to turn that to her advantage.

To hell with Simon Hartnell — and my brother.

With the decision made, she intended not to fail, which meant heeding the instructions of her former masters in the Guild: to be patient and wait for her moment. All the failure up until now was due to her moving too hastily, acting upon her baser emotions of revenge. She needed to be cold and calculating.

Like her quarry.

She pictured Seichan’s face.

“Sun’s about to set!” Kruger called up to her.

She twisted in her seat, eyeing the Raven UAV sharing the cabin with Kruger and his three men. “Wait until it’s fully dark before launching.”

The plan was to hold off until nightfall and send the drone to continue the hunt by air, using its thermal and low-light optics to continue tracking their prey. She could not risk the bird being spotted during the day. Once it was aloft, they would refuel and maintain a high-altitude vigil, waiting for their moment. When that came, they would sweep low. Kruger and his men would bail out in base-jumping gear to secure the area. She would follow in a more conventional chute. The pilot would circle and wait for their command to unleash his missiles, which guided by a fire-and-forget radar system would clean up behind them.

Alternatively, if it looked like their targets had failed in their search, then her team would go with the missiles first. Though such a scheme was far from satisfying or profitable, it would get the job done.

Still, she preferred the first plan.

So she stared below and wished the others the best of luck.

Now I understand what Noah meant.

The dark forest ahead looked impenetrable. Their vehicle had climbed out of the swamps and savannas forty minutes ago, just as the sun was beginning to set. The northern mountains rose like broken fangs, cutting across the world. The very tops were exposed granite, but the rest was dense jungle. It looked trackless and forbidding.

Still, Jane and Derek had plotted their best approach into the mountains, using hydrological and topographical maps of the park. They believed a river flowing out of the mountains and winding across the plains might be the small extension off the Kagera seen on Livingstone’s sketch ending at an X.

Or so they all hoped.

With no other good choice, they set off into the mountains, following along the river. Though more times than not, Noah simply rode up the stream, fighting the current, sometimes afloat, sometimes climbing over boulders.

By now they were all drenched from water splashing over the gunwales. It was hard to say who was grouchier about this development, Kowalski or Roho. Both complained just as miserably. It also didn’t help that the temperature had dropped rapidly as night fell.

Two beams of light led the way deeper, but eventually Noah’s ark reached a sheer waterfall. It blocked the way forward as the river tumbled down over a series of small cliffs ahead of them.

Gray stood and looked at the top of the cascade. The forest appeared even thicker up there.

Noah joined him. “End of the road. From here, the only way forward is on foot.”

Gray glanced to the others, judging their fortitude to continue.

Jane must have realized what he was doing and climbed up. “We’ve come this far, what’s a little hike through the woods?”

Derek looked less convinced, but nodded, heaving to his feet.

Noah accepted their decision, slinging a rifle over one shoulder and pack over the other. He whistled and Roho bounded from where he had been lounging with Kowalski, shaking his wet fur. Noah fixed a red collar with a black weight hanging from it around the cat’s neck.

Roho accepted the attention begrudgingly, swishing his tail.

“Shock collar,” Noah explained.

Jane looked concern. “Isn’t that cruel?”

“Necessary. Despite appearances, he’s still a baby. Which means he can easily get distracted and just as easily hurt. I need to be able to get his attention. But don’t worry.” He pulled what looked like a small beeper from his pocket. “I can control the level of shock. From one to ten. I seldom have to go to three, and one and two are really no more than a tap on his shoulder, telling him listen up, buddy.”

Once outfitted, Roho rubbed his head against Noah’s thigh.

“Yes, that’s right. You’re a good boy.”

Seichan sidled past Gray on her way off the boat. “Can we get one of those for Kowalski?”

“I heard that,” the big man said, following her.

“You were supposed to.” She hopped over the gunwale, landed on the riverbank, and headed for the jumble of cliffs.

Everyone offloaded and followed.

Gray had bought a new set of caving helmets after their earlier adventure and passed them around. He didn’t know what they might encounter out here, but considering how dark it was under the forest canopy, they might as well be underground.

Lamps clicked on in the dark, and the group set off to tackle the cliffs.

The climb alongside the cataract was not as arduous as it first appeared, especially working as a team. Using vines, roots, crevices, they worked step by step up the series of cliffs, helping one another when necessary. Only Roho managed the ascent without any assistance.

Three-quarters of the way up, Gray hauled himself onto a ledge after a rather precarious section. Jane puffed heavily, and Derek’s face was flushed. Recognizing this, he called for a short break. Their perch was five or six stories above their abandoned vehicle.

“Good job,” he told Jane.

She nodded, too winded to speak.

Noah looked like he could go for hours. He pointed to the far side of the waterfall. “Apparently we’re tonight’s entertainment.”

Gray turned and spotted a troop of small apes squatted on a tumble of rocks over there. Some carried tiny babies on their backs.

“Papio anubis,” Noah said. “The olive baboon.”

“Should we be worried?”

“No. If you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. They’re just curious. It’s the vervets you have to watch out for.” He looked to the branches overhanging their perch. “Those little monkeys will pelt you with nuts… and sometimes worse.”

Jane finally regained the power of speech. “The baboons don’t seem bothered by us being here at all.”

“True, and you’ll find it quite common here. The park truly sees few visitors, so many of the animals have not developed a natural fear of humans. Last month, a woman woke in the tent with a blue monkey cuddled up next to her, which is quite amazing considering the species was once considered extinct here in the park. But give nature a chance, and it will surprise you.”

Kowalski scowled at the troop across the river. “If one of those wakes up next to me, surprise won’t be the word. More like shi—”

Gray cut him off and pointed up. “Let’s keep going.”

They scaled the last quarter without any mishaps. Up top, the river snaked into a dark forest that looked even more impenetrable. Birdcalls and screeches echoed from its depths.

Derek eyed the path ahead. “The jungle looks primeval, like we’re traveling back in time.”

“In some ways, we are.” Noah pulled out a machete, ready to hack a path if necessary, and set off along the river’s edge.

Roho kept close, his tail swishing nervously.

“This region of Rwanda is part of the East African Rift Valley, a great crevice that hugs around the western side of Lake Victoria, like a big crescent moon curving from Lake Tanganyika to the south and ending at the edge of the Nile basin.”

Derek mumbled to Jane, “If Livingstone ever followed that path, he would have come straight through here.”

Noah continued, pointing his machete. “These are some of the oldest mountains in Africa, made of Precambrian basement rock.” He glanced back at them. “Basically the very crust of the continent. And these forests have been around for nearly as long.”

Gray searched the jungle, appreciating the living history surrounding him.

Almost in reverence, the group continued in silence for the next mile, walking in single file, their line of helmet lamps an illuminated caterpillar worming its way deeper into the mysteries here.

Roho became a tad braver. He began to venture from Noah’s side, sniffing here, squatting there, but he always circled back to get a reassuring pat or a kind word.

Noah smiled like a proud papa, maybe a bit sadly knowing he would eventually have to say good-bye. On one pass, Noah bent down and nuzzled his friend.

“Ndagukunda, Roho. Ndagukunda,” he whispered in the lion’s ear, which earned the man an appreciative rumble back.

Gray didn’t know a lick of Kinyarwanda, but he suspected Ndagukunda meant I love you.

And clearly that sentiment flowed both ways.

After a time, the trail opened enough for Gray to walk next to Noah. “So how did you end up working here at the park?”

Gray meant it to be a casual inquiry, but from Noah’s pained expression it was a touchy subject. He didn’t shy from answering, though. “When I was a young man, I lived in Kigali.”

“Your capital.”

“Yes, I joined our national army when I was sixteen. I was very proud, even earning the rank of corporal by 1994.”

Gray began to understand the pain he heard in his voice. In July of that year, one of the worst acts of genocide occurred in Rwanda, as a tribal war broke out. The Hutu-run government sought to purge the Tutsi. By some estimates, a million people were slaughtered over the course of a hundred days.

Noah sighed, looking out at the jungle. “I was Hutu.”

He didn’t say anything else.

Roho came back around, as if sensing his master’s distress, circling and rubbing. Noah ignored him, lost in memories he must continually fight to keep buried.

After several quiet minutes, he finally spoke. “It is better here. Animals teach you much. Teach you how to live…”

His voice trailed off, but Gray could finish it on his own.

…when you don’t deserve to.

Gray fell back, allowing the man to continue ahead. Clearly Noah had sought to rediscover himself here by caring for the defenseless to make up for what he had failed to do in the past.

Again they marched in silence, putting one foot in front of the other. They slowly crossed into a section of forest where the river had overrun its banks and flooded the forests to either side. It reminded Gray of regions of the Amazon that would seasonally inundate, changing woods into swamps. But this region looked stable, an eternally drowned forest in the middle of the mountains.

Noah used his machete to cut branches to make walking sticks for them all. “Careful of snakes.” He demonstrated poking ahead of them. “And for patches of quicksand.”

“You take us to the best places, Gray,” Kowalski groused.

They set off again, moving more slowly. Their lights reflected off the dark water, making it harder to see what lurked below. But it was rarely deeper than midcalf, the depth rising and falling with the landscape. Islands dotted the swamp around them, and occasional bright pairs of round eyes stared at them from high branches.

“Bush babies,” Noah said. “Small nocturnal primates.”

They continued onward. After another twenty minutes of hiking, Jane reached forward and lightly touched Gray’s shoulder. “Look over to your right. Are those lights or are my eyes playing tricks?”

He turned to where she pointed. Far in the drowned forest, he could make out faint glimmers, softly glowing patches. They shimmered in a kaleidoscope of hues.

Curious, he waved to the others. “Turn off your lamps.”

As the lights were doused, the effect grew more dramatic. It spread deeper and wider than it had first appeared. Some patches were iridescent, others a soft glimmer. It was phosphorescent and incandescent. There were streaks and whorls and splatters. It was like Jackson Pollock had come out here with a paintbrush and a palette of luminescent paint.

“What’s causing it?” Derek whispered.

Jane frowned. “Maybe a glowing moss or fungus.”

But in so many colors?

It made no sense.

Gray turned to Noah. “Have you seen anything like that?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

Apparently neither had another member of their party. Roho, ever curious, bounded toward the phenomenon. His paws splashed loudly through the shallow water.

“Roho, no!” Noah headed after him, fumbling in his pocket for the control to the shock collar.

Gray clicked on his lamp and followed, drawing the others with him. He had heard tales of fiery will-o’-the-wisps luring the unwary into swamps and bog. He prayed they weren’t falling for the same trap.

Ahead, Noah tried to get Roho to obey, holding out his controller, pressing the button. But the cub continued his playful pursuit.

As they neared the patch of painted forest, Noah must have raised the collar’s charge. Roho let out a small yelp, bouncing off his paws and finally coming to a stop.

Noah hurried to the lion’s side, quickly reassuring the cub, who did figure eights around the man’s legs. “Babarira, Roho,” he apologized. “Babarira.”

Gray and the others gathered around the pair. Now that he was closer, standing at its edge, he saw the effect was stunning. It was an ethereal starscape trapped under the canopy, glowing softly, reflected in the water.

“It’s beautiful,” Jane whispered.

And the forest responded to her admiration.

From its farthest depths rose a low murmur, a chatter of many voices, the words too faint to make clear.

The eerie noise shivered all the hairs over Gray’s body. He remembered Noah saying how these forests were said to be haunted.

Seichan grabbed his arm. “We need to get out of here.”

He stepped back — but the painted forest had already begun to move.

24

If I wasn’t so scared, I’d be dizzy.

Still hidden in the cargo hold, Painter felt the Boeing C-17 Globemaster bank for another slow turn above the storm.

After the turbulent, teeth-rattling ride through the cloud layer, the aircraft had reached the calmer air above the storm and had been circling for more than an hour. The crew was likely coordinating and preparing for the release of the eighteen quarter-ton canisters of Pestis fulmen, but with the tempest below and the geomagnetic storm above, communication between Aurora Station and the Globemaster had to be challenging.

Or maybe everyone was being extra careful.

With his cheek near the biohazard label on the crate next to him, he appreciated such caution.

He had used the passing time to figure out how many others were aboard the airship. He had to be careful, sneaking between the containers.

He spotted two men in black coveralls — Anton’s crew — both carrying the same assault rifle Painter had slung over his own shoulder. While waiting, he had made sure the two extra magazines he had stolen from the guards at the communication shack were fully loaded. He also timed the security men’s movements. Unfortunately they rotated regularly and refused to gather in one spot together.

Too bad.

A few moments ago, Painter had almost been caught by one of the aircraft’s flight crew. The man had needed to relieve himself, but the plane’s single restroom was in use, so he came back to the rear hold to avail himself of a relief tube, basically a funnel that piped outside. The man had stood near enough to Painter that he could have tapped the guy on the shoulder. Still, the close call had allowed Painter to note the holstered sidearm. He estimated there had to be at least two people in the flight crew, plus a loadmaster for helping with the cargo.

The final members aboard the aircraft were six scientists, a worrisome mix of men and women. From their excessive chatter, they were clearly civilians, which was problematic, as they could very well be innocent of any malicious intent, just enthusiastic researchers.

If Painter burst out with his gun blazing, he might be able to take out the two armed guards, but he could end up with the scientists caught in the crossfire. And what would it get him in the end? At the first sign of a problem, the flight crew would simply button up the cockpit and leave Painter pounding on the bulletproof door in frustration. Plus the loadmaster inside could activate the automatic air-delivery system from the flight deck.

His plan was far simpler.

At the front of the row of pallets were two red emergency shutdown buttons, one on each side of the hold. They would cut power to the hydraulic plows up there, each designed to push their row of nine pallets across rollers and dump the load out the rear hatch. The plan had only two hiccups. First, the cutoff switches only worked once everything was powered and in motion, which meant he could not act until the very last moment. Second, even if he hit the switch, the loadmaster could still override and get things moving again.

So Painter needed the time between the first hiccup and the second to convince everybody on board to stop what they were doing.

To accomplish that, he needed one other thing.

Hostages.

A commotion stirred the scientists around a makeshift station. A monitor showed a scintillation map of the storm surging through the ionosphere. They made appreciative comments about its turbulence, speaking in cryptic scientific code.

“Look at the plasma spike. Definitely an HSS.”

“It could be a co-rotating interaction region.”

“A CIR? No, the G-scale is through the roof.”

With no windows in the hold, Painter could only imagine the view of the aurora borealis at this height. Above the cloud layer, the midday sun still shone, but from its low arc this time of year, an aurora of this magnitude was likely still visible. He wished he could see it.

Regrettably, a genie heard him.

A low moan of hydraulics rose all around him. He glanced over a shoulder as the back of the plane began to open. Daylight blazed into the dim hold through a ship-wide crack.

Giddy shouts rose from the front, along with some clapping.

Painter tucked himself more tightly between two pallets. Winds roared outside but failed to enter the hold due to the giant ship’s draft as it flew onward. The aircraft bobbled a bit due to the sudden drag from the opening doors, but the pilot proved his skill at keeping the wings even and steadying their flight.

At the moment, the plane headed toward the low sun, which allowed Painter a view to the dark blue sky behind their tail. Scintillating waves of green and red washed across the heavens, dancing and weaving. Momentarily mesmerized, Painter failed to immediately recognize a change in timbre of the hydraulics, but a grind of a motor drew him immediately around.

One of the plows had been engaged.

Painter had suspected they would eject one row at a time, lessening the chance that the cascade of blooming weather balloons would tangle.

Unfortunately, the row of nine crates he was hiding among was going overboard first.

With everything starting, Painter took one last look, fixing the position of everyone in the hold — then ducked out of hiding and ran low between the towering crates and the curve of the plane’s hull.

He reached the red shutdown button and slapped it with his palm.

The plow, which had been closing down on his row along the port side, halted with a disappointed sigh of its hydraulics.

All eyes turned to him, shocked, as if he had appeared out of thin air.

It was time to threaten his hostages.

He lunged behind the first portside crate and sheltered behind it. Staying out of view, he pointed his assault rifle at the row of crates along the starboard hull and centered his sights on one of the biohazard labels.

He hollered to those gathered at the front. “No one moves, or I start shooting my hostages!”

Let’s see how much they value their lives — and any future male children.

Apparently his threat failed to reach the loadmaster on the flight deck. The second steel plow groaned and began pushing toward the opposite row, about to roll his hostages away. The loadmaster must have noted the red light on his board for the first row and decided to eject the second instead to keep to the schedule, which would also give him time to investigate the reason for the interruption.

Regrettably, that didn’t work for Painter’s schedule.

Pinned down, he had no way to reach the cutoff on the starboard side of the hold, so the plow continued unimpeded. The sledge reached the first pallet and shoved it into the next and the whole deadly parade began to roll toward the open aft doors.

Painter waited until the plow drew abreast of his position. He aimed his rifle at the hydraulic lines, hoping to sever one or two and force the plow to a halt. He squeezed his trigger for a cautious spurt, fearful of ricochets in the enclosed space.

Two rounds ruptured a line, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

At least, not for the plow.

One of the guards, mistaking his shots for an attack, panicked and opened fire toward Painter’s position. As he was still safely sheltered, none of the rounds hit him, but it might have been better if they had.

At such short range, the shots pierced the aluminum case of the Pestis vessel, passing fully through and over Painter’s head. The rounds lost enough momentum to only ping off the next container.

Still, the damage was done.

Fountains of crimson poured out, showering Painter. From the screams of alarm and terror, he imagined the same was spilling from the holes out front. But the disaster wasn’t done.

Painter heard a sharp hissing overhead.

Oh no…

As he glanced up, the weather balloon exploded out of its sealed package on top, bursting like an air bag during a car crash. A bullet must have struck its inflation tank. It blasted to the roof of the hold, shaking and whipping, trying to escape. The balloon then did what it had been designed to do and flew toward the open hatch. The damaged, leaking container got yanked off its pallet and dragged with it.

Painter dove out of its way, crashing headlong into the hull.

The quarter-ton crate came within inches of cracking his head open.

Other crates in line were knocked over, but their combined drag finally captured their wayward companion. The balloon ripped and deflated, falling over the rest of the row, tangling everything up.

On the starboard side of the hold, the plow continued its duty, oblivious to the chaos on the portside.

Painter watched as one crate after the other was dumped overboard. They fell leadenly away, but then moments later, white mushrooms bloomed against the blue skies, backlit by the shimmering aurora borealis.

Nine balloons rose heavenward, swinging their deadly cargo beneath.

Helpless, Painter remained slumped against the side hull.

A loud voice rose from up front. “What the hell happened?”

Painter turned, guessing the shocked man was the plane’s loadmaster, come to check on his handiwork. Rifles pointed accusingly at Painter.

Soaked to the skin like Carrie on prom night, he shrugged. “You think you’re having a bad day.”

Hang in there…

Kat crouched over Safia, holding a cold compress to her forehead. After the first seizure, Kat had moved the half-conscious woman out of the Sno-Cat and over to one of the Inuit’s hide tents. Despite outward appearances, the nomadic dwelling on Lake Hazen had a camp cot and piles of fur blankets and was heated by a camp stove vented to the outside.

The three Inuit ice fishermen — Tagak, Joseph, and Natan — had offered their help, but Kat feared exposing them, so had them stay back. Still, she had accepted the use of their tent and a first-aid kit, which contained a welcome bottle of aspirin, both for her and Safia.

She had downed three, hoping not to get sick.

She made Rory do the same. He hovered behind her, pacing the small space. She had realized keeping him bound was a waste of a useful resource, especially when it came to hauling Safia here.

Besides, where could he go? She still had the Sno-Cat’s keys, and the Inuits’ only means of transportation were snowshoes and a dogsled. And an hour ago, Natan had taken off with his tethered team toward Alert, intending to get help.

Lake Hazen had a small makeshift airstrip. It was one of the park’s three spots where you could land a plane. This early in the season, it was snowed over and so far unused, but hopefully Camp Alert could dispatch help here.

At least, that was the plan.

She also had Tagak and Joseph standing guard, watching the mountaintops for any sign of hunters from the station. Like everyone traveling in the Arctic, they carried rifles.

Safia moaned, thrashing her limbs under the blankets. Kat had found a digital thermometer in the first-aid kit and checked her fever: 103.4. High but not deadly. Still, to protect her brain, Kat kept swapping out compresses soaked in ice water, which she sent Rory out to freshen periodically. She kept one under Safia’s neck and another on her forehead.

The cold did seem to calm her, and she had not had another seizure after the first one. Since then, Safia had been fading into and out of consciousness, sometimes recognizing them, other times not.

She mumbled in a fever dream.

Rory shifted closer, cocking his head. “I think she’s speaking early Egyptian Coptic.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not one hundred percent. And it might make no difference. Dr. al-Maaz is an expert on Egyptian history and knows the Coptic language well. She may be just drudging up words out of her feverish consciousness.”

Kat looked at him. “But you don’t think that’s the explanation.”

“When my father got sick — and the others — they reported vivid hallucinations.”

“Which is common with high fevers and encephalitis.”

“Yes, but it was how similar their deliriums were. All about Egypt, burning sands, diseases.”

“Your father and his men could have been responding to the heat and their fear of this disease. The similarities could have been nothing more than the power of suggestion, triggering a mass delusion.”

“You could be right. In the end, some of the hallucinations never even fit this pattern.”

“Then there you go.”

Rory sighed. “My father’s gotten into my head.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had long talks via the Internet. He had his own theory. He thought it was possible the organism could record the memory pattern of a person it infected and carry it forward to the next victim, replaying it by stimulating the second brain in the same manner.”

“Why would it do that? What’s the evolutionary advantage?”

“He believed only strong memories would be captured and recorded, especially something frightening, which would excite the brain more fully, feeding the microbe. Then by carrying it forward and repeating the pattern in the next victim—”

“—it would quickly energize that new feeding ground.” Kat nodded her head. “Intriguing, but where does that get us?”

“According to my father, it takes us all the way back to the biblical plagues.”

“How’s that?”

“He believed the strain of microbe that infected him, that infected Safia, the same strain he spread to Cairo and beyond, all came from the time the organism first bloomed in the Nile, turning it red. He thought it might have captured that period of panic and horror, and now repeats it over and over again, an echo out of the distant past.”

“After so long?”

“It may not be long for this organism. Simon Hartnell tested the microbe and found it’s nearly immortal, capable of going into dormancy until it gets its next electrical fix.” Rory finally shrugged. “Like I said, it was just something my father dwelled upon. And with Safia speaking ancient Egyptian, it reminded me of that conversation.”

Kat considered this theory. Human memories were organized in the hippocampus region, but recent research suggested the information was only stored there on a short-term basis. Later, the hippocampus recoded these memories as electrical patterns across billions of synapses and distributed them for long-term storage over the entire cerebral cortex.

She also remembered Dr. Kano mentioning the unique shapeshifting biology of the Archaea domain, how these species were capable of chaining together into wires or cables. Could a web of interconnected microbes capture the brain’s pattern, especially if it was cast by a strong enough memory, and mimic it later?

Safia stirred, her lips moving silently in some dream.

Kat felt a chill, picturing what she had just imagined happening in her brain.

Rory shifted closer and whispered in Safia’s ear, “Khére, nim pe pu-ran?”

Kat frowned. “What did you say?”

He glanced over. “I asked what her name was, using ancient Coptic.”

“But why—?”

Safia answered faintly, as if speaking from a deep well. “Sabah pe pa-ran… Sabah.”

Rory jolted at this response, pushing away, his face scared.

“What?”

He looked to the laptop sitting atop a folded fur, then back to Safia. “She said her name is Sabah.”

“Why is that significant?”

“Before all hell broke loose, Safia learned the name of the woman mummified on the throne, the one who infected her. Her name was Sabah.”

Kat wanted to dismiss this again as the power of suggestion. If Safia had been working on his puzzle, her feverish mind could have latched on to this.

Still…

She stared at Rory. “How did you know her name?”

“From the tattoos found on her body.”

She thought for a moment, then pulled out the data disk she had removed from Safia’s pocket. She shoved it at Rory and pointed it to the laptop. “See what else you can figure out.”

She refused to leave any stone unturned.

He eagerly took the disk and sat cross-legged before the computer.

She returned her attention to Safia, willing the woman to fight. She checked her temperature again, freshened the compresses, and managed to get her to swallow another aspirin along with a few sips of water.

Rory tapped away behind her, mumbling, sounding sometimes frustrated, sometimes astounded. She let him concentrate on his work.

A voice rose from outside the tent flap. “Hello.” It was Joseph, the oldest of the Inuit trio. “Someone comes. Many lights sweeping down into the valley from the mountains.”

Kat stood, grabbing her gun.

Seems it’s time for me to go to work, too.

Sabah pe pa-ran…

She walks for the thousandth time through the burning sands, past the carcasses of water buffaloes, through the crushed bodies of birds of every feather, where even the vultures have fallen where they fed.

Screams rise from the village to her left, weeping, mourning.

Still, she continues to the blood-red river. Crocodiles float leadenly past, bellies to the sun. The reeds are choked with the dried husks of frogs. And everywhere clouds of flies rise and fall, like the waves of the sea beyond the delta.

Other images swim, overlaying this one.

— a woman holds a dying baby boy to her chest.

It is my child.

— a young girl gasps for air as her body burns.

I am that girl.

— a bent-backed hag is stoned for blaspheming the gods.

I feel those rocks break my skull.

On and on.

She is a hundred women, tracing back to that time of misery. She is Sabah and all others who carried that memory. It is what they were all trained for, to be the hemet netjer… the maid of God. They learned to take the water and let it wash through them, to hold down their own fears so they did not taint the memory of the time of misery, to preserve it for the next woman in line, to never forget.

To carry the memory is a curse.

To know what we know, a blessing.

And now I am another.

She reaches the muddy bank and stares yet again at where the world ends in a wall of darkness far beyond the river. The storm eats the sun and is not satisfied. Lightning crackles, and hail pounds the sands like the hooves of a thousand angry stallions. She knows it is both the past and what might yet come.

She speaks to the new woman.

You must warn them.

“Conditions remain within the baseline for an optimal test firing,” Dr. Kapoor informed Simon.

The pair stood at the helm of the control station with a panoramic view through the curved window to his tower. Over the past half hour, his emotions alternated between fury and elation.

He could not fathom how Painter Crowe suddenly appeared aboard the cargo plane. It was like the bastard was the living embodiment of his name and flew up there on his own. Now the aircraft was contaminated and in the process of being locked down. Unfortunately half the crates of Pestis fulmen still remained aboard the plane, but despite the sabotage, nine had made it safely out.

He stared down at the map of the ionosphere. Small blips marked where the balloons had discharged their loads at the lower edges of that charged layer of the atmosphere. Digital estimates of the energized streams from the geomagnetic storm swirled and eddied in waves across his screen.

Kapoor nodded to where he was looking. “Projections remain good, even without the additional load. Still, we should give our seeds time to settle into this pool.” He pointed to a spot on the screen where energy whirled tightly. “I’ve already calibrated the beam to this site. But we don’t want to wait too long and allow the ionosphere’s currents to spread the seed too thin.”

“What’s your estimate for firing?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Very good.”

Simon rose up and down on his toes with excitement.

Ten more minutes and Tesla’s dream will finally be realized — along with my own.

A phone chimed at his station. He picked it up and heard rasps of static. He knew who had been patched to his private line.

“Anton?”

“We’ve found them, sir.”

“And the data?”

“It will be secure in the next ten minutes.”

He smiled at the serendipity of the timing.

Perfect.

“You have your orders,” he said.

“And the women?”

He stared at another screen that showed the circling aircraft. Painter Crowe was no longer a problem, only a loose end. He saw no need to retain a bargaining chip.

“Clean your mess up.”

“Understood.”

Simon clutched his hands behind his back in an attempt to reel in his excitement. He paced back and forth. He looked at his board.

All green lights.

After what seemed like forever, Kapoor returned.

“Well?” Simon asked, as the man seemed to hesitate.

The physicist grinned and pointed to the key inserted into his console. “We’re go for ignition.”

Simon felt this moment needed some momentous words, a grand speech about changing the world, but he let his actions do his speaking. He stepped to the console, gripped the key, and turned it.

He felt the vibration of power in his fingers as systems engaged — or maybe it was his own exhilaration.

At last…

Faces across the station swung toward the view.

“Look at the top of the tower,” Kapoor said.

He drew his gaze upward. Copper rings began to revolve, dragging with them the massive electromagnets. Within that metal nest, an egg of superconductors shelled in titanium slowly turned, its tip pointed down.

“Amazing,” Kapoor whispered.

Over the course of a minute, the rings whipped faster, the magnets becoming a blur. The egg spun like a perfectly balanced top, rising weightless within its cocoon of energy — then slowly it began to tip, rolling its narrow end toward the dark sky.

Simon took a breathless step forward, drawing Kapoor with him.

Once the egg’s axis pointed to the heavens, Simon let out his breath.

With a blast that sounded like the world cracking, a shaft of pure plasma shot from the tower. Cheers and whistles rose throughout the control station, everyone knowing this was the first step to saving the planet. Blue crackles of energy burst from the tip of the tower and coursed out to the spiral array, dancing among the limbs of that steel forest. It reminded Simon of Saint Elmo’s fire, a natural fiery display that had once shot along the masts of sailing ships plying uncharted seas.

Only this journey explored an ocean far more mysterious.

The column of plasma struck the clouds, driving them apart. Lightning shattered outward along the belly of the clouds, trying to dispel the energy. The beam continued toward the heavens — where it finally struck its intended target.

It smashed into the ionosphere, slamming into the shield he had cast overhead, a barrier made of the smallest bits of life. The energy spread outward, visible as an aurora of such brilliance that Simon had to shy from it.

Kapoor passed him a set of tinted goggles.

He held them to his eyes, too excited to strap them on. More and more energy rocketed from the tower to the sky, charging the aurora even further. Waves of energy cascaded outward in all directions.

“You’ve done it,” Kapoor said, turning his gaze to the board. “It’s holding stable.”

Simon smiled.

At long last…

Something was dreadfully wrong.

Painter stood near the open rear hatch of the Globemaster, one fist wrapped in a scrap of weather balloon. Outside, a column of fire blazed through the storm and shattered across the roof of the world. Fed by this energy, the aurora spread outward in all directions, outshining even the arctic sun.

He felt the charge across his skin as the microbes soaking his clothes responded to the energy in the air. A glance back to the dark hold showed the crimson pools from the bullet-riddled container shimmered with a soft glow.

As he watched, one of those pools spilled into a river flowing toward him, toward the open door. He yelled to those gathered behind a translucent tarp hastily erected between the cargo hold and the front quarter of the aircraft.

“Keep the plane’s nose down!”

He didn’t want this poisonous soup pouring from the plane. He suspected some might have already dribbled out the back, before order was restored. He pictured the plane painting a red circle over the top of the clouds, seeding the storm below as readily as it had the skies above.

After the catastrophe aboard the plane, he had been quarantined away from the rest of the crew. He was the only one drenched by the damaged container, which still lay on its side, slowly leaking with each rock of the aircraft. Painter had no doubt he would have been shot outright, except the others needed a maintenance crew and no one was willing to venture into this toxic swamp.

So it was up to him to do something about the rear hatch, which was stuck open, its works gummed up from the weather balloon it tried to chew up. Aurora Station refused to let them land until the issue was rectified. The station did not want a rough landing to send the remaining load of crates scattering across the tundra or over the base.

Which meant for now, the crew needed him.

While down deep the others must know they were breathing an airborne pathogen, he let them clutch to whatever false hope they wanted.

It’s keeping me alive.

A loud boom shook the ship, accompanied by a blinding flash. He had been aboard enough airplanes to recognize what had happened.

Lightning strike.

He turned back to the open skies. As he feared, matters were beginning to change outside. The aurora borealis filled the bowl of the sky. It was no longer shimmering waves, gently lapping at the arch of the world. It had become a raging tempest, roiling and surging.

Sharper crackles popped earthward.

He knew the effect he was witnessing. It was called upper-atmospheric lightning, but in reality, it was streams of luminous plasma being cast off the ionosphere. It presented in various ways, each with a cute name—sprites, blue jets, and elves. But in fact, the displays were large-scale electrical discharges.

But Painter knew nothing this large had ever been recorded.

A dozen glowing sprite halos bloomed in the air, then burst into crimson balls of flame, trailing tendrils of energy toward the clouds, while brilliant blue cones of gas spun across the skies.

The storm below wasn’t happy about any of this and spat up forks of lightning, strafing the skies, which only added to the dance of fire between the heavens and the clouds.

Painter knew even a medium-sized storm contained the potential energy of a hundred Hiroshimas, and the sprawling arctic beast below could easily hold ten times that.

As he watched the interplay, he realized he was witnessing a feedback loop between the ionosphere and the storm, each exciting the other, escalating faster and stronger.

The station below must have realized the same. The column of plasma blasting from the tower to the sky suddenly extinguished.

But it was too late.

Simon Hartwell had managed the impossible.

He lit the skies on fire.

25

“No one move,” Gray warned.

Only his helmet lamp was still on. Its beam shone past where Noah crouched over the lion cub after shocking the cat to a splashing stop. The others were spread out behind him.

Their commotion in getting here had sent ripples through the drowned forest, shimmering the reflection of the starscape ahead, enhancing its prismatic effect. The spread of tiny glows and glimmers failed to truly illuminate the shadowy bower under the dense canopy. In fact, the opposite was true. The phosphorescent dabs and luminous whorls made the dark spaces darker. And the longer one looked, the more those brighter bits burned into the retina, creating false glows as one’s eyes searched the forest, doubling and tripling the trickery.

Still, Gray swore entire sections of paint shifted across the forest, as if tiny snatches of a larger canvas suddenly came to life. The faint murmurs he had heard when they’d arrived had gone silent. The entire flooded jungle had gone dead quiet.

“What’s out there?” Noah whispered.

Roho rumbled, slipping from his master’s side. The cub stalked forward, moving with great care, his legs barely stirring the water. He slunk his belly low, tail swishing just over the surface.

“Roho, oya,” Noah scolded, waving him back.

Gray touched the man’s shoulder. “Let him go.”

At the farthest reach of his lamp’s beam, a tiny section of the painted forest broke free, moving closer.

Jane gasped behind him.

Moving with the same care as Roho, a tiny shape appeared, as curious as the cub and maybe not much older. A tiny trunk, daubed in motes of blushing crimson, lifted higher, sniffing at the stranger’s scent.

A larger section of the canvas followed, drawing others.

A low trumpet of warning flowed out of the dark shadows.

“Elephants,” Noah said, straightening in wonder.

The small curious calf, no taller than Gray’s waist, hesitated, clearly balancing between obeying and not. It tossed its wide ears.

As the calf hovered at the edge of his light, Gray recognized what else might have drawn out the young animal. Its skin — painted in glowing phosphorescence to match the forest — was otherwise a pinkish-white, revealing the calf to be an albino. The inquisitive fellow must have been lured out of hiding by the novelty of the white cat, perhaps also recognizing their genetic commonality.

The calf’s tiny dark eyes watched Roho, as the cat continued his cautious approach, slinking forward in a submissive posture.

As if encouraging him, the calf lifted his trunk and made a tiny piping whistle.

That was all it took.

Roho bounded forward, splashing excitedly, which involved much bouncing and slapping of water. His antics emboldened the shy calf. With an airy trumpet, it tilted up on it hind legs in faux aggression — revealing itself to be a bull calf — then dropped back down. It loped forward, its little body half-turned, making tiny hops, then swinging its body the other way.

The earlier rumbling trumpet of warning grew louder, echoed by others hidden in the forest.

Still, the calf would have none of it. The two youngsters met and danced in the water. They circled, bumped, and splashed together.

“What do we do?” Noah whispered.

Gray shrugged. “For now, let Roho be our ambassador.”

Their play expanded outward, circling wider through the trees. Each took turns chasing the other. As Gray’s eyes adjusted, he discerned darker shadows under the canopy, their flanks as decorated as the calf’s.

“Who painted them?” Jane asked, keeping her voice hushed.

It was a good question.

Gray remembered the whispered voices in the darkness.

Who else was out there?

Noah spoke, his words awed. “I think… I think they did it themselves.”

Gray frowned. “How could—?”

A loud splash and a trumpet of distress cut him off. They all turned to where the cub and calf had rounded a small island. Roho danced back into view, tail swishing in distress, then darted behind the island again.

They all moved, driven faster by an upset cry from Roho.

Gray and the others rounded one side of the island. Across the way, a lumbering shadow with painted flanks thundered through the water toward the same spot.

There was no sign of the calf.

Then Noah pointed. “There!”

A few inches of pale trunk waved frantically above the water.

“Stay back,” Gray warned.

He took two steps and dove. With his helmet strapped under his chin, his waterproof lamp cast a weak glow through the murk. The bottom fell steeply away from the island, forming a depression. His hands discovered a floor of sucking muck.

A shape appeared out of the gloom ahead.

He kicked over to the calf. Its legs were sunk to its ankles in the mud. It writhed in panic, fighting the grip but only managing to sink deeper. Gray placed a palm on the calf’s side, trying to reassure the young animal.

He then popped back up, floating to keep his own limbs free.

“Blanket and a rope!” he called out and pointed to the island. “We’ll use the tree for leverage.”

“Got it.” Kowalski was already in motion, hauling toward the island.

Noah pulled a coil of climbing rope from his pack, while Jane and Derek fished a camp blanket from theirs.

Everything was tossed toward Gray.

Seichan nodded past the island. “Be quick, Gray.”

A large shape hovered at the edge of their light. It was an elephant cow, likely the calf’s mother. She hung back for now, perhaps sensing they were trying to help.

Gray knew that hesitancy might not last.

By now, the calf’s nostrils flared and puffed at the surface.

Gray dove back down. He reached the trapped animal and shoved the waterlogged blanket behind its front leg and under its barrel chest. He looped the rope over it, catching it on the other side — though it took two tries.

He burst back up, tied a quick double half-hitch knot, and tossed the other end to Kowalski. The big man caught it, dashed around the trunk of a tree, and hauled on the rope, digging in his heels.

Gray stayed with the calf. He cupped the end of its trunk and tried to keep the nostrils clear of the water. He also wanted to reassure the panicked youngster that it hadn’t been abandoned.

On the island, Kowalski groaned and swore, fighting the grip of the mud that held the calf, but it looked like he might not succeed. Derek and Noah joined him, adding their strength to the tug-of-war.

Finally, inch by stubborn inch, the calf’s trunk rose out of the water.

“Keep going!” Gray urged.

With a final grunt and heave from Kowalski, the mud finally let go. As they dragged the calf out of the water, Gray stayed beside it, rubbing and patting the pink flank. Once on the island, he removed the rope and blanket.

The calf shivered, plainly shaken up.

A concerned trumpet sounded from his mother.

Having had enough of this adventure, the calf turned to her, but he looked frightened of the dark water.

Noah leaned down, rubbing a tender spot behind the youngster’s ear. “Wakize, umsore,” he reassured the fellow. He guided the calf to the other side of the island, where the water was shallower and the footing more solid. “Come, little boy, you’re safe.”

Gray followed but stayed a few yards back, so their group didn’t overwhelm the nervous mother waiting for her calf’s return.

Roho kept to his new friend’s side, nudging now and then, his head hung apologetically.

Once near his mother, the calf broke away and trotted to her side. She bent her head and wrapped her trunk around her boy. Nostrils sniffed him all over, snuffling with relief.

The pair then turned and headed into the forest.

“Should we follow them?” Jane asked.

Gray nodded. “That’s why we came here.”

The group set off, but another did not agree with this plan.

A huge bull blocked their path. His glowing decorations looked like war paint. He raised his trunk, chuffing and brandishing a pair of yellowed ivory tusks. Other large shadows stirred behind him.

Noah lifted an arm for them all to stop. “We don’t want him to charge.”

“No kidding,” Kowalski said, then under his breath, “Some gratitude. I got rope burns that’ll last weeks.”

As if hearing this, a firmer trumpet came from the retreating mother.

The bull rolled his head toward her, then lowered his tusks and lumbered his muscular bulk around.

“Seems he got overruled,” Seichan said.

“Elephants are matriarchal,” Noah explained. “It’s the females that rule a herd.”

Seichan shrugged. “Works for me.”

As the team waded after the elephants, the herd closed around them but still kept to the painted shadows. The females might rule here, but the group remained wary. Gray didn’t know how long their presence would be tolerated, but he hoped the herd’s graciousness lasted long enough to discover what else might be hidden in this forest.

Gray studied the surrounding bower, trying to find a pattern in the brilliant display through which they walked. He was both awed and strangely calmed. Like traipsing through a candlelit cathedral. Their journey through here was hushed, just the whisper of rubbing skin, the gentle huffs of elephantine breaths, and the quiet burble of water.

After a time, they passed out of the painted jungle. He could now appreciate the number of elephants, who carried bits of that glowing artwork with them, great lumbering canvases moving through the dark drowned forest.

Gray counted at least thirty, maybe more, mostly adults, but also a handful of calves.

But even this revelation of the herd faded as their glowing body paint grew dimmer. He glanced back and saw the same happening to the forest. Apparently this magic was fleeting, which made it all the more lovely for some reason.

Noah had tried to capture and hold that wonder, collecting glowing samples from the trunks and low branches. He had sniffed, rubbed, even dabbed a finger on his tongue.

“Hmm…” he mumbled as the magic disappeared from his palms.

“What?” Gray asked.

“Definitely bioluminescent mushrooms and fungus. I could identify mycelia and fruiting bodies, crushed and macerated to create this paint.” He stared around the darkening forest. “They must have gathered specimens from far and wide throughout this ancient forest.”

“Who?”

“I told you before.” Noah frowned at him. “The elephants.”

Derek shifted forward, as incredulous as Gray. Jane came with him, but her face looked more amazed than disbelieving.

“How can that be?” Derek asked. “We heard voices. There must be a tribe hiding here, too.”

Noah stared at the group. “No. That was also the elephants.”

Kowalski blew an exasperated breath. “I know elephants are smart, but ones that can talk?”

“No, not talk… mimic.” Noah waved back the way they had come. “Elephants have been shown to mimic sounds, ranging from other forest animals to the grumble of a truck. And yes, even humanlike voices. They do this by using their trunks like complex whistles. Here in Akagera, one bull elephant does a perfect imitation of a water buffalo’s mating grunt.” He smiled. “It’s caused some confusion during the rutting season.”

Jane stared toward one of the hulking shadows moving through the forest. “But why would they do that just now?”

“I can’t be sure. But I think they were trying to scare us off. I’m sure they were aware of our approach as soon as we entered the mountains.”

Derek had to admit the effect was unnerving.

“And the painted forest?” Gray asked.

“I think we were lucky to come when we did. I expect we stumbled upon a special ritual, one rarely performed due to its elaborate nature and the preparation necessary. But elephants are known to develop complex social ceremonies within a herd. They’re the only mammals, besides us, who ritually bury their dead amid touching displays of grief.”

Derek glanced over his shoulder. “Then what’s the meaning behind decorating the jungle like that?”

“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask them.” He smiled. “But we know from countless examples that these big giants are innate painters, seeming to have an affinity for color and patterns.”

Jane nodded. “I remember the London Zoo even sells paintings in their gift shops done by elephants.”

“Indeed. At another zoo, a canvas by a pachyderm Picasso named Ruby fetched tens of thousands of dollars.”

“But would they do this in the wild?” Derek asked.

“It’s been seen before.” Noah nodded ahead. “Elephants who would grind natural pigments and paint one another. Like I said, I think this was a ritual we stumbled upon. You could almost feel the reverence in the air.”

Derek had felt something akin to that.

“So when we arrived at that opportune time,” Noah said, “they tried to scare us off.” He waved forward. “But it may also be one of the reasons they’re letting us come now. Beyond rescuing the calf, the herd may have placed extra significance in our arrival during this time.” He patted his feline companion. “Of course, Roho also helped.”

Derek pictured the two young animals playing, building a bridge, but that’s not what Noah meant, at least not entirely.

“Did you get a look at the bull and the mother cow?” Noah asked. “They’re albino, same as the calf.”

“But they weren’t white,” Jane said. “More a reddish brown.”

“Ah, that’s typical for the species. Albino elephants are born pink and darken a bit as they age. A truly white elephant is very rare.” He gave Roho a rub. “But perhaps us coming with someone sharing their genetic heritage gave us a foot up.”

“Whatever the reason,” Gray said, “at least they’re allowing us to follow them.”

By now, the trees had begun to grow taller. The water receded to mere puddles and wide, shallow ponds. Slowly the normal sounds of the jungle returned with hooting calls of monkeys and sharper cries of nesting birds.

Noah gazed appreciatively around. “If the entire herd shares this genetic quirk, it might be why they’ve chosen the shadowy forest to make their home. Albino elephants often go blind or get skin diseases because of the harsh African sun. Here they could thrive.”

“And hide,” Gray added.

Noah sobered. “Yes. That is true. Poachers would certainly target them. Perhaps it is why the herd has receded so far and been so shy. I wager they may even be nocturnal for both the same reasons. To avoid the sun and keep themselves secret.”

Derek glanced around, wondering what other secrets the herd might be hiding here.

They continued in silence for another mile.

The curious calf eventually wandered back to their group, seeming to have shaken off his fright. He drew his mother with him, who lingered farther away, but kept a close watch.

The calf sniffed and snortled and poked at their group. He seemed especially enamored with Gray, wrapping his tiny trunk around his wrist, as if holding his hand.

“I think he’s thanking you,” Noah said.

Kowalski grumbled. “What, no love for the guy who did all the heavy lifting? Gray just tied a knot.”

Eventually, the forest ran up against a massive jungle-strewn cliff, a towering black wave cresting far above them. He remembered Noah’s description of the area’s geology, how the region was the oldest in Africa, where the very crust of the earth cracked and was thrust up here.

Derek didn’t doubt it as he stared at the giant edifice blocking their way. The wall before them looked as if a chunk of that crust had been dropped, shattering along its forward edge. Fissures and narrow crevices cut deep into that rock face.

The herd closed in on their group, drawing down to a line in front and behind. The procession aimed for one fissure that looked no different from the next.

“Check behind us,” Noah whispered. “Near the end.”

All their faces turned.

A trio of bull elephants trailed the group, walking backward, sweeping the path with giant fronds.

“They’re erasing their tracks,” Gray said.

“I’ve seen our park elephants using the same fronds to swat flies. And once I saw an elephant during an exceptionally dry season dig a watering hole, then plug it up with a wad of chewed bark and sand to keep it from evaporating. He preserved his little well like that throughout the summer.” Noah looked like he wanted to cry. “I know the great beasts are tremendously clever, using their big brains to survive, to problem solve, to work together, to use tools. But just look at what wonderful beasts they are. Who would dare shoot them for sport or ivory?”

Jane touched his arm in sympathy.

Kowalski looked concerned, but for a very different reason. “If these big guys are covering their tracks, they’re covering ours, too. What if that’s on purpose?”

He clearly worried about some sinister intention.

Gray pointed ahead. “Only one way to find out.”

Nearly breathless with anticipation, Jane stayed close to Derek. She was drawn by the mysteries ahead, yet worried about what they might find. Still, a larger fear clutched her throat.

What if there’s nothing?

Despite the wonders demonstrated by these giants, they were still just elephants. What could they hope to learn from them? How did any of this connect to the burning sands of Egypt, to a mystery going back millennia, to the time of Moses and the plagues?

Ahead of them, the lead elephants entered a narrow fissure, vanishing away. One by one, the others followed, until it was their turn. As she entered the slot canyon, she gaped at the top of the cliffs to either side. Far above her, more jungle grew at the summit, casting a thick canopy over their path.

Trapped between these walls, the musk of the elephants grew stronger, smelling of sweet dung and old hides. She swallowed her fear and followed with the others. The path grew ever narrower, until she was sure some of the bigger bulls could not pass, but they somehow did. She imagined them sucking in their broad chests to squeeze their bulks forward.

They continued for what seemed like miles, though the distance was probably less than one. At last the walls began to fall away, promising an end to their long journey — but there remained one last obstacle.

She watched the column of elephants shift to the left. The herd scaled a steep stone ramp on that side, little calves clinging to their mothers’ tails with their trunks. The procession had a timeless quality to it, as if this same path had been walked for thousands of years. The ramp confirmed this, its center worn down by the passage of countless elephants tramping over it.

The need for this route was evident.

It bridged over a high wall that spanned the breadth of the fissure.

The odd formation piqued her curiosity. It did not look natural.

Derek came to the same conclusion. He bent down and ran his fingertips over the coarse surface of the bridge. “White limestone,” he said as he straightened. “This didn’t come from these granite mountains. It had to have been quarried somewhere else.”

She shifted to the ramp’s edge and studied the wall. It was made up of giant bricks, each the size of a small car. She had seen blocks of this shape and magnitude before, also made of limestone.

At the Great Pyramid of Giza.

“Elephants didn’t build this,” Derek said. “I don’t care how good they are at tool use.”

The elephants behind them did not let their group tarry there for long, grunting their displeasure at being kept from their home.

Jane reluctantly allowed herself to be herded over the ramp and down the far side.

Beyond the wall, the cliffs circled wide and around to enclose a small valley. On the far side, the fissure continued yet again, but it was the sight at hand that captured Jane’s full attention.

The valley held a piece of the forest along with a spread of green meadow, though all of it had a manicured look, as if maintained by its caretakers. Other elephants greeted those that returned, trumpeting softly, entwining trunks, rubbing flanks. The ones left here looked far older, with sagging skin and bony chests, likely elders who were too enfeebled for the journey.

The arriving herd spread out toward various little trampled homesteads within the larger valley, mostly located near the cliffs where the overhanging jungle canopy offered shade. Jane knew elephants were normally nomadic and didn’t truly have homes or nests, but this group was unique in their isolation, driven by their biology and genetics to hide from the sun, developing a new way of living.

Still, none of this fully captured her attention.

Instead, she stared off to her far right. A small grotto lake filled one corner of the valley, half in the open, half buried into the cliffside. She imagined the pool was fed by an ancient spring rising from the unique hydrology of these rift mountains. The scalloped granite roof that overhung the grotto glowed with what looked like incandescent lights, blinking and shimmering, but flurries of those lights fell away, fluttering low across the water, then swirling across the valley like a gust of burning embers.

“Fireflies,” Noah said.

Their illumination was enough to reveal the dark crimson surface of the lake.

They all knew what that portended.

“My god…” Derek murmured.

Still, as they all watched, a juvenile bull sauntered over to the pond’s rocky bank, dipped his trunk, and drank deeply from that toxic font. Jane cringed, but the elephant flapped his ears as a few fireflies pestered him, then wandered away.

Their party gave that side of the valley a wide berth.

Gray gathered them at the edge of a copse of broad-leaved trees. The elephants mostly ignored them, going about their usual routine. Still, a few larger bulls stood nearby, plainly on guard, tails swishing.

“What do you make of this place?” Gray asked.

Jane cast her gaze from the lake to the limestone barrier wall. “I know exactly where we are.”

Gray turned to her.

“We’re standing in the mouth of the river. Like it was written on that tattooed scrap left by my father. It’s all so clear now.”

Kowalski frowned. “To you, maybe.”

Derek understood. “Thousands of years ago, there must have been a dramatic shift in the weather pattern, a rainy season like no other. It flooded this region, enough to swell the Kagera River and all of its feeders.”

Jane pictured a storm surge flowing through these mountains. “That drowned forest we passed through would have been neck-deep, maybe more. It would have swamped these highlands, filling in all the cracks of this cliff, flowing all the way here.”

“Where it merged with that toxic pool,” Derek said. “Allowing the microbe to escape this valley and flow out of the mountains, spreading to the Kagera River, then Lake Victoria.”

Gray stared off to the north. “Where it eventually flowed down the rest of the Nile Valley.”

Jane nodded. “Spreading death in its wake, cascading into the other plagues like we talked about before. Even the eruption of Thera — as it swept a dark column of ash over this area — may have been the atmospheric change that triggered the flooding to begin with.”

Gray stared toward the tall wall, understanding dawning on his face. “During or shortly after that, someone from Egypt came looking for the source. Following that bloody trail.”

“To here,” Jane said. “And to prevent that tragedy from ever happening again, they built a tall wall, a stone dike to make sure any future flooding didn’t reach this inner valley.”

“But that’s not all they found,” Gray said, turning his attention to the elephants. “Like us, they must have wondered how these elephants survived. We know the beasts were living here at the time since they were mentioned on that same tattooed scrap.”

Jane put a palm on her forehead. “But how do they survive here? Is it some natural immunity? Something unique to their genetics?”

“I don’t think so,” Gray said.

“Why?”

“Whoever came here long ago discovered their secret. I don’t think the Egyptian explorer who found this place came with the equipment necessary to perform immunological or genetic assays. No, something else is going on here.” He stared toward the lake. “But what would make these elephants risk drinking from that pool to begin with?”

Noah offered a possible explanation. “Because it might have given them an evolutionary advantage.”

Gray turned to him. On the boat ride here, Jane had overheard Gray giving their guide the gist of what they were looking for. “How is it an advantage?”

“Life in this region revolves around water. Each animal develops unique strategies to survive the dry seasons, which many times in the past, have turned into decade-long droughts. I told you about that elephant plugging up his watering hole to protect it.” Noah waved to encompass this valley. “This is a biological version of that. If you’re the only ones who can safely drink this water, then no one could compete with you for it.”

Derek conceded this point with a nod. “But how did they learn to drink the water?”

Noah smiled. “Elephants are smart and patient. They love a puzzle to solve. So the adaptation strategy could have taken them decades to figure out through trial and error. So the better question is, why reinvent the wheel? Why don’t we simply try to learn what they already know?”

Jane wondered if whoever had come here thousands of years ago had done exactly that.

Noah offered a modern example to support his position. “In Kenya, elephants chew on leaves of a certain tree to induce labor. Local tribesmen learned to follow that example for the same medical benefit. So you see, you can learn much from our large friends.”

“But if you’re right, where do we even begin?” Jane asked.

Gray stepped away from the shadow of the trees and searched the dark valley, his gaze lingering on the flickering glow of the grotto. He finally faced the group. “The strip of tattooed skin that your father hid. It didn’t just mention elephants. It mentioned something about elephant bones.”

Jane stood straighter. “That’s right.”

Gray turned to Noah. “You mentioned that elephants are the only mammals to have a ritual surrounding their dead. What do they do exactly?”

“It’s about respecting the deceased. It involves a period of mourning over the body, then a ritual burial of tossing dirt and twigs over the remains, sometimes covering them with branches. Afterward the bones are revered, even if they’re not from your own family. Sometimes herds will even take bones and move them with them.”

“So where are the bones of this tribe?” Gray asked. “As secretive as they are, I wager they wouldn’t want their dead to be found out in the open valley.”

“And they’d still want them close by.” Derek nodded toward the fissure at the back of the valley. “How about through there?”

Gray nodded. “We should go look.”

Before they set off, Seichan pointed back to the wall. “As far as we know, that’s the only way in or out of this place. So while you go look for bones, I’m going to go man those ramparts.”

Gray nodded. “Stay on radio. Holler if there’s trouble.”

She patted a large gun at her hip. “Oh, you’ll hear me.”

He gave her a fast hug, and she trotted away.

Gray got them all moving the other way.

Noah kept Roho close by, especially as they passed the toxic grotto. They circled far from its shores, crossing through a meadow of knee-high grass. Elephants stirred as they passed, snuffling and piping at them. A young bull came charging, ears splayed wide. Everyone froze, but when it was about ten yards off, it stopped, shook its earflaps, then sauntered off with its tail held high.

“Juvenile posturing,” Noah explained.

Kowalski frowned after it. “Typical teenager.”

They crossed the rest of the way unmolested.

Noah nodded as they neared the cleft in the cliff. “The idea of an elephant’s graveyard is only a legend,” he said, as if warning against disappointment. “Old elephants don’t go to a place to die. There’s a good chance this herd is no different than others and simply lets their bones lie where they’ve fallen.”

Jane wasn’t so sure. She suspected there was nothing ordinary about this tribe. As they neared the opening, a bull elephant — the biggest seen so far — suddenly pushed out of the dark fissure, confronting them, blocking their way. His ears flared, trunk curling high.

“Something tells me that’s not juvenile posturing,” Kowalski grumbled.

“What now?” Derek whispered.

The answer came from beyond the bull, a wheezing trumpet, almost sounding exasperated. The bull eyed them a moment longer, staring daggers at the group, and shifted reluctantly out of the fissure, stepping aside.

“Looks like someone wants to see us,” Derek said.

With the way open, the group set off into the fissure. The bull closed up behind them, blocking the exit with his bulk. He followed from a distance, moving quietly, barely making a sound, as if he placed much reverence upon the ground he tread.

Or maybe it was more about who waited for them.

Jane stared ahead. This fissure was darker, heavily canopied above, but Gray’s helmet lamp offered enough illumination for them to see. The path was jagged, cutting back and forth. But eventually it ended at a bowl with no outlet.

End of the road.

And Jane meant that in more ways than one.

The floor of the next canyon was covered in mounded piles of branches and twigs, some intact, others scattered. Curled yellow tusks poked from a few, along with bleached white bones. At the back of the bowl rose a small grove of tall trees, but otherwise there was little sign of life. The barren ground was salted with white sand, pebbled with round stones, mixed what looked like broken shells cast up by an ancient sea long gone.

Jane stepped out with the others and realized she was wrong.

Underfoot was not sand and shells — but crushed bones.

She stared down, overwhelmed with horror, wondering at the depth of this grim bed. She pictured millennia of elephants coming here to die, crushed by others, ground down by time and the elements into this gritty sand.

Kowalski was no less pleased. “So much for an elephant graveyard being a myth.”

But they were not alone here.

A handful of elephants stirred throughout the canyon, walking slowly, or standing vigil over a pile of sticks, or gently touching a trunk to a protruding bone. No sound was made, except for the gravelly tread of those visiting the dead.

Some of the horror faded from Jane, as she recognized the respect shown here, the genuine grief. One young bull hung his head over a mound, a glistening tear track running from the eye on this side.

No wonder the bull tried to block them from entering.

We don’t belong here.

But as Derek had mentioned, they had been summoned.

An ancient elephant strode feebly toward where they stood, a grand matriarch. Her skin was gray-white, a near match to the bone crushed around her. She seemed to beckon them forward with her trunk.

They went to greet her, sensing she deserved this respect.

“I think she’s nearly blind,” Noah whispered.

It seemed he was right. The beam of Gray’s light swept over her face, and she didn’t blink or shy from its glare.

As they gathered, she came forward, her trunk arched before her. Drawing on senses keener than sight, she came first to Jane. Her nostrils sniffed, then her trunk found her wrist and wrapped softly there. Jane was tugged closer, drawn away from the others.

She glanced back, but Noah nodded to her reassuringly. So she let herself be guided forward, placing her trust in his years of experience working with the great beasts.

After a few steps, her wrist was released.

Then the great lady returned to the group, weaving her trunk, and chose one more.

Noah also encouraged this reluctant recipient of the matriarch’s attention.

“Komeza, Roho,” he whispered to his friend. “Go on now.”

The cub followed the tip of the trunk as it fluttered through his tiny mane, huffing and rubbing his neck. The cat was drawn to join Jane.

The two stood before the majestic beast. Jane noted the curled white lashes of her old eyes as the elephant bowed her head, bringing her crown to touch Jane’s chest. At the same time, the side of her trunk rubbed Roho’s side, earning a contented rumble from him.

When the queen lifted her head again, tears glistened from those tired eyes.

Gray studied the old matriarch as she communed with the pair. The pink tip of her white trunk explored tenderly, almost sadly.

“What is she doing?” Derek whispered.

Noah shook his head. “The old girl’s grieving, but I don’t know why.”

Gray did. “She’s remembering.”

Derek turned to him.

He nodded forward, surprised it wasn’t obvious to Derek. “A woman and a lion.”

Derek’s eyes got huge, returning his attention to the tableau playing out here. “You can’t think…”

“She picked those two. That seems beyond coincidence.” He pictured the symbols carved in the tomb and sculpted on Livingstone’s oil vessel. “Perhaps whoever came here looking for the source of the Nile was a woman, someone who brought along a unique hunting partner for such a long journey. Didn’t Egyptians worship cats, occasionally raising lions as pets or as hunters?”

Derek slowly nodded. “According to records, some pharaohs and others did. But while an elephant may never forget, I don’t think they have memories that go back thousands of years.”

“Normally, no. But that old elephant certainly seems to remember this ancient pairing. I can’t explain how yet, but maybe that evolutionary advantage we talked about before was not so one-sided.” He turned to Noah. “You mentioned before about the big brains of elephants.”

“Indeed. Bigger than any other land animal. Around eleven pounds. With a cortex holding as many neurons as our brains.”

Gray nodded. “So for a microbe that has a predilection for electrically charged nervous systems, such a host would be perfect, a veritable feast. So maybe over time the two worked together, achieving other benefits. Maybe the microbe is able to electrically stimulate the elephant’s brain, enhancing its already considerable memory… and maybe it serves somehow as a vehicle for passing knowledge from generation to generation.”

Kowalski interrupted his train of thought. “Look. She’s moving. Taking those guys somewhere.”

The ancient elephant had turned and worked her way slowly across the canyon, urging Jane and Roho to follow with quiet huffs from her trunk.

“C’mon.” Gray set off after them, keeping his distance so as not to spook the beast.

She took the pair over to the edge of the only stand of trees here, to where a mother and calf were rooting near a pile of dry branches. She drew Jane and Roho to a stop, blocking them from interfering with her trunk.

Gray hung back, too.

Derek gazed toward the wide bower of the neighboring trees and pointed toward its fruit-laden branches. “Plums,” he said. “Those are Mobola plums.”

Gray didn’t understand the significance.

Derek must have realized this and explained. “When Livingstone died, his heart was buried under a Mobola plum tree. And when his body was shipped back to England, it was in a coffin made of this tree’s bark.”

“Why?”

“That particular bark has resins used for tanning purposes. It was part of the natives’ method in mummifying Livingstone’s remains for the long journey home.”

Gray frowned and looked over at the pile of branches covering these mounds. He wagered they all came from these trees. Were the elephants using the branches to serve the same purpose? He sensed something important about this detail, but it still escaped him.

“What are they doing?” Kowalski asked.

The disgust in his partner’s voice drew Gray’s attention back to the mother and her calf. The elephant cow drew a chunk of bone from the burial mound. From its concave shape, it looked to be a piece of a skull. She placed it gently down and cracked it into smaller pieces with the hard nails and pads of her foot. She picked up a sliver, drew it to her mouth, and set about chewing it. She encouraged her calf to do the same.

The cow moved her jaw, likely grinding the sliver between her molars. She did this for half a minute, then a small rounded pebble fell out of her lips. It was a polished piece of the bone she had been gnashing.

Gray looked down at his boots, at the crushed bed of bone. All around, the ground was littered with these pebbles.

What the hell?

Again he felt that itch at the back of his brain, telling him this was important, but he couldn’t put it all together.

I’ve got the pieces, but I can’t see the puzzle.

As he stared across the canyon, the brilliant white of the boneyard had begun to shimmer with waves of color. It took Gray a moment to realize the source. The crystalline bed was reflecting the sky.

He craned his neck as waves of energy swept across the stars.

It made no sense.

It was some sort of aurora.

As if responding to the same strange sign, the elephants began to trumpet across the canyon. Even the old beast here raised her trunk and whistled out a mournful note, full of melancholy and grief.

Gray stared over at the others.

What is going on?

From the open side door of the Cessna, Valya watched the dance of energies across the skies, great undulating ripples of emerald and blue. She knew what she was witnessing, having viewed the aurora countless nights up in the Arctic.

A flicker of superstitious unease accompanied the sight now. She imagined it was some warning from Anton, a message meant for her.

She gave her head a shake, dismissing such thoughts.

To her side, Kruger and his men were suited up in helmets with base-jump parachutes strapped to their backs. Their faces were staring up, too, but she needed their focus below.

“Are you ready?” she yelled to Kruger.

He gave her a thumbs-up.

They had been tracking their targets all night, easily watching their progress up into the mountains through the infrared eyes of the Raven. The enemy had bottled themselves up into a set of box canyons, where it appeared a herd of elephants made their home. The oddity of it and the fact that they lingered there was enough to warrant dropping down and discovering what the others might have learned or acquired before dispatching them.

The pilot would swoop low but to the north of those canyons, dropping Kruger and his three men. Each had an AK74M assault rifle mounted with under-barrel grenade launchers strapped across their bellies. They would drop in dark, wearing night-vision gear, landing in the larger canyon. She would follow, sweeping down to cover the cliffside entrance into the canyon system, guarding any escape back into the outer woods. Her weapon was a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun with night sight and silencer. She had four extended magazines, each holding forty rounds.

But her best weapon was strapped to her wrist.

Its blade would be bloodied this night. She would carve her mark deep, down to the bone, hopefully while her victim still lived.

The plane dipped, readying to unload its passengers. Under its wings, the two Hellfire missiles waited to be called down from above, to burn everything behind Valya and her team.

Up in the sky, the blaze of the equatorial aurora flared brighter, whipping energies across the heavens. She no longer took the sign as warning, but as a flaming banner.

The plane raced lower; Kruger glanced back to her.

She nodded.

Let it begin.

One by one, the five men fell down from the fiery sky.

26

Painter’s skin crawled with the charge in the air. As he grabbed a strut to lean farther out of the rear cargo hatch of the Globemaster, a snap of static fired through the muscles of his hand, constricting the fibers, clenching his fingers to his grip. He ignored the pain and held tight.

Beyond the cargo hold, the skies were on fire.

The air smelled of ozone, sharp, like chlorine mixed with the smell of an amusement park bumper car ride. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

The sky overhead raged with an aurora that surged and billowed, a storm-swept sea of electrical whitecaps and fiery breakers. It cast out sprites and blue jets of plasma. Thunder boomed in continuous cannon fire. Lightning forked up from the dark clouds below.

The plane jolted from strikes, its wings shook as if trying to cast off the discharge, and one of the Pratt & Whitney engines trailed black smoke.

“What can we do?” the loadmaster shouted, hanging from a grip on the other side.

Painter glanced back into the hold. Past the tumbled blocks of the aluminum crates, the temporary barrier had been ripped down. Scientists worked at their station, braced as best they could, trying to answer the loadmaster’s question. Anton’s two men struggled to anchor the nest of containers within an orange cargo net, clipping its edges to braces along the hull. The two guys splashed through the glowing pools of crimson on the floor, oblivious to the toxic threat.

What did it matter now?

As the fireworks worsened outside, everyone had realized one truth.

We’re all in this together now.

Painter yelled across the open hatch. “Things are about to get worse!”

The loadmaster — a young, red-faced man named Willet — looked at him, his horrified expression easy to read. How could this get worse?

Painter pointed down to their starboard. One section of the dark storm churned ominously, a monstrous whirlpool of energy and fire. Across its maw, lightning danced. But worst of all, the blaze of the borealis above dipped toward it, as if being sucked toward the tempest.

Painter had been watching this build for the past minute. He pictured the ionosphere dimpling, about to be torn by those tidal forces. He could even guess the cause. The heart of the fiery cauldron shone a rich crimson.

Painter recognized that particular glow.

It soaked his clothes, smoldered his skin, and ran in shimmering pools across the cargo deck. He had suspected all along that some of the toxin had spilled from the back of the plane, seeding the clouds below.

Here was the proof.

He pictured each particle acting like a superconducting speck, unbinding the potential energy trapped in those storm clouds, triggering a chain reaction, the effect cascading outward. It would soon liberate all that power, a thousand nuclear bombs’ worth of energy.

Painter turned to the loadmaster. “Tell the pilot to keep us away from that!”

They had to get clear of that fiery whirlpool.

Now.

Willet nodded and ran toward the flight deck at the front.

Painter held his breath — then slowly the plane banked away, heeding his warning.

He sighed out a breath.

We’re gonna—

From out of the clouds to the port side, a new column of fire burst forth, booming as it ripped the air, spiraling to the sky.

The plane had been turning in that direction. To avoid a collision, the pilot heaved the aircraft around, rolling the massive aircraft onto the tip of a wing. The cargo net ripped from the hull. Crates tumbled across the hold. One of the guards was crushed.

As the Globemaster fought to avoid the blaze, Painter gaped at this new threat, knowing from where it must have risen.

Aurora Station.

He stared down in disbelief.

What was that bastard thinking?

“It’s our only hope,” Simon Hartnell whispered.

He stood at the helm of the control station, still captain of this ship, refusing to abandon his post. The evacuation Klaxon rang throughout the station. On a monitor, he saw Sno-Cats and snow machines dashing away. Other figures ran on foot, parkas flapping from their panicked forms.

Only a skeleton crew was here, helping him try to stop what he had started.

Dr. Kapoor ran up, out of breath, his face shiny with sweat. “It’s too much.” He shook his head. “We have to shut it down. It won’t hold.”

“It must.”

Simon felt the floor tremble under his feet. With goggles strapped to his face, he stared up at the giant tower, willing it all to hold. Blue coruscations of fire ran from the spinning superconductor on top down to the bottom of the old mining pit. Its entire floor raged with a sea of burning plasma, surging and lapping around the base of his tower. Through the thick glass, the heat of a blast furnace reached him.

Still, he knew the fierce energy churning below was only the dregs of the full force he was channeling deep into the earth. After his test firing of the array had such a disastrous outcome, he had sought a way to reverse what he had started, to snuff the fire from the sky. He and Kapoor’s team had run panicked scenarios and hasty calculations and come to one possible solution.

Following Tesla’s design, Simon had built his Wardenclyffe not only to transmit power but also to receive it. Tesla’s dream was to build a network of hundreds of towers, each casting energy wirelessly into a huge pool of power that circled the globe — either through the skies above or the earth below. But he also envisioned that each of those same towers could tap into that source, making its energy readily available to all.

Looking to the future, Simon had done the same.

And it was what he was attempting to do now.

He and Kapoor had reversed the polarity of his tower, something untested and untried but they had had no choice but to attempt it. While the fiery beam of plasma looked the same, it was no longer shooting power up, but sapping that energy down from the ionosphere.

His tower was now a lightning rod, trying to pull the fire from the sky.

Still, they had needed somewhere to send that energy, and again it was Tesla who offered an answer. When Simon had built his tower, he had to drive footings deep into the bedrock to support its massive structure. It was simply a matter of engineering necessity, but it had amused him how similar it was to the three-hundred-foot pilings that Tesla had designed for his tower, mighty iron rods meant to “grip the earth.”

Tesla had intended to use that grip and those rods to send energy deep into the earth, to reach the resonance frequency of the planet, a potential bottomless well that could be filled and shared around the world.

Tesla had failed, but his reasoning was sound.

So Simon sought to fill that same well now with the fires from the sky. His hope was to balance the two visions of his mentor, two possible sources of global wireless energy: the ionosphere enclosing the planet and the dark well at its core.

He intended for his tower to act as a massive Tesla coil, connecting sky to the earth, a conduit for the fires above to flow deep underground. With luck, a point of equilibrium might be reached, allowing order to be restored.

Unfortunately, luck wasn’t with them.

The ground jolted under his feet, tossing him across his console. He heard a boom of shattering glass. He cringed, believing it was the curve of window overlooking the tower. Instead, giant jagged panes crashed off to his right, near the back of the station. He knew what the window had once sealed. He pictured that dark lake.

“Sir!” Kapoor yelled, drawing him back to the more immediate threat. “We need to shut this down. We’re getting massive voltage spikes. Plasma currents are surging wildly both ways.”

As the floor continued to rattle and bump, he pictured waves crashing back and forth, traveling between the earth and sky.

“But isn’t that what we want?” Simon said. “Didn’t we anticipate that as equilibrium neared we’d get this effect? A sloshing back and forth as the two forces tried to stabilize?”

Kapoor shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me.”

“The two sloshing waves…” he sputtered, struggling to explain, using his hands. “One traveling up, the other down. Their amplitudes and wavelengths are the same. They’re beginning to superimpose as they cross each other.”

Simon sucked in air, understanding the danger. “They could build to a standing wave.”

He imagined a taut vibrating string of energy connecting sky to earth, stable and permanent.

Kapoor stared out at the tower in horror. “It would form a massive circuit.”

Simon lunged forward, knowing such a circuit would not hold for long, not with the herculean forces at play. It would all short-circuit. If that happened, it could shred the sky and shatter the globe.

He twisted the key to cut the power, to shut everything down.

Nothing happened.

He tried a few more times.

“It’s already powering itself.” Kapoor backed a step. “The circuit’s complete.”

Simon straightened.

We’re too late.

“Hold on!”

At breakneck speeds, Kat drove the Sno-Cat down the far side of Johns Island. The long sliver of black rock jutted from the ice of Lake Hazen, looking like a submarine cracking through an arctic sea — only this sub was four miles long and half a mile wide. A scatter of smaller islands clustered close by, offering places to hide.

Tagak braced himself in the passenger seat, while his father, John, was sprawled in back. Both men had rifles in hand.

For the past forty-five minutes, Kat had engaged in a game of cat-and-mouse across the islands of Lake Hazen, hunted by Anton’s men. When John had first alerted her of their approach, she had intended to take the Sno-Cat by herself and lure the enemy away from Safia and the others. Instead, the two Inuit had insisted on coming. She had tried to discourage them, warning them off with the threat of contagion, but John had eyed the number of snow machines sweeping down out of the mountains and climbed into the Sno-Cat with his son.

Kat was lucky they had.

While the storm had worsened, offering some shelter, it was their local knowledge of the lake and islands that had kept her alive. Using the lights of her Sno-Cat as a beacon in the storm, she had successfully drawn the enemy to the south. The trio of hide tents, covered in snow, had never even been spotted.

Once she reached the islands, she had turned her headlights off and became both the hunted and the hunter. The ensuing guerrilla war kept both sides at an impasse. The Sno-Cat had two new bullet holes in its windshield, but Kat knew she had taken out three snow machines.

Then everything changed.

“Go, go, go!” Tagak urged as the vehicle’s treads hit the lake ice.

To either side, tiny glowing motes sped through the blowing snow, marking the enemy’s swifter vehicles. But they weren’t the danger any longer.

Lightning shattered across the low sky. Bolts crashed down all around, striking the ice with explosive force. Huge cracks skittered outward. Overhead, the entire cloud bank above the lake had begun to churn, forming a maelstrom of impossible magnitude.

Worse yet, it glowed a dark crimson, as if a fire were stoked inside.

Which Kat suspected was true.

She raced that storm, as did Anton’s men, who scattered in all directions, heedless now of their prior targets, fleeing the hellfire above.

Kat had to reach Safia and Rory, grab them, and get out of this valley.

The back window suddenly shattered. John gasped, his palm flying to his ear, blood flowing immediately through his fingers.

“Down!” Kat yelled as she hunched lower.

Tagak rolled over the seat to join his father in back. He pointed his rifle out the fist-sized hole in the rear window and blindly shot into the storm pall behind them.

Kat raced faster as thunder boomed and lightning bolts seared her retinas. The Sno-Cat suddenly tilted as a section of ice proved to be a broken floe. It shifted under the vehicle’s weight. She didn’t slow, using the momentum to escape and get back to solid ice.

Tagak continued to take potshots at the storm, but Anton had to be running dark. Kat knew it was the Russian back there. Who else would still be doggedly continuing this chase?

To her right, something ripped through the swirling snow and struck the ice. It exploded with such force that it shook the Sno-Cat. Her first thought was a mortar attack. Then the skies opened up and unleashed its full fury.

Giant chunks of ice crashed to the lake, shattering into splinters or bouncing across the surface. Pumpkin-sized hail pelted all around. The roof of the Cat rang with their impacts, denting toward them. The bombardment worsened, pounding the landscape, the view lit by flashes of lightning.

Kat dared not slow down.

Finally, she outraced the worst of the hailstorm, clearing its deadly salvo, but the cannonade of ice and lightning continued to pursue them. She ran from its onslaught, struggling to keep ahead of it.

In her rearview mirror, she noted a change in the storm. As if partially spent by the barrage, the churning clouds had shredded, revealing streaks of the skies above. Flaming plasma raged across the blue vault, while chains of lightning ripped apart the heavens. It was as if the barriers between worlds had parted, and she was peering into the burning heart of hell itself.

And maybe I am.

She remembered descriptions of the biblical seventh plague: Moses stretched out his staff toward heaven, and the Lord sent thunder and hail, and fire ran down to the earth.

She stared at the shattering forks of lightning, the explosive barrage of ice, the fires burning across the skies. Thunderclaps boomed all around, shaking the ice and rattling the windows.

Is that what I’m witnessing?

Slowly, the maelstrom closed again, hiding what it had briefly revealed. It looked even stronger and darker now, yet still retaining that dread glow.

“Watch out!” Tagak hollered from the back.

She twitched her gaze from the mirror to the lake.

Across the ice ran a familiar sight, more ethereal than ever. Small shapes flew silently before her, their panicked hoofbeats covered by the storm, their bodies fading into and out of the swirls of snow. It was the ghostly herd of caribou.

But these were no apparitions.

A big buck suddenly burst directly across the bumper of the Sno-Cat. She swerved to miss it, sending the vehicle into a skid on the slick ice. The animal bounded safely past, as the Sno-Cat spun full circle.

Kat fought them back around, her heart pounding.

Then in the distance, she spotted humps on the ice.

The hide tents.

Thank god…

With their goal in sight, she got them moving again. But with her focus fixed ahead, she missed the cracks in the ice. The shelf under the Cat canted to the side. With her momentum bled away by the near collision, she didn’t have the speed to get clear. As the center of gravity inexorably shifted, the floe tipped faster and faster.

Kat pointed to the high-side doors. “Out!”

They all scrambled up the slanting cabin. Doors were shoved and flung open. Bodies jettisoned. By the time Kat was out, the Sno-Cat was nearly upended to one side. Its bulk slid down the slanted shelf, hastening its demise. She planted her feet on the door sill and leaped away, abandoning ship. As Kat flew over open blue water, the Cat slowly toppled into the lake behind her. She hit the solid ice headlong and rolled across its frozen surface. She caught glimpses of Tagak doing the same, cradling his wounded father.

She gained her feet in time to see the shelf of ice falling back into place, its edges cracking further, bobbing in place. The Sno-Cat was gone, swallowed by this frozen trapdoor, as if it had never been there.

John and Tagak joined her.

John sighed. “A dogsled is much better.”

She didn’t disagree.

They set off for the tents, but after they had trekked fifty yards, a low rumble rose out of the storm to the left. A shadow passed through the storm pall, a shark in dark water.

It was a snow machine, traveling without lights.

“Run,” Kat said.

She pointed ahead and motioned to stay low, hoping her group hadn’t been spotted. In their haste to escape the Cat, they’d lost their weapons. The only hope was to reach the snow-covered tents and pray the enemy passed them by.

They moved as a tight group, sticking close.

The camp grew clearer.

Kat’s ears strained for the sound of a motor, but the storm closed down upon them from behind, booming with thunder and cracking ice. Still, the group reached the site safely.

Kat hurried toward the tent where she had left Rory and Safia.

Before she could reach the flap, a gunshot blasted. Ice exploded at her toes.

She stopped and turned.

Anton appeared from behind the neighboring tent, accompanied by another figure bundled in a parka. Both had assault rifles leveled. They must have parked their machine out of sight and set up this ambush.

Anton addressed the two Inuit. “On your knees. Hands on your heads.”

They hesitated, but Kat waved them down.

Anton’s partner circled behind them, keeping aim on their backs.

“Rory, come out!” Anton called.

The tent flap was thrown open, and the young man climbed through, looking apologetically toward Kat. He was wearing a new parka.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down. “They caught us by surprise. I didn’t want this all to happen.”

You and me both…

But from the looks of that parka, he would be getting out of here.

“How is Safia?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Bad. It’s like she’s worsening with the storm.”

So at least they hadn’t killed—

The tent flap flew open, and Safia stumbled out between Rory and Anton. Her eyes were on the maelstrom filling the world to the south. For a moment, Kat swore her eyes were aglow, but it was likely just a reflection of lightning.

She swung an arm up.

Then everything happened in slow motion.

The guard behind Kat must have thought Safia was brandishing a weapon. He fired, but Rory was facing that same direction and noted the threat.

He flung himself in front of Safia. “No!”

In turn, Anton reacted with a skill born of his Guild training and rolled in front of Rory, his back to the shooter. The bullet struck him in the spine. He fell forward into Rory’s arms.

As the two went down, Kat lunged low, grabbed Anton’s weapon, and spun onto her rear, squeezing off a three-round burst.

One bullet found the guard’s neck, blowing most of it away, and sending him crashing backward.

In that breathless moment, only one of them still stood.

Safia’s eyes never left the skies.

She spoke, as if to the storm. “It must not be…”

As flames burn brighter through her skull, she stares out of two sets of eyes.

One old, one fresh.

She sees a cold storm roll across a burning desert toward a blood-red river. She sees a frozen lake that defies the fiery tempest rolling over it. The two sights waver and shimmer over each other, as if trying to snuff each other out.

It is a war of ice and fire, a battle as old as the world.

She ignores this, knowing it is but a distraction.

Her gaze shifts farther away, to a beacon that blazes out there.

It must not be.

“You want us to do what?” Painter asked.

He sat up on the flight deck with the pilot and loadmaster, who apparently also doubled as copilot. Behind him, the others on board crowded the stairs that led up here, all listening to their former boss over the plane’s microwave radio.

“You must crash the jet into the Aurora array,” Hartnell said, his voice breathless with fear. “Straight into the tower.”

Painter looked past the nose of the jet toward the blazing column of plasma. Hartnell had already told them roughly what was happening, how in an attempt to reverse the damage he had wrought, he had made matters worse. He pictured the circuit that Hartnell had described, knowing it was only a crude analogy for the colossal energies at play here, but he understood the gist.

Hartnell needed someone to break that circuit before it collapsed on its own.

On the ground, Hartnell and Kapoor fought to keep it stable but that could not last. Painter only had to look out the window to recognize this truth. The fiery whirlpool had been growing steadily larger, a swirling hurricane of potential energy.

The kiloton equivalent of a thousand nuclear bombs.

Once that reached the fragile circuit blazing brightly in the sky, it was game over.

Painter estimated they had another twenty minutes at best.

So there was no time for long debates.

“We’ll do it,” he said.

The pilot glanced over to him, his face terrified. He clearly recognized that someone had to take this bird down manually. With all the interference and storm conditions, it would not be an instrument landing.

And they would only have one shot at this.

Painter had also noted the photograph next to the pilot’s seat: a smiling wife and two small children. He reached and squeezed the man’s shoulder. “I got this.”

The pilot frowned. “You’ve flown a C-17 Globemaster before?”

“Nothing this big. Mostly private jets.” He patted the man’s shoulder. “But it’s not like I have to land this — just crash it.”

The pilot looked dubious and clearly fought between arguing with Painter and letting him take over this kamikaze mission. His face firmed. “I’ll talk you through the basics. If you don’t feel confident — or I don’t feel you know your flight stick from your dick — then I’ll take her down.”

“Fair enough.” Painter pointed to the throttle. “That’s the stick, right?”

The pilot looked aghast.

Painter grinned. “It’s the throttle, I know. And that’s your stick. There’s the HUD, the IAS, and of course, the PFD.” He ended by pointing to his crotch. “And that’s my dick, the last time I looked. We good?”

The pilot grumbled and sank deeper into his seat. “Let’s do this.”

Everyone on board quickly made evacuation plans, while the pilot banked for the best approach to the array. The plan was to do a fast dive through the storm layer, which Painter was happy to leave to the pilot. Once low enough, the aircraft would level off, allowing everyone to offload out the back with parachutes, leaving Painter to take the Globemaster the rest of the way down.

Simple enough, if you weren’t the one left in the hot seat.

“Hold tight!” the pilot radioed throughout the aircraft. “Starting descent!”

Painter sat in the jump seat behind Willet, which offered him a bird’s-eye view as the nose of the aircraft tipped toward the cloud bank. The pilot had aligned the course to be a straight, long shot.

As they dove steeply, Painter stared at the column of fire to the right and the dark, churning pool to the left. The space between them had narrowed considerably, even faster than Painter had initially estimated. He could guess why. The plasma storm raging through the ionosphere had worsened. The aurora boiled across the heavens, casting great fiery loops earthward and blasting out a flurry of sprites and jets.

Such a display could mean only one thing.

Hartnell was losing control, the situation already destabilizing.

The pilot must have sensed this and drove the aircraft into a steeper approach. “Hold tight!” he hollered.

The Globemaster swept down to the black clouds. Painter cringed and gripped his seat harness, leaning back. As they dropped through the storm, the ship was immediately battered and tossed, rattled and rolled. The pilot hunched over his controls, a hand on the stick, the other on the throttle. Through the windshield, the world was nothing but blackness. Even the green lines of the heads-up display were awash with static. It seemed to go on forever, then suddenly they dropped out of the clouds, and the world returned in a grayscale of whipping snow, black crags, and white glaciers.

The pilot raised the nose, flaring the craft, to level and slow their descent. Once back to an even slope, he adjusted a few switches, scratched his chin, then turned to Painter. “You’re up.”

Painter unsnapped his seat harness.

Into the hot seat.

He changed places with the pilot, who took a few moments to make sure Painter was ready, like a doting hen.

Painter finally waved him off. “Go. Get everyone offloaded.”

He nodded, turned away, then back. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

The pilot patted him on the shoulder, then dropped out of the flight deck.

Willet stayed another moment. “You’re only going to have seconds.”

“I know.”

The man sighed, staring ahead. Directly in front of the nose of the aircraft, the storm glowed with blue fire. The beast was waiting for him.

“I can stay,” Willet offered. Though from the strain in his voice, it took every ounce of willpower to utter those three words.

Painter pointed a thumb behind him. “Mr. Willet, get off my ship. That’s an order.”

The man smiled, tossing him a salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

He unstrapped and climbed out of the neighboring seat, clapping him on the shoulder. “You better pull this off.”

Painter knew Willet was talking about more than just taking out the array.

That’s the plan.

As Willet headed below, Painter slipped on a radio earpiece. He used a minute to further acquaint himself with the controls. There were hundreds of switches above his head and over his instrument panel, but the most important control was the flight stick at his knee.

I can do this.

He finally heard Willet again on his earpiece. “Birds have safely flown the coop. Heading overboard. Ship is yours.”

Though he didn’t know for sure when the loadmaster abandoned ship, Painter sensed it. He was alone on this great big bird.

To distract himself, he checked his attitude indicators, eyed his primary flight display for his airspeed, and made subtle adjustments to his pitch. Two minutes out, he eased on the throttle, slowing the craft for the final approach.

Here we go.

He hit a switch for the microwave radio. “Hartnell, are you there? Pick up.”

The man came on the line, his voice surprised, almost amused. “Painter? You’re bringing the plane down?”

“Someone’s got to clean up your mess. Just letting you know I’m a hundred seconds out. So you and Kapoor should get to the bomb shelter.”

“I already sent Dr. Kapoor. But somebody’s got to keep watch at the helm. Even if it’s only to buy you another second or two.”

Painter heard the strain and remembered the raging storm in the ionosphere, indicative of the situation destabilizing. “How much time do I have?”

“You may need those extra seconds or two.”

Painter silently cursed and pushed the throttle forward, regaining the speed he had just bled off.

Ahead, he was close enough to make out the sprawling antenna array. It ran with blue sparks of energy, illuminating its spiral, turning it into a shimmery galaxy sprawled across the tundra. In the center, the column of plasma rose from the blazing tip of the steel tower. Even from this distance, he could note spasms vibrating along the fiery column’s length, shaking it with destabilizing pulses of plasma energy.

Painter increased the airspeed. He dared not slow down like he had planned. His window of opportunity had narrowed considerably — leaving him no second to spare.

Hartnell suddenly yelled in his ear. “Painter!”

He saw it at the same time. A thick ball of plasma swept up from the mining pit, heading toward the ionosphere. Energy was no longer flowing down. The tower’s polarity was shifting, about to collapse. As Painter followed that lightning ball toward the clouds, he saw the likely reason.

The fiery cauldron in the sky had arrived. Its outer edges brushed close to the column of plasma rising from Aurora Station.

Painter was out of time.

He throttled up and used the flight stick to drop the nose. His airspeed spun up, turning the Globemaster into a missile.

He was about to make his move when a crosswind crashed into the flank of the aircraft. Cursing, Painter crabbed the plane’s nose into the wind, fighting to return the ship to the correct angle of approach. He lost precious seconds during this maneuver but finally reset the course.

He hovered his hands for a breath over the controls.

Looks good.

Once satisfied, he flew out of the hot seat, rolled to the stairs, and dropped to the cargo deck. He sprang immediately away, racing toward the back, while the aircraft flew ahead, a missile about to crash.

His feet pounded across the deck. There was no way he could survive bailing out the back. He was too low to use a parachute, too high to jump without one.

So he improvised.

Near the open cargo door, he snatched what he had prepared and strapped it to his back, then grabbed the assault rifle next to it.

He flung himself toward the hatch — just as the outer edge of the scintillating spiral galaxy appeared to either side. The wings clipped the antenna tops as the bow of the bird slammed through the steel trunks in front.

Oh crap…

Painter reached back and slapped his palm on the ignition for the inflation tank.

The weather balloon burst out the pack on his back, whipped into the wind drafting behind the plane, and yanked him out of the rear of the craft.

He sailed away and up, watching the wide-bellied Globemaster plow through the glowing spiral, aiming for the flaming beast at the center.

Simon Hartnell stood at the helm.

He heard the roaring approach of the huge cargo jet, and now its splintering crash through the array. He stared up at the tower before him, aflame with energy. He remembered thinking earlier how the display had reminded him of the blazes of Saint Elmo’s fire, which would dance through the masts and riggings of sailing ships.

He pictured the tower here as the mast to his own personal HMS Erebus or Terror. He also recalled Painter’s admonition to his ancestor who had been a crew member aboard one of those original ships.

It seems some men reach too far.

Yet even now he didn’t accept that.

He stared up at his masterpiece, doomed though it may be.

What’s far worse is never trying.

The world exploded before him, taking away his life and all his dreams.

Sailing high, Painter watched the Globemaster finish its last flight.

The cargo plane dragged its belly through the shining array and slammed nose-first into the top of the tower. As it canted into the wide mining pit, it crushed the tower beneath its bulk, snuffing the flame of that incandescent candle.

For just a moment, seared across his retina, he saw the remaining column of plasma whip into the sky like the angry tail of a cat — then it was gone.

A moment later, the airplane exploded, wiping that image away. A great ball of fire rolled into the sky and quickly became a column of smoke, a dark shadow of the brilliance from a moment ago.

Out of harm’s way — but far from safe — Painter raised his assault rifle and shot at the balloon overhead. He took great care, shooting one round at a time, letting the air out slowly. His ascent finally topped off, and he began to fall back to earth. He had prepared himself for a hard landing, but in the end, he touched down rather softly.

The weather balloon collapsed behind him, settling like a shroud over rock and snow. He shrugged off the pack but kept the weapon. He guessed he was a couple of miles from Aurora Station and didn’t want any polar bears marring his hike back.

Still, he stood for a breath, staring at the sky. With the array shut down — no longer feeding fire into the sky and having sucked a fair amount of energy back into the ground — the raging vortex in the clouds appeared to be calming down. The dull crimson glow was all but gone, its inner fire no longer stoked by the plasma storm as the ionosphere cleared.

Still, while the weather might be cooperating, Painter knew there was much cleanup yet to be done. There was no telling how contaminated this whole island might be. They could not count on the play of electricity to have eradicated all the microbes cast into the air.

He sighed, returned his attention earthward, and set off for Aurora Station.

Even with his parka, he had thought it would be cooler here in the Arctic.

He touched a palm to his forehead.

I’m burning up.

“How are you feeling?” Kat asked.

Safia sat on the camp cot in the Inuit’s hide tent. She cradled a cup of hot fish soup in her hands, courtesy of John and Tagak. “Better.”

They had the place to themselves for the moment. Rory had retreated to another tent, where John had done his best to make Anton comfortable, but the bullet he had taken for Rory — and in turn, Safia — had severed his spine, paralyzing him from the waist down. The round had also shredded through his chest, leaving him coughing blood.

He would not make it.

Rory seemed to know this and stayed with him.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Kat asked. “You were hallucinating quite dramatically?”

“It’s foggy. I remember bits and pieces mostly. My feet burning in sand. The stench of dead animals.” She shook her head. “But there at the end, just before I collapsed, I saw stronger images. It was like I was seeing through two sets of eyes. I could see the storm here, but also another, looming above a blood-red Nile. It felt so real — as real as the ice and snow here.”

Kat glanced toward the tent flap. The weather had abruptly calmed. The lightning and hailstorm about to sweep over the camp had died away. It coincided with Safia collapsing to the snow, as if she were a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Rory — and his father, too, for that matter — believed that your infection by that microbe could have been the source of those dreams, that the organism was replaying past patterns it had been imprinted with. Carrying forward memories, thoughts, maybe even personalities. And possibly tracing all the way back to ancient Egypt.”

Kat wondered if the storm’s energy had enhanced that effect, possibly explaining why Safia remembered the last hallucinations more vividly.

Safia shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember much.”

“When you were hallucinating, Rory asked your name in ancient Egyptian Coptic. You answered in the same language, saying your name was Sabah.”

This clearly surprised her. “That’s the name of the mummy on the throne.” She touched her face, clearly also remembering how she had become infected in the first place.

“And you’re feeling better now?”

“I am.”

After her sudden collapse, they had gotten her inside. She woke shortly thereafter, seeming much better. Her fever had definitely broken, her temperature returning to normal. Kat wondered if she had simply recovered or if her sudden recuperation had something to do with all the electricity in the air. She wanted to run tests on Safia as soon as possible.

Which raised another question.

With as much time as has passed, how come Rory and I are still fine?

They were missing something important.

The tent flap stirred and Rory pushed inside. His eyes were puffy.

“Anton?” Kat asked.

He shook his head and sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged, plainly not wanting to be alone. He looked shell-shocked and dazed. She imagined his loss had not fully hit him yet.

“I’m sorry,” Safia said.

Kat could not find her way to sympathy yet, but the man had tried to save Safia, throwing himself between her and the shooter. So she tolerated his presence.

Rory took a deep breath. “I need you to know… I never got a chance to tell you.”

“What?” Kat asked.

“You left me to study the topographic map of the mummy’s tattoos.” He glanced over to Safia. “The scan was impressive, and I used your method for converting the Egyptian hieroglyphs into early Hebrew. I made some progress before…”

He waved toward where Anton had died.

“Go on,” Kat pressed. “What did you learn?”

“The mummy was the cure.”

Kat stood up. “What?”

“Or the body at least was carrying it, along with a load of the pathogenic microbe in her skull. But I still don’t understand. My father had her tissues tested. Over and over again. He found nothing except what would make you sick, certainly nothing that would cure you.” Rory scowled. “He missed something.”

He waved to Safia. “But that’s why she’s better. Whatever she was exposed to acted like a live-virus vaccine. Made her a little feverish in the process, but in the end harmless.”

“You got that all from the mummy’s tattoos?”

“I had to infer much. And there’s still more to translate. But I’m also pretty sure that’s why we never got sick. The cure must have also made Safia harmless, attenuating the load of the pathogen she was exposed to in the lab.”

Kat stared at Safia. “Then maybe we can use her blood or spinal fluid and develop a cure…?”

Rory sighed and shook his head. “For some reason, it doesn’t work that way. That much was clear. There is only one cure and one way to obtain it. Directly from the source.” He stared over at Kat. “And we burned it to ash.”

Kat pictured the failsafe at the lab, remembered the roaring rush of fire.

The cure is gone.

27

The trumpeting of the elephants continued throughout the canyons, echoing off the walls, trebling and quadrupling in volume.

Concerned by the strange behavior and afraid to aggravate the herd further, Gray kept his group gathered and quiet in the elephant graveyard. He could readily enough guess what had triggered this dramatic display. In the middle of the small canyon, the ancient white-skinned matriarch stared blindly up, as if she could sense the dazzle of the equatorial aurora dancing across the night sky.

Finally, the commotion began to subside. While ribbons and waves of shimmering energy still washed over the stars, it seemed to be fading, too.

Noah let out a breath, as if the guide had been holding it all this time. “I’ve never seen anything like that.” He waved to the skies but also stared toward the grand dame sharing the canyon. “And I doubt this group has ever been this vocal. Especially for such a shy and secretive herd. Their chorus must have been heard for a hundred miles.”

Roho had stuck close to Noah during all of this. The cub clearly did not appreciate this musical display.

Neither did another. Kowalski rubbed his ears and popped his jaw. “I may never hear right again.”

To the side, Derek held Jane’s hand. “But did you notice their song? It didn’t sound angry or distressed…”

“Almost sorrowful,” Jane murmured. “Like the entire herd had suddenly remembered something that tore at their hearts.”

Noah nodded. “She’s right. I’ve listened to elephants mourning the passing of members of their herd. This reminded me of that.”

“But what could they be remembering?” Derek looked to the skies. “I doubt any of them would have witnessed an aurora at the equator, not in their lifetimes.”

“Maybe it wasn’t their lifetimes.” Gray eyed Jane and Roho. He pictured the old elephant drawing the two out, as if she had recognized them, possibly confusing the pair with another from long ago. “Maybe it’s a much older memory, one tied to a great tragedy that has echoed over millennia.”

Derek still seemed dubious, clearly guessing Gray was referencing their prior talk. “You’re suggesting from the time another woman and lion arrived on their doorstep.”

“After a great flood washed the microbe out of this valley and poisoned the Nile.” Gray stared up. “If that ancient flood was triggered by atmospheric changes following the volcanic explosion of Thera, as you imagined before, it could have been accompanied by a localized aurora.”

Jane followed his gaze to the shimmering sky. “We know Thera exploded with a force never seen before, but how could it change the sky?”

“Because ash plumes are full of energy, crackling with lightning. If all that cataclysmic energy was exploded upward by Thera, it could have created an aurora in the ionosphere over this region.” He listened as the last mournful trumpet ended. “And these great beasts remembered… along with all the death that followed.”

Noah stared across the canyon. “If you’re right, maybe that also explains the purpose behind the painted forest. The multitudes of glowing colors, the shimmering reflection in the water, even the movement as their decorated bodies shifted among the trees. Could they have been trying to evoke some memory of an aurora? Was that the origin of their ritual?”

Gray recalled how the very air under that painted bower had seemed sacred, full of reverence. “And then we arrived at that ceremony with a woman and a lion in tow. Perhaps that’s why they so readily accepted us.”

Noah nodded. “Merging our arrival with an ancient memory, one full of heartache and grief.”

Jane stared over to the old queen. “It makes you wonder if they knew, even back then, what was unleashed from their valley. Maybe they allowed the Egyptians to build that wall — a wall the elephants could have easily taken down if they had wanted to — then taught the newcomers the cure in order to make amends.”

Gray remembered the elder taking Jane by the hand and possibly trying to do the same, an echo of another time.

“But what have we learned?” Jane asked. “I don’t understand.”

Gray had begun to get an inkling, but it seemed that would have to wait. As if responding to some unseen signal from the matriarchal queen or just agitated by the fading sky, the big bull had returned. He stared at their group and tossed his head, grunting and baring his tusks in a clearly aggressive posture.

“Looks like we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Kowalski said, “and are being shown the door.”

Respecting their wishes, Gray waved them forward. They skirted past the matriarch’s guardian and headed back down the fissure. No one spoke, each lost in the mysteries and wonders of the last hours. As they reached the greater canyon and headed through it, Gray stared around the enclosed valley, lit by the fading aurora, trying to imagine Egyptians arriving here, discovering this place.

“Look,” Derek said, pointing toward the grotto and the small pond it sheltered.

The water’s surface glowed a blushing crimson, but it wasn’t a reflection of the colony of fireflies roosting across the scalloped overhang. Instead, it came from the depths of the pond itself.

“It must be responding to the energy in the air,” Gray said.

Derek turned to him, his eyes wide. “Maybe you were right before.” He gazed out at the elephants. “Maybe it was this same energy that gave rise to that melancholy chorus from before, stirring up those ancient memories, stoked by the fire of what they carry in their skulls.”

And now it was ending.

Gray watched the glow receding in the water, fading with the aurora, too. He felt a deep sense of peace — which was a mistake.

A single gunshot made them all turn.

Seichan’s voice crackled in his radio earpiece. “Look up! We’re under attack!”

Gray studied the skies, not seeing anything at first. Then he noted dark shadows falling swiftly against the stars. As they reached the level of the cliffs, parachutes snapped wide.

Gunfire crackled from above.

Rounds shredded through the trees and ripped into the ground all around them.

Gray realized his helmet lamp was still lit, a beacon for the gunfire. He flicked it off, got the others moving, and waved them toward the shelter of the cliffs.

“Get into cover! Hide!” He pointed to Kowalski. “Keep them safe!”

“How—?”

“Figure it out!”

Gray grabbed what he needed from them and headed away. He glanced toward the canyon entrance, toward the shield wall built by ancient Egyptians. He wanted to radio Seichan, but he feared the enemy would overhear.

He willed her silently instead.

Watch your back.

From atop the wall, Seichan noted Gray’s lamp go dark.

She prayed he was all right, while cursing herself for not recognizing the threat sooner. For the past two hours, she had stayed posted here, using the vantage of the dike’s height to watch the valley on one side and the path leading here on the other. She had focused most of her attention on that dark fissure through the cliffs, guarding their team’s only exit.

So she had failed to spot the figures falling through the sky until it was too late. The only reason she was alerted was the faintest rumble of a plane engine, heard as the deafening chorus of the elephants ended. With her paranoia running high, she had searched the skies and spotted the specks plummeting toward the canyon.

She had fired a warning shot for Gray, while radioing him.

It was all she could do to help him and the others.

With the alarm now raised, she ran atop the wall to the ramp. She was tempted to take the path to the right that led into the valley, to add her firepower to the battle about to begin, but she pictured a pale face marred by a black sun.

That’s what you want me to do, don’t you?

She suspected that was the purpose behind this aerial attack, to keep everyone’s attention in the canyon. She had counted five parachutes, but she knew there was still another threat. Back in the Sudan, the pale assassin had sent a team underground, while setting up an ambush outside, guarding all exits.

And it had almost worked.

Seichan pictured the blazing desert sun, being trapped on the side of a dune, watching the rider aim her rifle, imagining that savage smile hidden under the scarf.

Reaching the ramp, Seichan turned left and headed into the fissure.

Not this time, bitch.

Valya chose a spot well back in the woods, close to where the forest was flooded.

This will do.

Ten minutes ago, she had landed outside the cliffs as the crackle of gunfire echoed from the distant canyons. Still, she didn’t rush and calmly folded her parachute.

While drifting down out of the skies, she hadn’t come alone. The Raven UAV had circled wide around her. She used its infrared optics to scan the last of the fissure and the surrounding forest, spying for any hidden dangers.

She wanted no more surprises.

Once safely on the ground, she moved to this vantage, which gave her an unobstructed view to the mouth of the fissure. She discovered a nest of boulders, the perfect sniper’s roost. So she set up her camp, rolling out a dark blanket behind the cover of the rocks. She dropped to her belly, balancing her Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun atop its small tripod. Equipped with a night sight and a silencer, it would be nearly impossible for an enemy to spot her position.

She lined up three of her extra magazines on the blanket next to her, but kept a reserve tucked into her belt, in case she needed to move fast.

Last, she positioned the portable receiver near her elbow, masked from direct view of the canyon by one of the boulders. A glance allowed her to continue to spy from above.

Satisfied, she lowered her eye to her sights and waited. A fresh spate of gunfire echoed to her. She didn’t know what was happening, as she had demanded radio silence from Kruger’s team until the canyon was secured.

Still, she did know one thing for certain.

She’ll come for me.

With rounds sparking from the rocks around him, Gray ducked into the tight fissure that led to the graveyard. He took a hard turn at the first jag. Once out of direct view of the canyon, he shifted one of the helmets to the crook of his elbow and thumbed off its lamp. He did the same to the one on his head and the one held in his other arm.

He had borrowed the additional two helmets from Jane and Derek.

A bullet ricocheted around the turn in the fissure, setting him to running again.

My trick seemed to have worked… but how well?

After Kowalski had headed away with the others for the canyon wall, Gray had sprinted the opposite direction, hoping to lure the enemy to chase him — at least long enough for the others to reach cover. To bait his lure, Gray had taken the helmets and clicked on the lamps. He was sure the five-man assault team had come with night-vision gear, so the three lights should be flaming torches in the shadowy canyon. He hoped their glare would hide the fact that only one man hid within that blaze. He wanted the enemy to believe Gray’s team was still with him and come after the fleeing targets with a majority of their strength.

He sprinted the rest of the way to the graveyard, nearly bouncing off the walls to keep ahead of whoever was taking potshots at him. At last, he burst back into the smaller canyon, his boots crunching through the crushed bones.

He clicked the three helmet lamps back on and flung them in all directions as he worked across the space. Only the queen was still here, plainly on edge from the spatter of gunfire, but not so panicked as to squint her old eyes at Gray’s strange antics.

Wanting her out of harm’s way—this isn’t your fight—he shooed her toward the back of the canyon, waving his arms. “Heeyah! Get over there now! C’mon.”

She took this as an affront, raising her trunk as if in disgust at his rudeness, but she did lumber around and slowly work farther back.

Good enough.

Gray glanced to the three scattered lamps, wanting them to confuse whoever came, to divide their attention. Satisfied, he hurried to one of the stacks of branches over moldering bones and burrowed his way undercover, facing the cavern entrance, SIG Sauer in hand.

It didn’t take long.

A shadow shifted within the fissure, cautious. The assailant popped his head out and did a fast sweep, then ducked back. He had exposed himself only for a second. Hidden again, he was likely strategizing how to proceed, analyzing the information from his mental snapshot of the canyon.

Guy’s good.

Gray listened, ears straining, and realized one other detail about his adversary.

The man had come alone.

The fact that he hadn’t been fooled into dragging his teammates along with him told Gray this was likely the team’s leader, probably the same one who had hunted them in the Sudanese tomb. If so, the bastard would want revenge.

Gray tightened his jaw, worried about his friends.

Derek crouched at the back of the grotto.

After separating from Gray, their group had fled to the canyon wall. The best hiding place was also the most dangerous. The toxic pond had gone dark again, but the small cave that sheltered half of it remained lit by the firefly colony nesting in the vegetation that covered its roof. Derek had hoped the flickering bioluminescence would negate the enemy’s night-vision advantage. He knew even this much light would blind the sensitive gear.

So they carefully circled the bank of the pond to the back of the grotto. There they found a low cave, one big enough to hide everyone in their group, except for the hulking form of Kowalski. He hadn’t minded, telling them to lie low while he dealt with the enemy. He left them with a disconcerting grin and some final words.

I have a plan.

Behind Derek, Jane hid with Noah, both of them sheltering Roho.

They all held their breaths as a dark shadow circled the far side of the pond, hunkered low, weapon raised. Derek pushed deeper into the cave, trying to stay hidden, praying for the hunter to continue past. But the man paused, seeming to stare straight at them, his eyes beetled by his night-vision goggles.

Derek cringed, suddenly having no confidence in his choice of hiding places.

Keep going…

As the hunter continued to hold, Derek searched past him, hoping Kowalski was close by, rushing already to help them. Instead, a loud shotgun blasted, followed by a gurgling scream. The noise rose from the middle of the canyon, likely Kowalski taking out one of the men — unfortunately, that also meant he wasn’t nearby to help them.

Still, the attack seemed to have achieved the same result.

The hunter had dropped low, spinning his weapon in that direction. He now lifted to a crouch and started toward the commotion.

Phew…

But one other reacted to the blast.

Roho let out a low nervous whine of complaint.

Noah scolded him softly, quieting the cat down mostly by touch — but the damage was done.

The hunter turned back around, his head cocking, still unsure. The jungle above the canyon beckoned with the hooting calls of monkeys and the occasional yowl of night predators, all further confounded by the acoustics of the high walls.

Unfortunately, the gunman shifted to the side and headed toward the apron of rock that served as the pond’s bank, plainly intending to investigate.

Derek glanced over his shoulder. The only weapon they had was Noah’s machete. Heading into the thick of the fight, Kowalski had needed his shotgun, and their guide had forgotten his rifle on the island where they had engineered the rescue of the elephant calf. In all the excitement and wonder of the painted forest, Noah had left it leaning against a tree.

Derek eyed Roho, but Noah had already told them that the cub was too young and inexperienced, that he was only beginning to learn to hunt. Derek also suspected the guide didn’t want his friend to become a man-killer. And from the way the cub was shaking, Noah was right about Roho being a lover and not a fighter.

Derek shifted forward, accepting the inevitable.

It’s up to me.

Noah still held the machete, but only as backup, a second level of defense to protect Jane.

By now the gunman had reached the pond and edged around its bank. He swatted one-handed at a couple of disturbed fireflies. From his exaggerated reaction, the bugs’ bioluminescence must have flared explosively in his goggles. Still, he kept them in place, displaying his deference for the military tech.

As he circled around, he stared both out at the canyon and into the grotto.

Derek waited until he was only a few steps away — then lunged out as the man swung his gaze out to the canyon. Sadly, the scrape of a boot heel drew the hunter’s attention straight back.

But Derek was already committed.

He reached both hands for the man’s throat, while hitting him broadside. He grappled with the man, and they both crashed into the deep pond. That wasn’t Derek’s plan, but he knew it was a risk.

And for Jane he was willing to take it.

He sputtered up, flung himself back onto the bank, and yelled “Now!”

Jane lifted the controller in her hand as the hunter raised his rifle. Beating him to the draw, she pressed the button. The shock collar Derek had snapped around the gunman’s neck sparked brilliantly, with its charge set to 10. Still, the effect was more dramatic than anyone had anticipated. Rather than merely incapacitating their target, the electric shock ignited his drenched form — along with the entire pond — as if the microbes unleashed their trapped energy in one fell swoop.

The man screamed, writhing, his back arching.

As his body finally slumped into the pond, electricity still danced over the surface, Derek backed away warily. “Um, Jane, I think you can stop pressing the button.”

“Oh, right.” She let her hand drop and stepped toward him.

He retreated, knowing full well what soaked his clothes. “No…”

She ignored him and hugged him anyway. “It’s too late. We’re in this together.”

He stood with his arms wide, fearful of returning her hug — then realized she was right and folded her up against him, knowing this was worth dying for.

Not that I want that to happen, especially not now.

As Jane held tight to Derek, a volley of blasts rose from the canyon, drawing all their attention. They stared silently, as a belligerent complaint rose from the elephants.

What is going on?

Derek got them moving out of the grotto. “We can’t stay here.”

Jane recognized he was right. With all the pyrotechnics, not to mention the screaming, their hiding place was compromised.

As they cleared the pond, Derek guided them along the wall, sticking to the deeper shadows of the canopy far above. The rest of the canyon was dark, but the moon and stars were bright enough to reveal a strange sight.

A large clutch of elephants — maybe twenty — stirred out there, milling, but generally heading toward the walled-off opening to the fissure.

Jane squinted. “What are they—?”

Then suddenly another volley of shotgun blasts rang out. Brilliant blue scintillations of piezoelectric crystals burst like fireworks with each concussion. Kowalski was firing, but not at the enemy. He stood behind the herd, blasting at the rear ends of the largest beasts, driving them ahead of him. He accompanied this with loud curses that would normally have made Jane blush, but instead she was impressed by the sheer range and imagination.

Jane remembered his last words to them.

I have a plan.

Finally, it came to fruition. The herd moved faster across the canyon floor, trying to escape their tormentor, confused by the bright lights, the stinging swats on their backside. Their bumping bodies amplified the perplexity — until a tipping point was reached. Legs churned, the trumpeting grew louder, and in a moment, it became a stampede.

And the target was clear.

Gunfire flashed from both the top and bottom of the ramp, revealing the presence of two combatants. A grenade exploded, casting up a geyser of dirt. Luckily the aim was poor as the enemy manning the ramparts panicked at the wall of tusks, stamping feet, and bellowing trunks heading straight at them.

The man at the bottom swung around and sprinted up the ramp, but the sandy surface betrayed him. He went down and vanished under the herd as it surged up and over the wall. A moment later, a muffled cry rose on the far side, the scream echoing out into the canyon as the second gunman was trampled in the narrow chute.

The last of the stampede crested the ramp and fled down the fissure, likely seeking the refuge of flooded forest.

Fresh gunfire drew all their faces to the opposite side of the canyon.

Clearly the battle was not yet over.

I’m not falling for that.

Gray kept hidden in his burrow of branches and bones. His assailant reached around again and fired blindly into the graveyard. Rounds chattered toward one of the glowing helmets, pelting into the crush of bones. The hunter was trying to goad Gray into responding, to reveal his location.

The strategy behind this was likely born from the sounds of battle reaching the two of them: screams, gunfire, shotgun blasts, all amid cries and bellows from the canyon’s elephants.

Gray sensed the brooding presence of the old matriarch at the back of the small canyon. She haunted the copse of tall plum trees back there. Guilt ate at him, knowing the carnage his arrival had wrought to the peaceful, shy creatures who had opened their home to them.

And look how we repaid their generosity.

As if sensing the subject of his concern, the gunman shoved low and blasted toward the trees. A sharp, pained bleat rose from back there.

You bastard…

Gray shifted to see if she was okay.

As he did so, a branch fell from atop his pile and rattled down the mound’s side.

Gray did not wait and burst out of his burrow, knowing the keen hunter would act on that movement and noise. He flung himself to the side and rolled away. A grenade struck the gravesite and exploded, casting broken bones and flaming tinder high into the air. The concussive force threw him farther, showering him with debris, peppering his skin with slivered shards.

He kept his arms long, extended in front of him, still gripping his SIG Sauer with both hands. He fired back at the shadow, earning a sharp curse from his opponent as he ducked back into cover.

Gray stayed flat on his belly, his aim fixed, but he was exposed, stretched across the white crystalline bed. If he tried to run, even move, the crunch would give him away. The impasse felt like it lasted minutes but was only seconds.

The hunter finally strafed blindly at his location, likely hoping for a lucky hit.

And he came close, as a bullet seared past Gray’s ear.

Gray fired back at the exposed weapon, but he had no better success.

I won’t last another round.

Behind Gray, a heavy shift and sigh was accompanied by gravelly footfalls. Branches cracked. He risked a glance to see the matriarch pushing through the copse. Blood stained her white skin, flowing down the side of her chest. Her near-blind eyes stared toward him, looking mournful but determined. She came forward, shifting in front of him, dropping to her knees, then chest.

A trunk curled back to him, huffing at his cheek. She leaned her own cheek down to stare back at him. Soft nostrils touched him.

Gray understood.

She’s trying to shield me, even as she’s dying.

Gray heard a brush of boot. He stood up, accepting this gift from the great beast. He aimed over her back as the hunter showed himself, plainly aggravated by the intrusion. Gray fired first, driving the man back a step, but no blood was shed.

Still, that wasn’t Gray’s intention.

Just focus on me.

The hunter obliged, centering his grenade launcher.

Past the man’s shoulders, a giant shadow pushed from the fissure. The bull elephant loomed, as silent as ever, always the guardian. With a slowness that seemed unreal, he pushed a tusk through the man’s back, lifting him to his toes, then off his feet.

Blood poured, and his weapon dropped.

Finally, with a toss of his head, the broken body was flung back into the fissure, so the man’s bones would never defile this sacred ground.

Gray sank to his knees, placing a palm on the dry cheek of the matriarch. “I’m so sorry.”

Her trunk rose and rubbed his forearm, as if to acknowledge his grief — then circled his wrist and gently urged him up and away. The bull came forward to take his place, his tusk bloody, his eyes not as forgiving.

Gray accepted that judgment and headed away.

When he reached the exit, he glanced back. The bull had his head bowed, his trunk entwined with the dying matriarch’s. Gray turned away, knowing he did not deserve to witness this.

He ran down the fissure, both relieved and ashamed.

But others needed him now.

Seichan crouched forty yards from the end of the mile-long cleft through the cliffs. On the cautious trek here, she had heard echoes of the firefight behind her, rising from the distant canyon. She cast off her fears, knowing it did her no good. Instead, she placed her trust in Gray — even Kowalski — to survive and keep the others safe.

She had her own responsibility this night.

With the exit in sight, she remained in place. Her ears strained for any noises that didn’t belong to the forest, her eyes sharp for any suspicious shifts of shadows.

While all seemed quiet and safe, she knew better.

You’re out there.

Every nerve screamed this.

Seichan had two options from here, diverging paths defined by two words drilled into her by those who trained her in the Guild as an assassin.

Shadow or fire.

She could proceed by stealth, sticking to shadows, scaling the cliffs and dropping outside unseen. Or she could fire up her blood, spiking her adrenaline for a run and bursting free under a hail of gunfire.

Instead, she waited because there was a third path not taught by the rigid structure of the Guild. Something she learned from Gray, a mix of improvisation and intuition — though this night, perhaps Kowalski was her true mentor.

She heard them well before they arrived, a low thunder. She refused to move lest she alert the lurker in the woods of her plans. Once she felt the ground shake under her toes, she scaled the cliff.

A moment later, the first of a stampede of elephants rushed under her, near enough she could reach down and brush her fingertips along their rolling backs. She looked for her chance and found it in a large female. As the beast passed her position, she leaped out, grabbed its tail in both hands, and braced her boots on the back of her thick thighs.

Shocked at the sudden stowaway, the beast sped faster, trying to escape what clung to her. Seichan held tight, only needing to hitch this ride for a handful of seconds. Still, an elephant in back batted at this stranger in their midst, almost knocking Seichan off her perch. She ducked low and clung with all her strength, her boots bucking from her ride’s hindquarters. The world blurred around her.

Then the cliff walls suddenly fell away.

Seichan waited until the herd burst into the apron of the forest, then leaped free, rolling across the leafy mulch. She immediately regained her feet and ran low to the side and ducked behind the bole of a towering tree.

She dropped to a knee and studied the booming, crashing passage of the herd as it spread out into the forest, so she could see if something would be flushed into the open.

Far to her right, a massive bull hip-checked into a pile of boulders. As the rocks tumbled from the impact, something dark and low fled from behind that shelter.

There you are.

Still, Seichan noted the flash of dark metal as the figure ran.

Definitely armed.

I wouldn’t expect any less.

She set off after her quarry.

With a change of plan from here.

Fire.

Valya took a low, careening path through the forest.

Elephants crashed all around her, driving her farther away from the cliffs. Water soon splashed under her boots, first in puddles, then in a wide lake that stretched endlessly before her. Finally, the dark bulks of the rampaging beasts spread out, their panic seeming to dissipate.

Still, she didn’t stop — needing time to regroup.

She checked her weapon. The night sight had snapped off but the gun was otherwise serviceable. Regrettably she had not had time to grab the controller to her Raven.

Before the chaos, with her trap set, she had noted movement deep in the fissure, a flicker of body heat picked up by the UAV’s sensors.

Definitely a person, but identification had been impossible.

Still, from the furtive actions, Valya knew who glowed on her small screen.

Valya waited for Seichan to make her decision.

Shadow or fire.

Then from down the tunnel, seen via the optics of the Raven, a surging river of body heat flowed through the narrow fissure, sweeping the tiny glow away. As she tried to fathom what she was seeing, she reacted too slowly. The elephants burst out, stampeding straight for her. She had barely gotten away in time.

But what had become of Seichan?

Had she been trampled?

Valya knew the answer.

No.

The bullet that splintered into the trunk near her head confirmed this.

Valya ducked and rolled, putting the trunk between her and her adversary. She fired back along the trajectory of the attack, but she surmised the woman was already moving.

Valya began to do the same.

She turned and ran low, weaving a path into the denser thicket of forest. From the sound of the one shot, Seichan came with a pistol. Valya hefted her submachine gun, feeling the additional forty-round extended magazine still tucked in her belt.

In this game of fire, she intended to win.

She just needed cover.

And reached it.

She dove into the thicket, where she had plenty of thick trunks to pick from, allowing her to shift from position to position unseen. She hunkered down, fully out of sight.

A pistol blasted, and she felt a punch to her shoulder, spinning her around.

She closed her mind against the pain and sidled to a new position, deeper into the thicket.

Another shot.

And her ear became fire.

She spun in a panicked circle.

How?

Then she heard a low whining drone and realized she’d been playing the wrong game. This wasn’t fire. It was shadow—stealth and trickery. Seichan must have searched where she had hidden, found the UAV control, and commandeered it.

A voice called out to her. “Only seemed fair I got my turn to play with the toys.”

Valya cursed.

Then shadow it is — and fire.

She pulled out her radio, reached the pilot. “Fire both Hellfire missiles. Target both canyons. Now.”

Hellfire.…

Seichan knew the pale woman had wanted her to hear that radio call.

But was it true about the missiles?

She remembered back in the Sudan, when she didn’t know if they were being tracked, that the best course was to assume they were.

This was no different.

“Hunt me or help your friends,” the woman called out, taunting.

Seichan ignored her, having already made her decision. She turned and sprinted for the cliffs, knowing she had to do everything she could to help the others.

She cast one silent promise to the pale woman.

We’ll meet again.

“Go, go, go!” Gray hollered, doing his best to empty the canyon, moving everyone over the wall and into the shelter of the dark fissure.

Seichan had radioed two minutes ago, panicked and breathless.

“Get out of there now!”

The call had come as he regrouped with the others in the main canyon. With helmet lamps blazing, everyone now worked to get the remaining herd moving in the same direction. Seichan sought to help by sending a drone she had commandeered over the valley, both to confirm the threat and to hassle the bigger bird with her smaller one.

Seichan radioed again, her voice in his ear. “Cessna closing on your position. Hellfires are hot.”

“You gotta buy us more time,” he urged.

“Working on that.”

Kowalski fired his shotgun into the air to urge the last few stragglers in the right direction. “Move your wrinkly asses!”

Noah took a gentler approach with a pair of elderly elephants, touching and encouraging them to follow, leaving Roho to do his best imitation of a sheepdog.

Ahead, Derek and Jane manned the wall, waving fronds, compelling the herd over the ramp.

Luckily the earlier stampede had already cleared a number of head, but there remained one stubborn holdout.

Gray stared across the dark canyon. The shadowy figure of the large bull stood vigil by the back wall, having appeared from the crack ten minutes ago, indicating the great matriarch had passed. A handful of the adults still in the canyon had wandered over, entwining trunks, sharing their grief.

The bull now refused to budge.

Jane suddenly called from the rampart, pointing, “A calf! Over in the grass!”

They all turned, but from their low vantage, they couldn’t spot the youngster.

Kowalski headed over, running hard. “Where?” he hollered back.

Jane yelled directions, guiding him.

Then Seichan was in his ear again, her voice rife with panic. “Gray! Drone’s damaged. Cessna’s almost on top of you.”

Gray looked up, hearing a faint rumble of an engine.

Not good.

He cupped a hand around his mouth. “Kowalski, get back here!” He waved to everyone else. “Over the wall. Get as far back as you can!”

“I see the tyke!” Kowalski ran faster.

He ducked into the grass, vanishing for a breath, then hauled back up, carrying the baby elephant in his arms. It had to weigh two hundred pounds. He ran with it in his arms. The baby wailed plaintively.

He’ll never make it.

Confirmation appeared in the sky, sweeping past the stars. A small plane banked on a wing, preparing for a bombing run over the canyons.

Then came the sound of thunder.

From the back of the canyon, the bull came charging forward — whether stirred by the calf’s trumpet of fear or out of some altruistic recognition that Kowalski was struggling. The bull reached the big man, plucked the child from his arms, and continued toward the wall.

Unburdened, Kowalski put his head down and ran.

Past him, the Cessna dropped over the smaller canyon. Fire shot from under one wing. The missile screamed, then a deafening blast shook the ground. Flame and smoke shot up, spiraling for a breath, before collapsing into a dark pall.

The bull reached the ramp and charged over the ancient dike.

Kowalski followed, and Gray ran with him. They cleared the wall as the world exploded again behind them. The concussive force channeled up the chute and sent both men flying and rolling across the ground, nearly under the bull’s trampling legs.

Once they came to a stop, Kowalski stayed on his back. “Remind me to listen to you next time.”

Gray stood up with a groan. The others joined them, and together the group hobbled back over to the wall and climbed to its top.

Off to the left, a loud, splintering crash sounded, coming from the jungle on top of the canyon wall on that side. A moment later, an oily black cloud of smoke rose against the stars.

Seichan whispered in his ear. “Gray?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Just wanted to let you know I got the drone working again.”

He stared toward the column of smoke, knowing it must be the Cessna, brought down by Seichan. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

Jane and Derek joined him, both looking forlornly across the ruins of the valley. The back half was rubble and smoke. As they watched, more of the canyon wall to the right collapsed, further burying the former grotto.

“It’s all gone,” Jane said. “Now we’ll never find the cure.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gray murmured.

Derek gave him a hard look. “It bloody well matters to me. I took a header into that pond.”

“I just meant that the cure was never here… at least not for us.”

Neither of them looked any happier with this news.

Gray sought to reassure them. “I know where the cure is.”

“What?” Jane gasped. “Where?”

Gray turned and headed away. “Right back where we started.”

28

Two weeks later, Gray stood at the window overlooking a small surgical suite at the Francis Crick Institute, outside London. He stared down at the draped figure on the table of the sealed room.

We all owe you a great debt.

Finally cleared medically after a battery of testing, Gray was scheduled to return to the States tomorrow. And while Seichan and Kowalski also passed their tests and would be on the same flight, neither of them had any interest in joining him here. As Kowalski had said, I’ve had my fill of mummies.

Gray smiled, doubting the man realized how apt his words were in regards to this situation. He pictured the macabre dead faces found inscribed inside the stone stomach of the buried goddess.

That had been one of the more obvious clues. He even remembered thinking at the time: Everything here is a lesson.

And it had been, but not the only one on this journey.

He pictured the old matriarch taking Jane by the hand and sharing her knowledge, teaching her like a child. There truly was no cure to be found in those canyons.

Only another lesson to be learned.

What Jane had been shown — what they’d all been taught — was a recipe for making the cure, not the cure itself.

The door opened behind him, and two familiar faces who were fighting the pandemic came to join him, to honor the man while they had this last moment.

Monk smiled and gave him a bear hug, while Dr. Ileara Kano simply shook his hand.

Monk looked into the next room, his face lined by exhaustion. “Seems we’ve come full circle, you and I. From one mummy to another.”

That was certainly true.

In another wing of this very same medical complex, Professor McCabe’s mummified body had been destroyed in an arson attack. Gray remembered standing on the street outside, learning for the first time about this strange microbial disease.

Full circle indeed.

Only it wasn’t Professor McCabe on the table this time.

Ileara gazed sadly at the figure draped out there. “His work is done,” she said. “He’s scheduled to be reinterred at Westminster Abbey tomorrow morning.”

Monk attempted a British accent — and failed. “Dr. Livingstone, I presume.”

Gray cocked an eyebrow. “Exhume, you mean.”

“Good one.” He jabbed his elbow into Gray. “I’m going to use that at the next meeting.”

“Feel free.”

Shortly after Gray’s team had arrived from Rwanda, David Livingstone’s body had been disinterred from his crypt at Westminster Abbey, where he had lain undisturbed for more than a century. The poor man’s remains had had so many tissue samples collected that Gray was surprised there was still anything left under the drape.

Still, all that was truly important was hidden in his skull.

The cure.

Monk frowned at the mystery before him. “I’ve heard it in bits and pieces,” he said, “but never the whole story.”

Knowing his friend wanted him to fill in those blanks, Gray turned to him. “Where do you want me to start?”

“How about with Moses.”

Gray smiled and sighed. “If you really want to understand, we may have to start even earlier. Back to when a thirsty group of elephants discovered a challenging water source, one toxic to most life.”

He remembered Noah’s admiration for the great beasts. “Being such profound problem solvers, they learned a method to drink it safely. How this accommodation came about we may never know, but I suspect it had something to do with the respect they had for their ancestor’s bones.”

Ileara nodded. “Nature is full of examples of these odd biological relationships. Sometimes we never know how they truly formed and lump the explanation into the category: Life finds a way.”

Gray rubbed his chin. “Regardless, the elephants eventually found a method. They learned to store their remains under piles of branches from the Mobola plum tree, in order for the bark’s tannins to effect a chemical transformation in the dead body, turning what was toxic to curative.”

“We’ve confirmed this in the lab,” Ileara added. “After someone dies, the microbe goes into a dormant stage, as it’s no longer being fed electricity from a living brain. It is only then that the microbe becomes sensitive to the bark’s tannin. A chemical in the tannin basically turns off a handful of genes, making the microbe nontoxic, but better yet, if this nontoxic microbe runs into its toxic cousin in living tissue, it neutralizes it there, too.”

“The cure,” Gray said.

Monk scratched his head. “So the recipe for making the cure is to let an infected body mummify under the effects of that bark’s tannin, then wait a year or two and harvest the transformed good version.”

Gray pictured the mother elephant cracking the skull of the tannin-soaked remains of an ancestor and showing her child how to chew it, to extract the curative version of the microbe.

“But this method is species specific,” Gray stressed. “It’s why the elephant bones are useless to us as a cure. We have to do it to ourselves. Elephant bones for elephant bones.”

Monk grimaced. “And human for human.”

“And skulls work best,” Ileara added. “As that’s where you’ll find most of the microbes. Of course, now with modern methods we can simply culture the cure, but back then that was the only way of getting it done.”

Gray knew the labs at Francis Crick had been doing just that, using samples of the curative microbe found in Livingstone’s skull.

“So when do we get to Moses?” Monk asked.

Gray checked his watch, happy to skip ahead. “The plagues. Yes. That part of the story starts when a spectacularly wet season — possibly due to atmospheric changes from a volcanic eruption — flooded the elephant’s source and spread the organism up the Nile Valley, triggering the chain reaction of biblical plagues. After that, a group of Egyptian explorers went looking for the source and discovered the elephants. Shocked that the beasts could safely drink the water, they studied their behavior and learned how to make the cure.”

Gray recalled Noah’s story of the Kenyan tribesmen who had learned from elephants how to induce labor by chewing on leaves. He gave a small shake of his head at both man’s ingenuity and nature’s resilience.

Life finds a way.

He continued, sensing the press of time. “The explorers returned north with this cure, where this knowledge was preserved by a sect that worshipped a feminine version of Tutu, the god of sleep and dreams.”

“Why feminine?” Monk asked.

“I think because the original explorer who discovered the cure was possibly a woman, maybe a Hebrew scholar who came with a lion. At least that’s who I think led the Egyptian explorers, from the way the old matriarch reacted to Jane and Roho. Or it could be a female goddess because this microbe causes genetic damage to male offspring of those afflicted.” Gray shrugged. “Either way, I’m guessing they picked a god of dreams because of the strange hallucinations this microbe triggers in the brain.”

Gray decided to skip over his theories about how this microbe might be able to record strong memories and repeat them. Instead, he continued with its historical trail.

“During a tumultuous time of war in Egypt around 1300 BC, over a century after the plagues, the sect feared this knowledge could be lost, so they built the tomb to their goddess to serve two purposes. They first carved lessons into the tomb to record the recipe, then left a sample of it, a mummified and preserved body holding the cure.”

“Where it was buried for millennia,” Monk said.

“But nothing stays buried forever, and no secret is perfectly kept. Some locals knew about the tomb — possibly the descendants of the original Nubian servants who helped the sect, passing their secret from generation to generation. Until eventually a British explorer came through looking for the source of the Nile, a man whom the natives came to revere.”

Gray stared over at the draped body, knowing how much good David Livingstone had done during his time in Africa, both helping tribes and fighting the slave trade across the continent.

“To honor him, they revealed all of this to Livingstone, even gifting him with artifacts. Afterward, perhaps wanting to preserve this knowledge himself, yet keep it secret, he locked the mystery away in coded messages to his friend Stanley. And upon his death — either with his consent or as part of a tribal ritual — his body was transformed into the same vessel as the enthroned woman. When his body arrived in London, it was found to be mummified, wrapped in a coffin made of Mobola plum.”

Ileara gave a sad shake of her head. “Then late in the nineteenth century, somebody had to go and open one of Livingstone’s artifacts, unleashing the plague into the British Museum.”

Gray checked his watch again.

I’m late.

He faced Monk. “That’s right, but Painter and Kat know more about that part of the story than I do, involving Tesla, Twain, and Stanley. So you might want to ask your wife about those details. Or Painter. I heard he’s out of quarantine.” He rubbed his hands. “I have to get going. I have a lunch date with a certain woman who gets very impatient if I’m not punctual. And I’d hate to tell her you were the cause.”

Monk lifted his hands. “Hey, go, I don’t want to get on Seichan’s bad side.”

Gray headed away, content to have acknowledged the great explorer and happy to leave him to his well-deserved rest. He wound his way through the sprawling medical complex, bustling with the ongoing battle against the plague, and out to the sunshine of a bright new morning.

He hailed a taxi and gave the driver the directions Seichan had left him. She had been very mysterious about this lunch, which, considering the woman, was a tad worrisome.

When the cab pulled up to the curb, there was a large crowd queued up outside. He climbed out, shading his eyes. Where was—

A hand grabbed his elbow, fingers digging deep. “You’re late.”

“Monk can be a bit gabby.”

Seichan drew him through the crowd and around the corner. He gaped at what loomed ahead. It was the London Eye, a giant Ferris wheel towering over the Thames, each car a large clear spherical compartment able to hold a couple dozen riders.

She dragged him to the front of the line. “Do you know how much it cost to hold this up? Why do you think I said be on time?”

“What’re we—?”

“Shut up.”

She dragged him up the ramp to a waiting car of the great wheel. Inside, a private table had been set up with fine linens and crystal stemware. On a neighboring serving cart, domed silver cloches hid culinary mysteries, while a bottle of champagne chilled in an ice bucket.

She pushed him inside and waved to the waiting operator.

Her face flushed, she turned to Gray. “You are a hard man to surprise.”

He smiled. “A trait that’s kept me alive.”

As the car began to move, she stepped forward and slipped her arms around him. “Then I’ll have to try harder tonight.”

“I’m certainly up for the challenge.”

“You’d better be.”

She drew him to the table, where a small bench on one side faced the Thames. They settled together before considering the food. The car slowly arced up, offering an ever-widening view of the sprawling city of London.

“Why all this fuss? I’d be happy with a burger and a beer.” He scooted her closer. “It’s the company that matters.”

“I thought we deserved this.”

“Where did you get the idea to—?” He looked harder at her. “You stole this from when Derek and Jane rode that Ferris wheel in Khartoum.”

She smiled. “You truly don’t let anything get past you.” She pulled him closer this time. “Who says those two should get all the fun?”

He sighed, realizing how few moments the two of them got like this. He suspected that might be part of the intent here, one not purposefully contrived by Seichan, but still there, hanging in the air between them like an unspoken question. Did they dare recognize the forces that kept them from more moments like this — and did they dare shed them?

With no answer, they both remained silent, having to find contentment in this moment.

Seichan stirred, turning slightly toward him. “I heard from Kat earlier. She thought I should know.”

“What?”

Seichan gazed out over the river. “Yesterday, up in Canada, at the gravesite of Anton Mikhailov, somebody left a single white rose.”

He knew her worry. After events in Africa, the pale assassin had vanished, escaping through the forest, a woman whose name they now knew.

Valya Mikhailov.

Gray touched Seichan’s hand. “You can’t know for sure it was—”

She turned her palm and wrapped her fingers around his. “The white rose had a single black petal.”

“You’ve got a couple of visitors,” Kat said as she entered the room.

Painter sat up in his hospital bed.

Finally.

He had been cooped up in the infectious ward at Francis Crick for too long, undergoing treatment, testing, and observation. He was ready for any distraction.

Behind Kat, Safia ducked her head through the door. “Just coming to check on the patient.” She stepped in, dragging a bouquet of balloons. “Thought you could use a little cheering up.”

Painter groaned. “I think I’ve had enough of balloons for a while.”

She smiled. “Then how about an old friend.”

The door shifted wider, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure with shaggy blond hair and darkly tanned skin stepped into the room.

Painter smiled. “Omaha Dunn…”

The man grinned, his eyes crinkling. He pulled Safia to his hip as he entered with her. “I leave you with my wife, and you go about almost getting her killed… again.”

Painter shrugged. “What can I say? Someone’s got to put a little excitement in her life.”

Safia shook her head with a sigh and crossed over to the gathering of cards and gifts, adding her balloons. The group spent the next several minutes filling in the blanks in one another’s lives.

“So someone actually married you?” Omaha chuckled. “Where’s the unlucky woman?”

Painter grimaced a little. “Lisa’s holding down the fort back in D.C. She wasn’t too pleased to hear I was joining everyone here at Francis Crick. At this point, the place has practically become Sigma U.K. But she understood. The center here is far ahead of the rest of the world in understanding this pathogen, and after what happened in the Arctic, we need all hands on deck.”

Safia sat on the edge of his hospital bed. “So how are things up at Ellesmere and Aurora?”

“Still a mess. At this point there are more microbiologists and infectious disease experts on that island than polar bears. It’ll be a while before we know the full environmental impact of the release of that microbe into the wild by Hartnell. But right now we’re cautiously optimistic. As cold as the Arctic gets, that tropical microbe will not likely find a foothold outside of a warm host.”

“Then let’s hope the Arctic stays cold.”

He nodded, reminded that Simon Hartnell’s method for saving the planet might have been misguided, but the goal remained a noble one.

Omaha nudged Kat. “Now show him his real present.”

Painter crinkled his brow. “What present?”

Kat smiled. “We were saving this until you were out of quarantine, so you could hold it in person.” She crossed to her briefcase and snapped it open. She slipped out a clear sleeve protecting a yellowed sheet of paper with faint writing on it. “We found this inside David Livingstone’s crypt, left by a gentleman who apparently was very good at keeping secrets, unlike a certain friend of his.”

Painter took the fragile-looking letter, holding it gently, especially when he saw the signature at the bottom.

“This is from Mark Twain,” he murmured.

Painter remembered the account found in Tesla’s journal, describing events back in 1895, including Twain and Stanley’s trip to the Sudan, following the clues left by Livingstone.

Curious at this last addition to that story, he read the letter, dated August 20, 1895.

Painter smiled at the last sentiment.

How true.

From this note, it was clear Twain and Stanley had learned that Livingstone’s mummified body held the cure. He remembered reading of Twain’s account of his time in the Sudan, how he and Stanley had discovered the means if not the actual medicinal tincture inside the tomb. The pair had likely never understood the pathogenesis of this disease or its treatment — any more than the Egyptians or elephants had — but they had learned that the process of mummification was the means and that Livingstone’s body was the actual tincture.

Painter also suspected the pair must have been aided in this realization by additional clues or knowledge given to Stanley by Livingstone, information that had either been lost or never written down, making later efforts all the more difficult.

Still, Painter was drawn by one other intriguing part of Twain’s note.

“Did you notice how he references what he calls fever dreams, hallucinations that he seems convinced were David Livingstone’s memories? Gray and I discussed the possibility of that microbe actually recording details from a person’s life and passing them on.” He turned to Safia. “It sounded like you might have had a similar experience, but unlike Twain — who was dosed with Livingstone’s microbes — you were exposed to the desert mummy’s.”

Safia shook her head, plainly uncomfortable with this line of inquiry. “I can barely remember now. It’s like trying to remember a dream.”

Painter nodded. “And I didn’t experience anything of the sort from my treatment.”

Kat offered an explanation. “It may be because you were dosed with the lab-grown cure, not a natural elixir.”

“Lab-grown?” Omaha grinned. “In that case, Painter, I’m surprised you didn’t dream of cheese and a spinning wheel in a rat’s cage.”

Painter ignored him and stared down at the letter in his hand. “Still, it makes you wonder if there’s not more…”

“More what?” Kat asked.

He shook his head. “Certain details still don’t make sense.”

Kat frowned. “Like what?”

“Like why did Professor McCabe circle the seventh plague in his journal?” Painter looked out his window toward the north. “I mean, look what happened up in the Arctic. It was like something right out of the Bible.”

“I think you’re still feverish,” Kat said. “We know from further interviews with Rory that his father circled it after translating hieroglyphics from an Egyptian stela found near the Sudan dam project, one that described the seventh plague. It was early during his investigation, before the professor vanished into the desert.”

“Still, what if it was a prophecy of what we experienced in the Arctic?”

“More likely it was simply an account of a bad storm by an ancient Egyptian meteorologist.” Kat pointed at his chest. “I’m having a doctor recheck your vitals.”

He scowled at her. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”

Omaha clapped his palms atop his thighs and stood up. “Life is indeed a wonder, but we should get going.”

“He’s right.” Safia scooted over, gave Painter a hug, and whispered in his ear. “Thank you.”

Omaha was having none of it. “Painter, if you all start kissing, I’m calling your wife.”

Safia smiled and held Painter’s cheeks between her palms so he could see the sincerity shining in her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Safia, anytime.”

As the taxicab crept its way through the congestion of a midday London traffic jam, Safia stared out the window. Omaha sat next to her, holding her hand. She squeezed his fingers, needing his physicality as an anchor.

Out the window, she watched the bustle of a city she loved — from the local pubs crowded with patrons laughing and finishing their lunches to a lumbering red double-decker bus that grumbled at the traffic ruining its schedule.

Yet, over it all, another image shimmered.

Rolling sands burning under a desert sun… the golden points of pyramids reflecting those rays into a blinding dazzle… the slow line of camels moving along the edge of a dune in a dark silhouette against that blaze…

She gripped Omaha’s hand more tightly. These flashes were growing less and less frequent, so she refrained from talking about them. Still, she knew that wasn’t the only reason for her reticence. Back when the skies had been burning with fire up in the Arctic, she had experienced so much more than she had shared with Kat. She had felt the hundreds of women who had led to that moment, a solemn chain of life, one linking to the next. She experienced, as if it were her own, snatches of their lives, mostly the harsher elements as if that’s what the microbe captured best.

It grew to be a force, like a wind at her back — pushing her forward.

Though not as clear as the past, other images had begun to shimmer, glimpses of what might come. She had witnessed the fiery storm above the ice, well before it broke, knew it was coming. And even more dangers lay beyond that one, stacking one upon the other into the future. They were vague, just shadows, storm clouds beyond the horizon. If she had known more, she would have shared them, but she had no details, only fears.

Knowing what was to come, she was glad there were men like Painter — and all those he led in Sigma — who were willing to face those storm clouds. It was what she had tried to convey to the man back at the hospital.

Thank you.

Omaha must have sensed something and drew her closer. “Saf, what’s wrong?”

She nestled against his warm side. Slowly the shimmering image of burning sands faded, replaced with life’s usual commotion and flurry.

“Nothing,” she murmured. “Nothing you need worry about.”

There’s nothing left.

Back in Ashwell for the day, Jane stood before the ruins of her family home. The fires had consumed all, leaving nothing but a few charred beams.

“You can always rebuild,” Derek offered.

She considered it, but the memories would be too painful. It was time to move on. Her fingers reached back and found Derek’s. After being under quarantine at Francis Crick for the past two weeks, it was good to be out, back in fresh air. Though she truly did not expect to find anything here, she needed to take this pilgrimage, to truly say good-bye to her father.

“He thought he was bringing out the cure,” Derek reminded her, as if reading her thoughts.

“But he brought us the plague.”

Over the past many days, with time on their hands, they had been putting together pieces of her father’s past. What had stung her the most — and still did — was learning of Rory’s part in all this. She still could not bring herself to make contact with her brother, who was incarcerated at a Canadian military prison, pending the fallout from his involvement in events above the Arctic Circle.

She had also learned of Simon Hartnell, of his manipulation and imprisonment of her father, of his obsession and discovery of a lost Nikola Tesla text that had started this whole chain of events. Her father eventually found the organism described in Tesla’s text and searched for the cure, but it was a herculean task considering the strange recipe.

She pictured the little elephant pots, which they now knew were sculpted of wood and bark from Mobola plum trees, whose tannins were part of the mummification process in the production of the cure.

But how could my father have known that?

The tannins worked only on dormant microbes found in dead bodies; they were not curative on their own, so the bark pots were ignored as useless decoration.

Likewise, she knew from Rory’s accounting of events that her father had tested the mummy on the throne — the actual cure — but only found microbes that looked identical to the pathogenic variety, as it would have taken a molecular assay to differentiate the two.

Still, after nearly two years, he had his breakthrough, realizing that the tattoos on the enthroned mummy were ancient Hebrew written with Egyptian glyphs. The story found on her body had offered enough clues for her father to connect mummification to the cure. Not wanting Hartnell to learn the truth, he had left clues for Jane to follow and begun the self-mummification process himself, consuming the bark and following the ritual written on the tattooed woman. He did this for two or three months, prepping his body, then dosed himself with the active microbe stored in the goddess’s stone skull, hoping the bark’s tannin would turn what was toxic into a cure.

“You came so close,” Jane whispered to the blackened ruins.

“Still, his failure was as much ours,” Derek said. “He was bringing us the cure. He knew the disease had to kill him in order for the microbes to go dormant and become susceptible to the tannin. Only we opened his skull prematurely, before the transformation was complete, releasing the plague instead of the cure.” He drew her closer. “But he also reached out to you. Near the end, I think he must have realized that Hartnell had co-opted Rory, that your brother was complicit in—”

“Rory betrayed us all,” she said bitterly. “He stole my father from me, left me thinking they were both dead all this time.”

“I know.” He turned her to face him. “But Jane, your father knew you’d be able to follow those clues. It was his fallback plan. And he was right. You figured it out.”

“We did.”

He lifted a brow. “An archaeologist willing to share credit. Are you sure you’re Harold’s daughter?”

She smacked him in the shoulder and tugged him down the road. “Let’s get a pint.”

They headed toward the Bushel and Strike.

He took her hand. “And, Jane, in the end, your father achieved what he set out to do from the very beginning. He found proof that the Biblical plagues did occur, that the events chronicled in the Book of Exodus were historical, not mere legend or story. His discovery has turned archaeology on its ear.”

She nodded, taking a small amount of comfort in this fact. She squeezed Derek’s hand in thanks, and they continued in silence for a couple of minutes.

“Oh, I heard from Noah earlier today,” Derek finally said.

She glanced to him. “Did he ever find the elephants?”

“He says no, but I’m not sure I believe him. And he’s certainly not talking about them to anyone.”

“Good.” She pulled closer to Derek. “They’re better off—”

A pealing of bells interrupted her, drawing her attention past the pub to the old stone church. Apparently they’d repaired the bell tower, which made her happy. It was a small sign of resilience in the face of all the horrors.

Faintly she also heard a chorus of voices echoing out the church’s open door.

She drew Derek across the street, drawn by the music, a haunting hymn full of sorrow and grace. Once they were through the doors, the smell of incense warmed through her. To her right, the choir practiced in the nave. She took Derek in that direction but drew him into a little chapel opposite the century-old pipe organ.

“What’re we—?”

“Hush.”

She stopped at a pillar. She ran her fingers along an inscription scrawled across the stone. She remembered coming here as a child with her father, using charcoal and paper to rub a copy of this bit of ancient graffiti. It was in Latin, written when the plague struck this village, another reminder of its resilience.

Praetereo fini tempori in cello pace.

She whispered the translation to herself, “I pass at death into the peace of Heaven…”

She let her palm rest there, feeling so close to her father at this moment, reminded that not all memories here were bad. A tear rolled down her cheek.

“Jane?”

She looked up at Derek, his eyes shining with concern. She pulled him close and kissed him deeply as the chorus sang, as it had for ages.

But noting the young lovers, the choir stopped and started clapping.

Blushing and smiling, she pulled back and stared around a church that had stood for centuries, resolute and steadfast against every storm — then finally back to Derek.

“I want to rebuild my home.”