The Prometheus Objective

15

Caleb chose to have them set up the camera in the lobby hallway, with him standing in front of the huge statue of George Washington. Just one tech setting up the mic on his lapel and the camera on a tripod. Some added lighting.

“Best we can do,” Caleb said, a nervous edge to his voice as he looked around the hall and felt the imposing presence of Washington looming at his back, giving encouragement and yet setting an impossible standard.

No way I can even hope to be as moving or eloquent. He thought back to his own lectures at Columbia. A lifetime ago. He wondered where those students were now, and if any of them had changed their opinion of him, running the gamut from anger at first, to sympathy now in light of the realization of the truth?

In any case, public speaking had never been his strong suit, and he was dreading this like no other speech. Influencing forty minds about a new direction in history was hard enough; convincing eight billion people that the onslaught of psychic powers was manageable, walking them through aspects of trust and compassion and…

Don’t forget, gotta tell them ‘Don’t do drugs’. Especially ones that take away the cursed visions but allow you to be possessed by a madman.

The light dazzled his eyes, and the flickering in the corner of his vision made him focus on his last thoughts — instead of the preparation for a speech he should have taken hours to write.

The madman. The man in crimson…

Caleb shook his head, but it came nonetheless: a series of his own unwanted visions, descending upon him as if sprinkled there by Washington’s puppeteer-like pose over his head.

The tank, a man in a red robe. Bald head, sparkling green eyes (matching that teardrop-shaped gem around his neck) before he covers his head with a helmet and dons the ceremonial garb. Dust and rocks falling from the ceiling, he looks up, curses, but seems unconcerned.

Checks the video feeds on screens as shadowy personnel run about him. He accesses a certain tunnel and waiting tram-like car.

Fast-forward to a glimpse of:

A network of tunnels deep under the mountains…

Legends spoke of these caverns under Peru, Caleb thought. Knew it…

Ancient carvings in the walls, statues and artifacts from civilizations predating the Incas. All too much and too enticing, begging to be studied and examined, but no time.

Who are you?

The man fleeing the aerial bombardment and destruction of his facility is an enigma, but only to a point. And no longer, once the right questions get asked.

I know the right questions — or will, once I have confirmation…

And there it is…

Going back, rewinding this man’s life.

Raiden Ziansin is his name — although not his given name. Born in Nagasaki in 1984. Nondescript life, smart child and baseball talent, at least through college.

The scenes whirl by like those from a scrapbook of an ordinary but satisfying childhood and young adult, until after an early fascination with history, especially Japanese lore and a preponderance of interest in the ‘Regalia’—ancient relics from a Goddess bestowed upon the lineage of Emperors from the beginning of history.

Drawing pictures of a teardrop-shaped gem in particular — the necklace of Amaterasu. Then drawings of structures that looked like temples from Nan Madol, an underwater reef, stingrays and a hastily-drawn sketch of an underwater domed city, and one tower in particular that was reminiscent of the Pharos Lighthouse.

Another jump, and Caleb’s mind was on its own tether, flinging itself to new coordinates at will.

A world of ice. Penguins on the shore where in the distance there’s a hazy silhouette of an ice rigger boat.

A lonely trail up a triangular, ice-covered mountainside.

A cavernous doorway, and inside…

Blue screen.

“Damn it.”

A man walks out. Bright red arctic fleece coat. Pulls back the woolen hood to reveal the same eyes of jade, flashing in the snow-fall. Eyes that are changed now, as if full of knowledge and most importantly — ripened with wisdom, as if they’d just seen sights and recaptured visions of countless lifetimes.

Another flash—and this same man, once the little league centerfield MVP of Tokyo, is now wearing all black, scaling a ceremonial temple hidden in a lush forest. Climbing the roof, pulling a silenced gun. He drops into a courtyard, shoots two guards and enters. Three more dead bodies, and he uses a keycard to deactivate laser security systems around a glass case in which a silver necklace — and the emerald gem — resides.

Flash—back to the tram and the tunnel system, which opens into a cavern, lit by the sun flashing through a hole above, and a rope ladder located nearby. Raiden adjusts the necklace, pauses as if sensing he’s being observed. Scans the area and almost locks eyes on this point of view when—

Caleb wakes with a start.

Not yet. Go back, that ice world. Antarctica…

Again, he sees the cavern entrance, locates its coordinates, if nothing else. He stares at the entrance, and for a moment, sees a progression of shadowy figures — leaders and power brokers by the looks of their security detail and their dress, entering and then leaving, shaken and yet… also brimming with some self-obtained knowledge.

Lingering, he sees further back, Nazis and submarines, American forces clashing, and then more men making the trek with older equipment. With ice-riggers and ropes and pulleys, and for just a moment his mind rips back through the ages, and the ice melts and the land shifts and the waters turn blue and the forests sprout over where the ice had been, and rivers and waterfalls meander amidst a version of…

“Paradise!”

Caleb’s eyes opened just as his phone rings.

Disoriented, he stared ahead at the tech, looking confused, the camera ready, light blinking. But he had moved ahead, passing Caleb his cell phone.

“For you, from your sister.”

“What?” Reality and time and place settled in uncomfortably.

“Just called. She’s fine at the plane, about to leave, but said you need to see this.”

“See what?”

The man shrugged. “Some viral broadcast. YouTube and Twitter and other places. Been going nuts the last fifteen minutes.”

He grabbed the phone, turned it landscape and, not seeing how anything could be more important now than his broadcast, he hit play…

And saw a familiar face.

And watched.

Mesmerized and thankful…