Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Read online

  Beckert cradles his chin, considering the power problem. Assuming the current draw is the same as Cadre One’s, he figures his HDI could produce a sufficient wattage. With more delicate tools, he splices lines onto the ribbon cable and fashions a wire harness for the open ends. He snips the incoming power lead and plugs the recharge lanyard of his HDI into the main bus. With a thought, he permits power to flow into the magnetic sensor pad. A tiny green diode on the pad’s corner illuminates.

  His goggles flare with code as his HDI connects with the sensor pad and explores. The pad recognizes the Geek as an authorized user, permitting him into the diagnostic/admin functions and displaying commands in his goggles.

  Maintain pass codes? the pad offers.

  Too easy, Beckert thinks with a smirk. He lists the codes and copies them. Closing the admin functions, he cycles all six pass codes in succession, and six individual clunks sound from the wall to his left. A perfectly concealed door recesses with a hiss and stops.

  The Geek disconnects, retracts his lanyards, and packs up his tools. Pistol in hand, he steps to the recessed portal. Apprehension and excitement vie for supremacy inside him as he pushes against the door. It swings stiffly, requiring constant pressure against the non-functioning motor assist, and he trains his weapon past the door’s edge.

  Darkness beyond defies the light gathering of his goggles, giving the space an indefinite dimension. He takes a tentative step in. The floor beneath him drops a millimeter and clicks.

  Sharp reflexes propel him back and to the side. He crouches beside the open portal, breathing fast. Dust flies from his sudden leap, tickling his sinuses with each rapid inhale. Stifling a sneeze, he waits.

  No sound.

  Beckert pulls a box from his pack frame and dumps the empty food wrappers. He lobs the box into the open doorway and listens.

  Nothing happens.

  Several moments pass before he gathers the nerve to move. He slides his goggles up to his forehead and flips them so the display side points outward. He thinks a bright white onto the lenses and peeks past the doorway. With the light from his goggles he can just make out a black-painted stairwell, nearly as steep as a ladder. Light sconces are embedded into the walls, dark and functionless.

  He searches around the doorway for booby traps. Not finding any, he collects the box and cautiously strides over the floor plate to the stairs. Every step is solid, yielding not so much as a groan under his ascent.

  The staircase switches back and at the top of the flight is a wide-open security door. Pistols aimed through the open doorway, Beckert creeps up the remaining stairs. Inside is a windowless, circular room with rings of work stations. A low dais occupies the room’s center, equipped with its own terminal and a high-backed chair. Flat screens cover the walls up to a high ceiling. The Geek glides through the doorway into the room.

  As he moves through the rings, he cannot understand why all of the terminals have been physically damaged. Some are smashed, others have foreign objects embedded in them. Most show some amount of burning. He stops at one terminal and removes a fire axe from the display. He stares bewildered at the axe head before tossing it aside.

  Why would anyone do this?

  His exploration produces nothing useful, so he returns to the stairwell and ascends.

  A high security pressure door bars access to the room on the next floor. Thick, motor-driven pistons seal the portal from all sides. He thumps his hand against the door, feeling its substantial strength.

  I’ll need Argo for this one.

  Beckert ascends again and arrives at a Spartan chamber, furnished only with simple concrete benches around the perimeter. At the center is a circular pool three meters across and devoid of water. Mummified fish lie at the bottom of the shallow pool like strips of leather with gaping mouths and eye sockets.

  Six evenly-spaced viewports are cut into the walls, filled with solid blocks of glass and covered by armored shutters. Time-worn gaps in the shutters allow thin beams of horizontal sunlight to pass. To the east, some of the shutters have dropped away, either from blasting or time. Beckert moves to an unblocked viewport and looks out at radiant orange and red clouds over a phenomenal expanse of water. His jaw drops with the beauty of it and he puts his hands up to the thick, pitted glass. Overwhelmed, he slumps onto one of the concrete benches.

  Such color…

  The Geek stares at the bright clouds until blue spots burn onto his retinas. Blinking, he turns away and rises from the bench. Nothing more to see, he returns to the stairwell and climbs the last flight. With his vision washed out by the brilliant sunset, the Geek’s outstretched fingers guide him more than his eyes.

  The stairs end at a short landing. Barring further progress is a simple, windowless bulkhead. Leaning close, he finds a horizontal lever mid-height, right side. Beside it, the familiar Cadre Hawk extends across the smooth metal, clutching twin globes in its talons. A pentagonal cluster of gold stars is centered above it.

  Beckert straightens to attention automatically. Routine and protocol are so engrained in him, he raps his fist against the bulkhead three times.

  Predictably, there is no answer.

  I’ll take your lack of objection as permission, General.

  Beckert grips the lever and thrusts it down. Metal scrapes harshly against metal, and the door screeches as it swings. His weapon flicks straight ahead and he follows it into the room.

  The air has a musty harshness which leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Nearly gagging, he breathes through his nostrils.

  Thin rays from a shuttered skylight offset the darkness, illuminating the front edge of a desk and two deep chairs placed opposite. At Beckert’s approach, black dust—fine as smoke—swirls in the light. It loiters in the air, coating his sinuses. He wishes for his helmet.

  Bright rays of natural light shrink his pupils, making the rest of the room difficult to see. He flips his goggles over and lowers them over his eyes. Compensating for the contrasts of bright and dim, the goggles reveal the room in all its dimensions.

  Circular walls enclose a large office space. Two couches rest against the wall to the right, with a low rectangular table dividing them. To the left, a sculpted hawk stares at him with yellow eyes. Matching gazes, Beckert strides to the wall-mounted statue.

  Every feather of the spread wings is carved in life-like detail. It seems as if frozen mid-swoop, legs thrust forward. Taloned feet clasp two spheres: one orange-red, one slightly smaller and bluish white. Fine dust hangs over all of the upper surfaces, yet the yellow eyes are unmarred. He would not be surprised if the statue shook itself off and flew away.

  Behind the off-center desk, four transparent cases form a row on the wall. The young operator moves toward them, then freezes, not breathing. Slumped over the desk is a desiccated corpse.

  Black dust blankets the corpse, camouflaging it with the desk top. Paper thin scraps of skin and wisps of hair cling to an eyeless skull. Shoulder and arm bones rest flat on the desk, leading to hands held together by brittle tendons. On the floor around the wheeled chair is a lumpy ring of dust with protruding ribs, vertebrae, and leg bones. A pelvis, wearing the shreds of trousers, remains seated.

  The Geek looks closer and finds a tattered collar still encircling the neck bones. Pinned to it is a cluster of pentagonal stars in untarnished gold.

  The General!

  From the five-star cluster, his eyes move to the small skull, turned on its side. He peers at it, amazed—this person could not have been taller than one and a half meters.

  How could such a tiny person lead?

  He scrutinizes the skull, finding a hole in the temple. The Geek’s eyes move to the bony hand. It still holds something.

  Beckert leans in and puffs away the powdery dust between the fingers. A stifling cloud billows from the desktop, and he recoils, fanning it away. There, beneath withered metacarpals, an ivory handle reflects the fading light.

  Beckert gently lifts the General’s hand. The tendons snap, and dr
y bones fall to the desk. He grimaces as if in pain.

  “Sorry, Sir.”

  Damage done, he takes the item from the desk and rubs it. Much of the tarnish falls away, revealing intricate engravings in the silvery metal. An elongated barrel extends from a rotating, six-chambered cylinder. Beneath the cylinder hangs a thin trigger, enclosed by a ring-like guard too small for Beckert’s armored finger. The overlapping letters G-S-P are carved into the grip, and on the other side, is a detailed carving of a perched eagle with wings spread.

  Again, he is confused. Clearly, this is some sort of hand gun, with grip, trigger, barrel, but such a small bore…delicate mechanics…the images engraved into it… What good could it have possibly been?

  He looks down the barrel, gauging the diameter. His eyes fall back to the skull and its temporal perforation. A match.

  There are no signs of combat or struggle around the room. He struggles to disbelieve the evidence, but a sickening revelation takes hold. Beckert drops the pistol to the desk where it thuds noisily.

  Why?

  Empty eye sockets offer no answer. The Geek’s goggles save photographic images for Argo and Thompson.

  Turning from the moldered bones, he faces the first in a row of plexi-glass cases. Black dust clings to the glass like sheer velvet. He sweeps it aside, finding plush red fabric inside. Propped above the bunched cloth is an elongated D-shaped item. The top and bottom curve to points which are connected by a taut cord. The tips are bright white and are carved in exquisite detail with rows of soldiers in overlapping plates of armor. Along the curvature of the object are alternating sections of cord wrappings and unintelligible inscriptions. Just below the midpoint is a narrowed grip.

  The polish, the craft, the careful preservation all suggest the item is highly valuable. Aside from its pleasing appearance, he sees no utility and dubious worth.

  Strange that anyone would keep such a thing.

  Determined to solve at least one mystery, Beckert inspects the rest of the case. At the back, he finds a painting of a man, very round in the middle, sitting in a wheeled cart. Long hair is tied up on his head, and he is draped in loose plates.

  The man is attended by others, similarly attired, who sit astride tall four-legged creatures with long heads. Many of the creatures appear impatient with a single hoof raised. One man holds patterned flags aloft.

  The group gazes down at a distant field where thousands of men plunge long poles and metal into one another. Many ride galloping creatures, looking backward from their saddles and drawing on the cords of these D-shaped devices. Barbed shafts lie across the drawn bows.

  “They’re killing each other!” he exclaims in disbelief.

  Beckert scours the painting for some sign of an alien enemy, but the vivid slashes and trails of red confirm human on human violence.

  Mind reeling and stomach turning, he forces himself to take it in, to photograph and store it in his HDI. Just before moving on, he notices the corner of an untarnished brass plaque on the wall above. He clears the dust with his thumb and reads.

  “Subutai, most renowned of Ghenghis Khan’s Dogs of War.

  This bow was discovered in the tomb of Subutai, wrapped in silk and placed atop the General’s body. It is unlikely the bow was ever used in combat, as Subutai was not a physical leader. Yet it was clearly treasured, as he carried it at all times.

  Such craftsmanship was rare in his time, and only someone of extravagant means could afford such work. This simple fact, along with the following translated inscription, suggests this bow was a gift from the Khan himself:

  My General, My Friend.”

  Many words in the plaque are unfamiliar to the young operator. The context is clear, however: this was the personal weapon of a general—a general who slaughtered his own kind—and was bestowed out of appreciation. Beckert grips his aching temples and squeezes.

  This makes no sense at all.

  The next case is the same width, though less tall. When he sweeps the dust aside he finds more of the bunched red cloth. Cradled above it is a bright, curved blade, over a meter long. Only the outer edge is sharpened, and the inner edge bears a channel most of its length. A perpendicular metal disc separates the grip from the blade and is inscribed with a peaceful scene of rocks, water, sunlight, and gnarled trees. A black bone, traced in white, runs the handle’s length to a golden pommel with twin silk tassels.

  Beckert’s eyes gape at such elegance. His eyes trace the polished metal, and he discovers subtle patterns cut into the blade. Even these cuts are polished, giving them the appearance of hovering above the mirrored finish.

  On the cradle’s lower rung rests a scabbard. Black lacquer coats its length from the silk cords at the top to the gold inlay disc at its base. A circle is stamped into the center of the disc with rays streaming out in all directions.

  Finally, something sensible, Beckert thinks. A good weapon up close.

  Like the previous case, there is a painting of a man inside. Unlike the chaos and barbarism of Subutai’s image, however, this image depicts a large man sitting peacefully. Angular black robes cover his shoulders, secured with a sash at his waist. His hair is neatly tied and bundled at the back of his head. Wispy facial hairs adorn his mouth and chin.

  The Geek looks closer and recognizes the weapon’s grip at the man’s waist. He finds the plaque above the case and rubs away the obscuring dust.

  “Minamoto-no-Yoritomo: Japan’s first Shogun.

  The term Shogun is an abbreviation of Sei-i Taishogun, meaning ‘Great General who has subdued the Eastern Barbarians’. Under Yoritomo, the term quickly came to mean de-facto ruler. After seizing power, he marginalized the aristocracy, reduced the Emperor to a figurehead, and made Samurai the ruling class.”

  Beckert looks back at the tranquil figure. Most of the words in the plaque elude his understanding, but this was clearly a man of action.

  Odd that he should look so relaxed…

  The next case is both shorter and wider than the last, appointed with the same red cloth. The object inside bears numerous scars, nicks, scrapes, and dents. The metal is dingy, unpolished, yellowed. At one end, a sharp point tapers into a long, double-sided blade. The blade grows widest at the midpoint then quickly rounds into a cylindrical sleeve. Several rivets are driven through the sleeve.

  Beckert shrinks back at such crudeness. It enjoys the same plush accommodations as the others, suggesting this battered, ugly thing is equally valued. He nearly passes by, when curiosity compels him to learn why such base metal should be worth preserving.

  The image inside the case is comprised of minute colored tiles, large sections of which are missing. On the left of the image, a young man with free brown hair, large eyes and nose, drives a long-headed animal into a formation of soldiers on the right. Soft armor covers the man’s chest, adorned with a fretting face. With one hand, the man holds a long spear which impales an opposing soldier.

  The image is no help at all, so he clears the plaque and reads.

  “Alexander the Great.

  Arguably the most successful military commander in history, Alexander of Macedon waged his campaign all the way from Greece to the banks of the Beas River in India.

  Already famous for his undoing of the Gordian Knot, Alexander achieved his greatest fame at Gaugamela. There, his army of 47,000 faced approximately 1,000,000 Persian soldiers. Outnumbered over twenty to one and meeting on a battlefield prepared by the Persian Commander, Darius, Alexander charged at the head of his own forces and broke Darius’s lines. Fearing for his life, Darius fled the battle, leaving his troops disorganized and uncommanded, where Alexander was able to crush them.

  This spearhead was Alexander’s personal weapon, and its marks attest to the many times he put himself in harm’s way. His boldness was tempered by practicality; and he insisted on keeping and maintaining this reliable weapon, rather than trade for something untested in battle, no matter its appeal.”

  When Beckert looks again at the spearhead, it
holds a latent beauty. His own pistols are battered, scarred, and extensively repaired. He trusts them implicitly, knowing they will function when he needs them. It is a wisdom he instantly identifies with, an insight possibly into Alexander’s success.

  The last case on the wall is open, its red fabric tattered and grungy. In the center is an empty cradle. At the back of the case is a black and white photograph. A stern-faced man in a polished metal helmet stands in knee-high black boots. His heavy, plain coat hangs to mid-thigh, gun belt strapped around it. A bright white pistol grip juts from the holster. The man’s eyes have a fearsome intensity.