ONE

“Used to be some sort of military bunker, I think,” the short man said, leading another, much taller man down a spiral staircase.

They were deep underground, descending a shaft of smooth concrete. The stairwell appeared brand new, except for some dust and a few stains, but it was actually many thousands of years old. It had been constructed from immutable materials of a long-lost formulation, and was, until recently, sealed off from the world above.

A string of lights had been wrapped around the staircase’s center pole. Its bare bulbs blinded the men as they approached, then threw a shadow in their path when they were past. They had already descended hundreds of feet, and there was no end in sight.

“First time we’ve found anything military around here,” the short man continued. “First I’ve heard of anyone finding anything military.”

He was dressed in the plain brown habit of a monk, with a yellow rope around his waist. Yellow indicated his rank—prior—which was a lofty title for someone of such disreputable character. But the church found use for all nature of souls, and any organization of size required problem solvers for the less palatable aspects of their business. The prior had been christened Abraham at his consecration, after the great prophet Tonerit, but anyone who knew him called him Schnook.

“I apologize for the walk,” Schnook continued, grasping the center pole and stretching a bare foot across a missing step. The step had been cut away, leaving behind a jagged edge. “We only have one hoist, and we need it for the excavation.”

Schnook turned and offered his hand, but the other man, several feet taller, crossed the gap effortlessly.

This man had been sent to Schnook by Maestri Cravelli, to whom he had reportedly been introduced by the Archimandrite personally. Schnook hadn’t gotten much of a look at him. It had been late when they met, back on the surface, and the man all but blended with the night.

The man towered and bulged like he had been modeled after a mountain, and the fabric of his cloak was so dark that it erased the color around him. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that hid his face except for a pencil-thin mouth and a jutting chin. Schnook couldn’t see much to judge him by, and since he was leading him to the most valuable object ever found on this dismal planet, it took everything he had not to grill the man.

“I don’t mind the walk if you don’t,” Schnook said. His words echoed, unanswered, through the shaft, and he vowed to hold his tongue. He didn’t want such an important client to think him a pest. But, after a few more turns of the staircase, he forgot.

“I knew old man Kessler was onto something down here,” Schnook said. “That skinflint wouldn’t have been laying out for hired men without what he’s got a reason. I offered to partner with him, but he had no ears for it. Didn’t even invite me down for a peek. Can you believe that? Kessler called this his own private dig, no one else’s business. He even hired security.”

Schnook fell into a laughing fit, making a sound like he was trying to repress a sneeze.

The air grew heavy and cold as they continued into the depths. They descended five more turns before Schnook spoke again.

“What a knob,” he continued. “He shoulda known who ran security in these parts. And when I heard what he’d dug up, Lords! Rest in peace, Mr. Kessler, and know that we’re carrying on with your good work. And it is good. I don’t mean to get your expectations up, brother, but you’re not going to believe what we’ve got down here.”

“It is my hope not,” the tall man said, speaking for the first time. His voice was husky and dry, his accent foreign. Off-world, definitely, but unlike any Schnook had heard before.

“I wouldn’t waste your time,” the prior said, fiddling with the rope at his waist. But the tall man showed no irritation; he waved them onward with a gloved hand, the same hand he was using on the rail. His other hand was tucked inside his cloak, cradling something the size of a small animal.

They continued in silence, and after a few more turns, a dim light appeared in the darkness below. The shaft walls came to an end, and they descended into a dark void. Shortly thereafter, the spiral staircase was replaced by a makeshift one of bound plastic that bent and groaned beneath their feet. These stairs switched back and forth, then landed on a dirt floor. The air was dank and smelled of wet clay.

The monk led his client past piles of dirt twenty feet high, heading for the glow beyond. They turned along a smooth concrete wall, then passed through a low arch and entered a room with freestanding lights.

The lights were focused on a slab of stone—three feet thick and twelve square—that was suspended by a steel cable. The slab had been cut out of the floor, leaving a dark hole beneath. A half-dozen monks stood nearby, smoking.

“Brothers!” the prior called out.

The men extinguished their cigarettes, straightened their habits, and turned to face the newcomers. They each wore the white rope of a novice, but they were older than that rank implied. They had an air of brutality about them, as though they were gearing up for a fight.

“We have an important visitor, brothers,” Schnook said, pulling a light from its stand and motioning for his client to follow. “Let’s give him a peek at our little treasure.”

The men lined up against one side of the slab and shoved, opening a gap to the hole below. Schnook dropped to his knees and thrust the light inside.

“There it is,” he said, pointing at a gleam of metal.

The tall man squatted down beside him, taking the light and sweeping it across a disc-shaped object. He paused to inspect it in several places.

“It is damaged,” he said.

“Not damaged,” Schnook said, standing. “Cut. It’s too wide to fit up the shaft, so we had to divide it into three pieces. But it’ll fit back together well enough. We have top artisans, the best metalworkers on the planet. You won’t be able to see the seam with a microscope.”

“I am not interested in cosmetics.”

“This thing, this device, it doesn’t do anything,” Schnook said. “It was broken long before we found it. But that doesn’t change much. It’s still worth a lot of money. You’ll have no trouble selling it, if that’s your worry.”

“Despite your hasty actions,” the tall man said, straightening up, “it is still quite valuable.”

“Invaluable, one might even say,” Schnook said, starting in on his sales pitch. “We haven’t even thought up a price yet. Might be better just to auction it, see what the market will bear. I’m sure that once we get the word out—”

“You cannot get the word out,” the tall man said. “Just to know that this object exists will bring death to any man. This is a threat to your entire civilization.”

“Okay, well if you’re after a private sale, start strong is what I say. I’d even go so far as to suggest—hey!”

The tall man’s right arm emerged from his cloak. It was withered to the bone, with scars that ran from wrist to elbow. His pale hand clasped a metal scepter that was capped with a smoky-red orb.

“No reason to be hasty, brother,” Schnook said, raising his hands and retreating a step. “We’re just talking here.”

The tall man chanted coarse words in some unrecognizable language, and something began to spin inside the orb. The orb glowed and howled, trembling in the man’s hands. Schnook dove behind the slab as a jagged line of white shot from the scepter, striking one of the novices in the chest. The white chained his body to that of the next novice and then the next. The men inflated—their skin stretching tight—and then exploded. Ribs pierced their habits as their guts splashed out below. The beam suspended their bodies in place, and when it stopped, they collapsed to the floor. The stone slab swung back and forth, its wires creaking in the silence.

Schnook peered over the slab. He covered his horror with a fitful laugh. The tall man regarded him with curiosity.

“That’ll keep the payroll down,” Schnook said, attempting a casual tone.

The tall man raised his scepter. A shadow raced inside the red orb.

“Ah,” Schnook said, sighing with resignation. “If you would be so kind, sir?” He raised the dull aluminum medallion that hung from his neck—a circle cut through by a long, thin triangle.

The tall man nodded, lowering the scepter. Schnook knelt on the floor, pressed the medallion to his forehead, and whispered a prayer. He leaned back, moved his hand in a shoulder-width circle, and got back to his feet.

“I appreciate your magnanimity, sir,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to die without preparing for the transition.” He raised the symbol to his mouth and kissed it. He had something behind the medallion, made from slotted iron and the size of a clenched fist. When Schnook finished the kiss, he held a metal pin between his teeth.

“And more importantly,” he added, spitting out the pin, “I don’t much care to die alone.”

An explosion filled the room.

text ©2017 Brett James