The Kwajalein Atoll seemed like a small place from the sky, but now that they were on the ground, it felt massive. The main island wasn’t very wide but seemed to stretch on forever. There was evidence of old infrastructure everywhere – so, hopefully, what they were looking for would be here, and not on one of the outlying islands. The problem was they didn’t know what, exactly, they were looking for.
They explored for days, slowly zigzagging back and forth across the island from dawn until dusk, keeping a record of the relics they found – and there were relics everywhere. The broken pavement of roads that had long since given way to a new-growth forest. Stone foundations that had once supported buildings. Tumbled piles of rusted iron and worn steel.
They dined on fish and wild fowl, which were plentiful on the island, as were whimsically varied fruit trees that were clearly not indigenous. Most likely they had been cultivated in backyards, and were still here long after the homes and yards had gone.
“What if we don’t find anything?” Munira had asked early into their exploration.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said.
“There are no bridges,” she reminded him.
For the first few days – aside from the stubby defensive tower, which had sealed itself shut like some vertical sarcophagus – they had found little more than broken porcelain from old sinks and toilets, and plastic containers that would probably remain there unchanged until the sun went nova and devoured the inner planets. This place might be a mecca for archaeologists, but it brought the pair no closer to finding what they had come for.
Then, toward the end of the first week, they crested a berm to find a sand-covered expanse too geometric to be natural. Just a little bit of shallow digging revealed a layer of concrete so thick that barely anything had taken root in it. There was a sense of purpose to the place, although they couldn’t tell what that purpose might have been.
And there against the side of the berm, almost entirely hidden by vines, was a moss-covered doorway. The entrance to a bunker.
As they cleared the vines away, they found a security panel. Anything written or etched into it had been eroded away, but what remained told the only tale it needed to tell. The panel had an indentation that was the exact size and shape as the gem on a scythe ring.
“I’ve seen these before,” said Faraday. “In older scythe buildings, our rings would serve as entry keys. They actually used to have a purpose beyond granting immunity and looking impressive.”
He raised his fist and pressed his ring to the indentation. They could hear the mechanism unlatch, but it took the two of them to force the old doors open.
They had brought flashlights that had been among the scant supplies in the safety pod. Now they shined them into the musty darkness as they entered a corridor that angled downward at a steep slope.
The bunker, unlike the island, was untouched by time, save for a fine layer of dust. A single wall had cracked, and roots pushed forth like an ancient tentacled creature forcing slow entry, but other than that, the outside world remained outside.
Finally, the corridor opened into a space with multiple workstations. Old screens of antique computer consoles. It reminded Munira of the secret room beneath the Library of Congress where they had found the map that led them here. That place had been cluttered, but this one was left in perfect order. Chairs were pushed against desks, as if by a cleaning crew. A coffee mug from a place that bore the name of a Herman Melville character sat beside a workstation, as if waiting for someone to fill it. This place had not been abandoned in a hurry. In fact, it hadn’t been abandoned at all – it had been prepared.
And Munira couldn’t shake the uncanny feeling that whoever had left it this way over two hundred years ago knew they were coming.
An open response to His Excellency, High Blade Tenkamenin of SubSahara
I categorically refuse to honor your unethical and offensive restriction on MidMerican scythes. I will not now, nor ever, acknowledge the right of any High Blade to banish my scythes from any region.
As I’m sure your own parliamentarian will tell you, scythes have free reign to travel the world over, and can glean whomever they see fit, whenever, and wherever they see fit to do it.
Therefore, any restriction placed has no validity, and any region that joins SubSahara in this wretched endeavor shall see an influx of MidMerican scythes, if only to make my point. Be warned that any action taken against my scythes in your region will be responded to in kind, and swiftly.
Respectfully,
Honorable Robert Goddard, High Blade of MidMerica
4
Objects of Great Value
The first week of the Endura salvage had been all about mapping the wreckage and the expansive debris field.
“Here’s what we know,” Captain Soberanis told Scythe Possuelo, bringing up a holographic display. “The Island of the Enduring Heart sank right along the ridge of a subsea mountain range. It hit a peak on the way down, and split into three sections.” Jerico rotated the image. “Two segments came to rest on this plateau east of the ridge; the third dropped into a trench on the western side. And it’s all within a debris field that spans twenty-five nautical miles.”
“How long until we start bringing things up?” Possuelo asked.
“It’s a lot to explore and catalogue,” Jerico told him. “Maybe a month until we can begin. But a proper salvage is going to take years. Decades, even.”
Possuelo examined the image of the wreckage, perhaps studying what was left of the skyline, looking for familiar landmarks. Then he took it upon himself to rotate the map, and pointed to the section way down in the trench. “The map looks incomplete here. Why?”
“The depth. The treacherous terrain is making it difficult to map – but that can come later. We can begin with the debris field, and the sections that came to rest on the plateau.”
Possuelo waved his hand as if swatting at a gnat. “No. I’m more interested in this section in the trench.”
Jerico took a moment to study the scythe. The man had been affable and forthcoming thus far; perhaps there was enough trust between them now to gain some information Possuelo might not be willing to share with others.
“If there’s something specific you’re looking for, it would help if I knew.”
Possuelo took a moment before he answered. “The Amazonian scythedom is interested in the recovery of priceless artifacts. Those artifacts can be found in the ruins of the Museum of the Scythedom.”
“The enduring heart?” asked Jerico. “I’m sure the heart itself is long dead, and devoured.”
“It was in a protective case,” Possuelo told him. “Whatever remains of it should be preserved in a museum.” Then he added, “And there were other items.”
When it was clear that Possuelo was not going to reveal any more, Jerico said, “Understood. I’ll instruct the other crews that they can salvage the sections of the city on the higher plateau. But my team, and my team alone, will take on the wreckage in the trench.”
Possuelo relaxed a little bit. He took a moment to look at Jerico with what was either curiosity or admiration, or a little bit of both. “How old are you, really, Jeri?” he asked. “Your crew tells me you turned a corner before assuming command, which would put you at about twice your physical age … but you seem older. Wiser. I’m thinking that wasn’t the first corner you’ve turned.”