16: Clash of the Titans

The next few days were some of the best days of my life, spent revisiting all of the things I had been missing since I had been away from home. The very first thing I did was to take a visit to my favourite video theatre, where a couple of called in favours set Naomy and I up with a triple feature of our three favourite old-world movies. First was our favourite comedy, called 'Trains, Planes, and Automobiles', a humourous story about a middle-aged snob and a blabbering fat man taking a long, ridiculous trip home for some occasion called 'thanksgiving'. Next was a colourfully entertaining science-fiction romp called 'The Fifth Element', which took place sometime in the 24th century A.D. Of course, suspending disbelief is difficult when you already know how the future is going to turn out, but it was an entertaining bit of historical film-making that never failed to be fun. Lastly, we watched one of over fifty movies made involving a British secret-agent named James Bond. Unfortunately, the reclamation has yet to find any Bond films earlier than episode thirty, and the six people who played the character between thirty and fifty were such unbelievable over-actors that we could only stand to watch the last of the Bond films ever made. And we loved every minute of it.

Watching those movies together with Naomy was magical in a way that I hadn't experienced before. As simple friends we had developed a real love for twentieth-century films, especially the three I already mentioned. As... whatever we had become... it was something done to celebrate the love between the two of us for each other, and not just for the films. The time we spent together was truly the happiest time in my life, even, I thought with a lump of guilt in my throat, my time with Lara. Could I actually reclaim the happiness I had known in those days? Was I good enough for that? I knew the answer should be 'yes', and I contented myself in that, even if I had trouble feeling the truth of it. Despite my misguided misgivings, I found myself growing close to her in ways that shouldn't have been possible; she became almost a part of me, finishing my thoughts before I knew I had had them. What I missed, she picked up, where I fell short, she filled the gap. Something told me none of this was an accident. Perhaps I really was a part of some cosmic plan to save the world, and all the sacrifices made along the way were also made for a reason. Perhaps I would even find out some day.

I began reading again, voraciously, going through volume after volume of all sorts of fantasy, science-fiction, action/adventure, and pretty well anything else I could get my hands on. I looked at spirit-inspiring art, listened to all of my favourite old-world bands, and even a few I'd never heard of before. My mind, and my imagination began to open up again in ways I could scarcely remember, and I knew then that I was being prepared for something big, something that would require all of my facilities working together at peak performance.

Something was about to happen, and I needed to be back in my element, surrounded by stacks of manuscripts, data cards, and media recordings, searching through every bit for that one elusive pattern that would bring the entire thing into focus, to find the code that would reveal the questions to lead me through deciphering the answer. I needed back into my database, and I needed back in right now!

I had been praying once an hour for favour in the Curators' eyes, and quickly. And for the first time since I could remember, I actually had faith.

* * *

The clean sound of pleasant nothingness filled the air of the musical performance auditorium as Noal stepped onto the platform, a hard plastic carrying case in his hand. Putting the case down, he opened the locks, four all in a row, and flipped over the hinged lid to reveal the beautiful object encased in soft, velvety carpeting within. A smooth crimson sunburst finish, polished to a shine, accentuated its supple flamed maple body and supple curves, all topped with a gorgeously carved rosewood fingerboard and deluxe tuning pegs. He lifted his treasure out of its hard, plastic case and strummed the steel strings lovingly.

Few people in the world had working guitars, especially electric guitars, and those that did usually had badly rendered replicas of well-known old-world instruments. They looked bad, played bad, and sounded bad. But that was all there was. Or was it? Noal had always maintained that his own, personal guitar was just a particularly skillfully made replica, careful not to reveal the truth to anyone for fear of finding it gone missing some time. And that would be a travesty of the highest magnitude.

“So you still aren’t going to tell me who made that for you, are you?” asked Naomy, wryly. “I wouldn’t mind learning how to play something, myself, but all the instruments I’ve seen are in such poor shape,” she complained.

Noal checked the auditorium for possible eavesdroppers and looked Naomy square in the eyes, “Can you keep a secret?” Naomy nodded slowly. “Good, go shut the door, then.”

Naomy did as Noal had said, walked up onto the platform herself, as Noal was plugging a long cable from the guitar slung around his shoulder into a large amplifier to one side. “Alright, I’ll tell you who made this, but you’ve got to promise to keep it a secret so long as we both shall live, deal?”

Naomy chuckled, “Okay, okay – I’ll play along. I promise never to repeat this information to anyone, as long as we both shall live. So what’s the big secret, anyway?”

Noal motioned for her to come closer, then whispered, “It’s not a replica.”

“Not a replica?” Naomy practically shouted.

“Shh!” Noal silenced her with a horizontal knife-chop across his throat, “I said be quiet about it!”

“Sorry!” Naomy apologized, “But, are you serious?”

“Very serious! You wanted to know who made it, and the answer is the Gibson guitar company. Circa, about 2006, I think,” said Noal, proudly.

“Where on Earth did you get it?”

“Do you remember the excavation of old Seattle?” Naomy nodded. “I was one of the first people in there, and I happened to be assigned to catalogue what I discovered later to be a recording studio. Everything inside was trashed except for this single instrument. They called it a ‘Les Paul’ – named after the man who invented it, from what my records indicate.”

“And you just took it?” Naomy asked, incredulously.

“Not exactly,” Noal replied, “My team leader at the time had a claim left in his personal artifact allowance, and he took the guitar, much to my chagrin. A few minutes later we were suddenly surrounded by a pack of abby-cats that he had failed to flush out, for some reason. Anyway, one of them had him pinned down before I managed to slice my way through the rest of them and save his life. I was promoted to team leader myself after that, and he gave me the guitar in gratitude for saving his life.”

“That’s quite a story,” said Naomy.

“And over half of it’s true, too!” Noal laughed. It was all true, in fact. That team leader, a man named Bjorn Norskjer, had died later that year, leaving Noal the only person alive who knew about the Les Paul. Until now.

“Do you actually know how to play that thing?” Naomy teased, “You look kinda awkward up there.”

Noal’s brow furrowed as he clicked the power switch on his amplifier and began ripping up the stage with furious chord changes and growling rhythm treatments, playing a medley of old-world grunge, metal, industrial, and hard rock riffs, and filling up the room with a deceptively rich and busy sound. As he neared the apex of his performance to an audience of one, the power suddenly cut out as lights started to flicker all throughout the room, returning to normal a moment later.

“What the hell…?” he started to say. A resoundingly concussive BOOM echoed through the Codex, followed by another flickering of the lights. “…was that?”

“An earthquake, maybe?” Naomy asked.

“I don’t think so,” Noal replied, “We are near a fault-line, but that didn’t sound like any quake I’ve ever heard. That was an explosive charge, or I’m a gene-splice proto-monkey.”

Naomy looked toward the door, fearfully, as alarm klaxons began to ring through the complex. The calm, collected voice of Curator Ophilia came over the loudspeakers, with a edge to it that Noal had not heard before. “All reclamation directors and department chiefs attend the Curators’ Podium immediately!” it blared. “I repeat, all directors and chiefs to the Curators’ podium, immediately. This is not a drill!”

Noal already had his guitar packed up and stowed in a safe place, and was heading toward the door, hand outstretched to Naomy, “Come on!”

“But I’m not—“

“You’re with me! Hurry!” Noal insisted, pulling her out the door and toward the lift with him.

As they stepped out into the crowded Curator’s podium, another blast rumbled through the Codex, and another one after that. More directors and chiefs were filtering in from the lift, making the small podium positively crammed with people all asking for explanations.

“Engage defensive initiative prime – keep them out of our perimeter!” Ten was shouting through a comm panel to a technician in the tactical unit on ground level. Through the podium’s large windows, Noal and Naomy could see a mass of metallic objects gathering just beyond the Codex’s immediate perimeter, taking an aggressive incursion formation – an army? Why would an army come here?

“Do we know who it is?” Ophilia was trying to find out. Ten shook his head. “What could they possibly want from us? The tech-unions know that we have nothing they can gain from. Why attack us now?”

An array of steel barriers and fences began rising up from the ground around the perimeter, forming a defensive screen against incoming ground forces. It was designed as a precaution only, against independent raiders, mostly. The screen would not last long against a determined and organized attack, though, at least not any with a real force to back it up. At least the rumbling had ceased, for now.

“Is everyone here?” asked Ophi, forcing herself to sound and appear calm. Sal and Director Adison stumbled out of the lift, looking rather rumpled and more than a little bit sleepy, eliciting a nod from the Curators. “Alright, that’s everyone. Just to recap the events of the last few minutes: for the first time in over a hundred years, there is a hostile force gathering outside our home, apparently intending to gain access. They have neither identified themselves nor given us any terms. Do any of you have any clues as to what this is about?”

A murmur rose up amongst those in attendance, of confusion and uncertainty. Only one thing seemed certain: nobody had any clue as to who was banging on the door, nor why.

“Curators, I’m picking up a transmission from outside,” said an excited communication tech through the comm channel, “Patching it through, now!”

Everyone went instantly silent as loudspeakers filled the room with low static, in anticipation of the incoming communication.

“…is Field-Martial Commandant Burl Jantzen of the Raytheon militia, commanding battalion one of the Golan Arms Union forces. I am here under the express authority of Commodore-in-Chief Quentin Armistad.”

“The Golan Arms Union?” Ten threw up his hands in frustration, “We have nothing to do with weapons technology! What could they possibly want from—“

“It is not Commodore Armistad’s wish, nor my own, that your citizens, nor your operations as such, should be subject to any undue damage or destruction,” the transmission continued, “And your immunity from such shall be subject only to your compliance with our terms. You have five minutes to respond.”

Ten turned around furiously, punching his desk, “That's a polite way of saying 'do what we say or we'll kill you!” he exclaimed.

Ophi put up her hand for silence as she responded through the comm-panel. “I am Curator Delphi of the Codex Historical Reclamation, speaking on behalf of Curator Ten'quatha'an, and the rest of the leadership here. I feel it incumbent upon myself to inform you, Commandant, that despite whatever information you may have been given, we have not become acquainted with any form of weapons or defense technology that I can imagine would interest your tech-union. We remain a peaceful metro, dedicated only to the reclamation and preservation of history. If there is something with which we may assist you, to that end, I would be happy to consider it, however I must tell you that we find your armed presence here to be thoroughly distasteful.”

Commandant Jantzen responded immediately, “I am not here for your technology, Codex.” There was a long, static-filled pause, “You are to turn over to me your citizens Noal Silver, Naomy al-Amro, and Salvatore Vasko, along with all data brought with them pertaining to historical artifacts documented in or near New Babylon metro. If you do this, no further action will be taken on my behalf. You have my word on that.”

All eyes turned to the three whose names had been mentioned, confusion abounding in spades. “Just who exactly have you pissed off now, Sal?” shouted Director Adison, angry and frightened all at once.

“Hey, don't look at me!” said Sal, “It was Noal who found that vault, but why a tech-union would give a roach's ass, I don't know!”

“It seems you are on to something important after all, Chief Silver,” said Ophilia, coolly. “So you weren't exaggerating.”

Noal stepped forward, “Look, if it's me they want, I'll go, but they can't have Nae and Sal. They don't know anything about this anyway. But the data – my notes – I can't sanction giving those up; they're too important. I don't know why yet, but obviously Golan Arms seems to think so, too.”

“I would tend to agree you, Noal,” answered Ophilia, decisively, “And I am not willing to simply hand you over to a tech-union either. But this does leave us with a rather large dilemma, in the form of the combined armed forces of at least three major tech-metros, and probably more. There is a solution to this, of that I am sure. We just haven't seen it yet. I'd suggest you all start praying; things might become ugly around here rather quickly once I let our impolite visitor know what we think of his terms.”

Noal bowed respectfully, “Thank you Ophilia. I am in your debt.”

“If you wish to repay me, start thinking of a way out of this.” She turned to the comm-panel, thumbing the transmitter button. “Commandant Jantzen, we have come to a decision about your generous 'offer'.”

“I am listening,” came the response.

“It is not within my capacity, nor that of anyone else here in the Codex, to abandon one of our own into the hands of heartless tech-union trash. We will not be turning Chief Silver over to you, or any other tech-union war-monger, neither today, tomorrow, nor any other day. Therefore, it is within my authority to provide you with two options.

“The first, and preferable option, for all I am sure, is for you to leave, taking with you all your war machines and soldiers, and go back to the God-forsaken metro that you came from, immediately, with our pledge to tell no one of this attempted treachery against a peaceful metro, like the Codex.”

“And my second option, madam Curator?” came Jantzen's crackly voice over the loudspeaker.

“Destroy us, if you can,” Ophi dared, “For I assure you that our destruction will be the only satisfaction you or your Commodore-in-Chief will ever get out the Codex. By the time you are finished, there will be no one left to capture, and nothing left to plunder; we will burn it all, and die, before we let you get your grubby hands on one solitary item.”

The voice on the other end of the channel chuckled, darkly. “I had heard you Codex types were a spirited bunch,” said Jantzen, “And normally I could respect that. Unfortunately my orders are to bring in Silver alive, if possible. And if it is not possible, then I am to make sure nobody else can.”

“I see all sense of reason has vacated the tech-unions as of late,” Ophi responded, acidly, “But rest assured, Commandant, that the Codex shall force you to count the cost of your actions and weep, by the end of this, if you proceed.”

“Better you than my superiors, I’m afraid. I do hope your end is not too painful.”

The transmission ended as the hostile formation of enemy vehicles took up a blitzing posture, weapons locked and loaded. The defense screens would not hold up long, they all knew. Ophi got back on the comm-panel, this time directed within the Codex itself, to its residents.

“Citizens of our beautiful Codex,” she began, “A hostile invasion force has taken position outside our walls, with the intent to conquer or destroy everything that we have fought and worked for in the past one-hundred and thirty years. They attack our way of life, and they attack our lives themselves. I urge you to fight back! Prepare yourselves now, and defend your home, and its contents, at all costs! May God be with all of us in this dark hour.”

The roaring of engines over the ice-shell signaled the start of the enemy’s blitz toward the Codex’s outer walls. The sound of fired projectiles being deflected from the defensive screens followed, along with the concussive sound of shells exploding on the ground and against the screens. The shudder of rockets striking the walls of the Codex itself began to echo throughout, accompanied by a shaking and rumbling that threatened to tear the place apart.

“Everybody had better be praying,” muttered Ten, through clenched teeth.

The enemy assault vehicles looked likely to climb right over top of the screens at any minutes, when a series of secondary explosions began to rock through their lines, forcing them to turn aside and face a line of unidentified tank-like vehicles approaching from the flank. Someone was defending the Codex, but who, and why?

The comm-channel crackled to life with the low and monotone voice of the tanks’ commander, speaking to the Golan Arms forces. “This is General Ibrahim Al Masaleekh, Exshell mechanized division. I hereby lay claim to the custody of Noal Silver and all requisite information, in the name of the Amoco Collective. Stand down and cease all hostile action toward the Codex, and prepare to surrender custody to me, or I will destroy you.”

“It seems my capture is a foregone conclusion in their minds,” Noal commented.

Curator Ophi rounded on him, “What hornet’s nest have you been stirring up, boy?”

“I wish I knew!” Noal retorted, turning to watch the events unfolding around him.

The battle lines were being drawn, and the confrontation to claim the right to attack the Codex seemed about to begin when a third contingent appeared on the horizon, not waiting to give a warning before launching a barrage of ballistic missiles from a convoy of high-tech hovering battle-machines. Both Amoco and Golan scattered, re-forming their respective lines in a wary triangle of aggression with the incoming party, each group taking a strategic position around the Codex, none willing to make a move before the others.

“I see my presence has created something of an impasse,” said an oriental-accented voice from the unknown battalion. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Shinji Ito, Prime Analyst of Matsu-Sung Technology Union. I do not believe it necessary to point out that it would be extremely unwise for anyone to make a move out of turn at this juncture. We would certainly not appreciate such a gesture, and I am certain nobody would enjoy the requisite reprisals.”

“I must concur,” said Ibrahim's monotone voice in response, “May I suggest we all stand down and talk about this, rationally?”

“Just what exactly do you think we have to talk about, there, chief?” asked Jantzen over the comm-panel. “Golan Arms intends to have Silver in our custody one way or another. From where I'm sitting, it doesn't look like either of you have what it would take to stop me, either.”

The Amoco and Matsu-Sung groups joined formation together, collectively taking aim at the solitary Golan battalion. Ito's voice crackled over the air, “I believe the situation can be described thus: each one of us desires to make a clear path to take this Noal Silver into our respective care, and each of us is willing to do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening. If you attempt to engage the Codex, Amoco and I will destroy you. As you and I will destroy Amoco, and Amoco and yourself will destroy me, should any of us make such an attempt.

“Thus, as I have already said, we have reached an impasse.”

“I see your point,” Jantzen admitted, “But if you think Golan Arms is about to let you weasel your way into the place, you are in for a world of hurt.”

“So we sit here, with our guns aimed on each other, and do nothing for the time being yes?” Ibrahim commented. “Both of you be assured I will be watching you closely.”

“As will I,” said Ito.

Ophi turned off the comm-panel and turned to the others. “I have to wonder where they think we factor into all of this.”

“It would seem they have decided we are not worthy of their concern,” Ten pointed out, “I believe it would be in our best interest to prove them wrong.”

Ophi nodded to Noal, “Alright Chief Silver, our window of opportunity seems to have presented itself, and I am giving you your wish. The database is yours until the riddle of those artifacts is solved, or we are all dead. I want to know what these tech-unions believe it is that we have.”

Noal nodded, heading for the lift. “I'll start working my magic right away.”

Ophi nodded her approval, adding “I suggest you work your magic quickly, before no one is left to benefit from it.”