The Atlantis Gene (The Origin Mystery 1)

“And this tapestry was in the Ark?” Kate asked.

“No. Not even I know what was in the Ark. But it must have been real; stories of it survive to this day. And the story is very powerful. It has an incredibly powerful draw for anyone who hears it. It is one of many stories that rise out of the human psyche. We see it as truth, just as we recognize the various versions of the creation myth. These stories have always existed, and always will, inside our own minds.”

“What happened to the tribe?”

“They dedicated themselves to finding the truth of the tapestry, to understanding the antediluvian — the pre-flood — world, to discovering what happened. One group thought the answers lie in the human mind, in understanding our existence through reflection and self-examination. They became the mountain monks, the Immaru, the Light. I am the last of the Immaru. But some of the monks grew restless. They sought their answers in the world. Like us, they were a group of faith, at least at first. As time passed and they journeyed on, they slowly lost their religion, literally. They turned to a new hope for answers: science. They were tired of myths and allegories. They wanted proof. And they began to find it, but they paid a high price for it. Science lacks something very important that religion provides: a moral code. Survival of the fittest is a scientific fact, but it is a cruel ethic; the way of beasts, not a civilized society. Laws can only take us so far, and they must be based upon something — a shared moral code that rises from something. As that moral foundation recedes, so will society’s values.”

“I don’t think a person has to be religious to be moral. I’m a scientist, and I’m not… terribly religious… but I’m, or I think I’m a pretty moral person.”

“You’re also much smarter and more empathetic than the vast majority of people. But they will catch up to you someday, and the world will live in peace, without the need for allegories or moral lessons. I fear that day is further away than anyone believes. I speak of the state of things today, of the masses, not the minority. But I shouldn’t be speaking of any of it. I’m preaching about subjects of interest to me, as old men often do, especially lonely ones. You’ve no doubt guessed the identity of the monks who left so long ago.”

“The Immari.”

Qian nodded. “We believe that around the time of the Greeks, the monks changed their name to The Immari, perhaps to sound more Greek, so they might be accepted by the Greek scholars who were making so many breakthroughs in this emerging field of science. The true tragedy, and the truth of how that faction changed forever, is chronicled in the journal. And that’s why you must read.”

“What about the rest of the tapestry? The other two floods?”

“Those are events yet to come.”

Kate studied the other half of the tapestry. The Flood of Blood showed a group of supermen slaughtering lesser beings. The tapestry was covered in the crimson blood. Below it, a hero battles a powerful monster, killing it and rising into heaven, where he unleashes a Flood of Light, bathing the world and liberating it, including the oppressed. Taken in whole, the tapestry moved from black and grays of the Flood of Fire to the blues and greens of the Flood of Water to the red and crimson of the Flood of Blood to the white and yellow of the Flood of Light. It was truly beautiful, captivating.

Qian interrupted her concentration. “And now I must rest. And you must do your homework, Dr. Warner.”

CHAPTER 70

Main Conference Room

Clocktower HQ

New Delhi, India

Dorian held his hand up to stop the analyst. “What the hell is a ‘Barnaby Prendergast Report’?”

The 30-something man looked confused. “It’s the report from Barnaby Prendergast.”

Dorian glanced around the conference room at the assembled Clocktower and Immari Security personnel. The now-integrated staff were still adjusting to the formal Immari-Clocktower union, and it was slowing the meeting down as roles and jurisdiction were settled. “Can someone please tell me what Barnaby Prendergast is?”

“Oh, that’s his name — Barnaby Prendergast,” the analyst said.

“Seriously? Did we give him that name— actually, don’t tell me, I don’t care. He said what? Start over.”

The analyst flipped a few stapled pages over. “Prendergast is one of about 20 staffers still on-site.”

“Was on-site.” Dorian corrected.

The analyst cocked his head. “Well technically he is, or his dead body is on-site.”

“Jesus Christ, just give me the f**king report.”

The analyst swallowed. “Right, uh, before the drone strike, he, Prendergast, said an unidentified female, his words here, ‘accosted him outside his lab and coerced him into aiding her in what she claimed was a rescue of some children.’” The analyst flipped another page. “He goes on to say he ‘tried to stop her’ and that he ‘believed she was using a fake or stolen ID card.’ Also, here’s the kicker, he also says she ran out after the attacks, quote, ‘covered in blood but unharmed,’ and that she ‘attacked him again, stopped him from rescuing workers,’ blah, blah, blah, and then she ‘took a security guard’s gun,’ ‘tried to shoot him,’ Prendergast that is, then got on the cargo train with a dying accomplice, who Prendergast said had been shot multiple times.”

Dorian leaned back in the chair and stared at the bank of screens. Kate Warner had survived the Bell. How? Reed was likely dead; Dorian had practically turned the fool into a block of Swiss cheese.

The man cleared his throat. “Sir, should we disregard? You think it’s bullshit, maybe the guy was playing for the spotlight?”

“No, I don’t.” Dorian bit into one of his nails. “It’s too f**king elaborate to be made up. Wait, why do you say ‘playing for the spotlight’?”

“Prendergast made a call to the BBC right before the strike; that’s how we got the report. We were monitoring all the communications in and out of the facility since the… accident. We have him on our list to discredit; his story threatens Immari’s earlier industrial accident press release. So—”

“Ok, stop. Stop right there. One thing at a time. Let’s focus here.” Dorian swiveled his chair to face Dr. Chang, who sat in the corner, staring at the conference room’s cheap carpet. “Chang. Pay attention.”

Dr. Chang sat up as if the teacher had called on him. The man had been frazzled and absent since the blast in China. “Yes. I’m here.”