The Atlantis Gene (The Origin Mystery 1)

Rutger unloads the rage meant for me on the Moroccan foreman. He shouts at the poor man in French, and the dozen workers begin clearing the rubble from the blast.

It’s been almost four months since I first toured the site, since I first set foot in this strange room. In the first few months of digging, it became clear that the part of the structure they had found was an access tunnel at the bottom of the structure. It led to a door that was sealed — with some sort of technology beyond anything we could ever hope to break through. And we tried everything — fire, ice, explosives, chemicals. The Berbers on the work crew even performed some strange tribal ritual, possibly for their own sake. But it soon became clear that we weren’t getting through the door. Our theory is that it’s some sort of drainage tunnel or emergency evacuation route, sealed for who-knows-how-many thousands of years.

After some debate, the Immari Council — that’s Kane, Craig, and Lord Barton, my now father-in-law, decided we should move up the structure, into the area that contains the methane pockets. That’s slowed us down, but in the last several weeks we’ve uncovered signs that we’re reaching some sort of entrance. The smooth surface of the structure, some metal that’s harder than steel and makes almost no noise when you strike it, has begun to slope. A week ago we found steps.

The dust is clearing, and I see more steps. Rutger shouts for the men to work faster, as if this thing is going anywhere.

Beyond the dust behind me, I hear footfalls and see my assistant running. “Mr. Pierce. Your wife is at the office. She’s looking for you.”

“Rutger!” I yell. He turns. “I’m taking the truck. Don’t blast anything until I get back.”

“The hell I won’t! We’re close, Pierce.”

I grab the pack of blast caps and run to the car. “Drive me to the surface,” I say to my assistant.

Behind me, Rutger bellows out a tirade about my cowardice.

At the surface, I change quickly and scrub my hands. Before I can leave for the office, the telephone at the warehouse rings and the manager walks out. “Sorry, Mr. Pierce, she’s done and left.”

“What did they tell her?”

“Sorry sir, I don’t know.”

“Was she sick? Was she going to the hospital?”

The man shrugs apologetically. “I… I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t ask—”

I’m out the door and in the car before he can finish. I rush to the hospital, but she’s not there, and they haven’t seen her. From the hospital, the switchboard operator connects me to the newly installed phone at our residence. It rings ten times. The operator breaks on. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no answer—”

“Let it ring. I’ll wait.”

Five more rings. Three more, and our butler, Desmond, comes on. “Pierce residence, Desmond speaking.”

“Desmond, is Mrs. Pierce there?”

“Yes sir.”

I wait. “Well, put her on then,” I say, trying but failing to hide my nervousness.

“Of course, sir!” he says, embarrassed. He’s not used to the phone. It’s probably why it took him so long to answer.

Three minutes pass, and Desmond comes back on the line. “She’s in her room, sir. Shall I have Myrtle go in and see about her—”

“No. I’ll be there directly.” I hang up, run out of the hospital, and hop back in the car.

I order my assistant to drive faster and faster. We zoom recklessly through the streets of Gibraltar, forcing several carriages off the street and scattering shoppers and tourists at each turn.

When we arrive at home, I jump out, race up the stairs, throw open the doors, and storm through the foyer. Pain punches at my leg with every step, and I’m sweating profusely, but I plow on, driven by fear. I climb the grand staircase to the second floor, make a bee line for our bedroom, and enter without knocking.

Helena turns over, clearly surprised to see me. And surprised at the sight of me — sweat dripping from my forehead, the panting, the painful grimace. “Patrick?”

“Are you alright?” I say as I sit on the bed with her and brush the thick blankets back. I run my hand over her swollen stomach.

She sits up in the bed. “I could ask you the same thing. Of course I’m alright; why wouldn’t I be?”

“I thought you might have come because you, or there was a problem…” I exhale and the worry flows from my body. I scold her with my eyes. “The doctor said you should stay in bed.”

She slumps back into the pillows. “You try staying in bed for months on end—”

I smile at her as she realizes what she’s said.

“Sorry, but as I recall you weren’t all that good at it either.”

“No, you’re right, I wasn’t. I’m sorry I missed you; what is it?”

“What?”

“You came by the office?”

“Oh, yes. I wanted to see if you could slip out for lunch, but they told me you were already out.”

“Yes. A… problem down at the docks.” It’s the 100th time I’ve lied to Helena. It hasn’t gotten any easier, but the alternative is a lot worse.

“The perils of being a shipping magnate.” She smiles. “Well, maybe another day.”

“Maybe in a few weeks, when it will be three for lunch.”

“Three indeed. Or maybe four; I feel that big.”

“You don’t look it.”

“You’re a brilliant liar,” she says.

Brilliant liar isn’t the half of it.

Our revelry is interrupted by the sound of knocking in the next room. I turn my head.

“They’re measuring the drawing room and the parlor below,” Helena says.

We’ve already renovated for a nursery and enlarged three bedrooms for the children. I bought us a massive row house with a separate cottage for the house staff, and I can’t imagine what else we might need now.

“I thought we could build a dancing room, with a parquet floor, like the one in my parent’s house.”

Every man has limits. Helena can do whatever she wants to the house; that’s not the issue. “If we have a son?” I ask.

“Don’t worry.” She pats my hand. “I won’t subject your strong American son to the dull intricacies of English society dance. But we’re having a girl.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You know this?”

“I have a feeling.”