The Atlantis Plague (The Origin Mystery 2)

Dorian turned to look at the man. He stood next to Dorian on what must have been the observation deck of a space ship. Dorian heard himself speak. “No. They may not be able to fix them in four thousand years. Make accommodations now.” He turned back to the window and the planet again. In the reflection of the glass, he saw himself, but the man who stared back wasn’t Dorian; it was the Atlantean—a younger version. He had a full head of white-golden hair, pulled back flat against his head.

The glass disappeared and the air and gravity changed. A bomb exploded in the distance, and Dorian realized he was in a large city. It wasn’t any city on Earth, he knew that instantly. Every building seemed to have a unique shape. They sparkled as if they had been created yesterday from some material he had never seen. They were connected by catwalks that crisscrossed the city like a spider web joining the sparkling crystals of a geode. Then one of the buildings collapsed and the skybridges connecting it to neighboring buildings tore free, like arms releasing, following a falling body. Another blast went off and another building fell.

The soldier beside Dorian cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Should we begin, sir?”

“No. Let it go for a while. Let’s show the world the type of people we’re fighting.”

Another blast went off, and the horizon faded to black as the clarity of space again came into focus. Now Dorian stood on a different observation deck—on a planet. No, a moon. He could see the planet on his right, but the view of space was far more impressive. A fleet of ships reached to the burning white star beyond. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The sight of the full fleet took his breath away. He felt the hair on his arms stand on end. A single thought dominated his mind: I have won.

Dorian tried to focus his vision, but the image slipped away, and he was somewhere else, on a planet again, walking down a long concrete path towards a giant monolithic structure. He walked alone, but crowds lined the path on each side, many elbowing and jostling to get a look at him. A woman and two men waited at the base of the stone monument just outside the dark opening. Dorian couldn’t quite read the inscription engraved above the entrance, but somehow he already knew what it said: “Here lies our last soldier.”

The woman stepped forward and spoke. “We have decided. You will walk the long road of eternity.”

Dorian knew the woman was playing for the camera, uttering the words for the historical record. She had betrayed him. “Every man deserves the right to die.”

“Legends never die.”

Dorian turned and, for a split second, considered running. This is how they would remember him, his final act. He walked into the tomb, past the stone façade, into the vessel. The shimmering gray walls reflected the beady lights that shone from the floor and ceiling. The last rays of sunlight receded from the tunnel behind him, and the lights inside the vast chamber adjusted. Rows of tubes stretched out into the distance as far as he could see. They were all empty. The first tube in the row slowly hissed open, and Dorian marched to it. So be it.

As quickly as the tube closed it was opening again, and Dorian was running out of the shrine. The sky was dark except for flashes all around him. He blinked, and then he stood in a deserted street of another spiderwebbed city. The blasts were far larger than the ones before. The entire city seemed to be coming down, and he saw ships descending from the sky.

Then he was in the vast chamber with the tubes again. They were all full now. He ran down the long corridor. He watched in horror as the Atlanteans, his people, awoke, screamed, stumbled out of the tubes, and died. The flow of people was endless. As soon as one died, a replacement body took shape in the tube, and the endless cycle of agony began again. Dorian raced to a control station and worked his fingers as the wisps of white and green light washed over his hand. He had to stop the resurrection sequence, had to end their purgatory. They could never wake up. But he could make them safe. He was a soldier. It was his job… his duty.

He stepped away from the control station and he was on the observation deck of a ship again. Below, a blue, green, and white globe floated into view. Earth. The skies were clear and the land below was untouched. No cities, no civilization. A blank canvas. A chance to start over.

He turned, and he was in the tombs again, but he wasn’t in the vast chamber that held the tubes. He stood in a smaller room with twelve tubes, all empty. He blinked and a body appeared in the center tube—a prehistoric man. He blinked again and another human ancestor appeared.

The room faded, and he was outside, at the top of a mountain. The view was distorted by the curve of glass—a helmet’s visor. He looked down. He was wearing an environmental suit similar to the one the Atlantean had given him, and he stood atop a metal chariot that floated just above the tree line.

The sun was high in the sky, and the forest below was green and dense, interrupted only by the rocky ledges that descended like steps to the valley below.

Along the ridges, cavemen clashed with wooden and stone tools. There were two species, Dorian could see that now. One species was smaller, but they had better tools. They descended in waves on their larger adversaries. They threw spears and communicated in rough guttural sounds, coordinating their raids.

The sun advanced and the valley filled with combatants. The war raged, and the carnage was near total. Blood flowed across the ground and stained the white and gray rocks. Dorian floated there on the chariot, watching, waiting.

Then the sun was setting over the valley, and just as quickly, it rose, and the valley was quiet. At the bottom, bodies were stacked so deep Dorian couldn’t see the ground. Flies swarmed the mass grave. Buzzards circled overhead. On the rocky ridges, the victorious humans stood holding spears and stone axes. They stared down silently, their bodies painted red and black with the remnants of the battle. A large human—the chief, Dorian thought—stepped forward and lit a torch. He spoke some words, or rough sounds, and tossed the torch into the valley below. Around the ridge, others followed suit, until the rain of fire into the valley ignited the underbrush, then the trees and the bodies.

Dorian smiled and activated the helmet’s recorder. “Subspecies 8472 shows a remarkable aptitude for organized warfare. They are the logical choice. Terminating other genetic lines.” For the first time, he felt hope, looking at the primitive, warlike species.

Smoke filled the valley, then slowly drifted upward, engulfing the forest and finally the ridge. The band of triumphant humans disappeared into the smoke as the black and white plumes rose, surrounding Dorian. The columns of smoke twisted around him and faded until the glass changed. Then the wisps of white and gray cleared and Dorian once again looked out of the tube at the vast chamber in Antarctica—the same vessel that had existed on the Atlantean home world. His thoughts were again his own, as was his body.