Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy (9 page)

“Here the Firsts just kill you,” Clay observed, chewing a mouthful of venison stew.

“Also true. But we’re all gonna have jobs where that’s the downside, right? That’s the whole point! And I’m good at this. I can really make a difference. Abacus said they have some people working on it, but honestly, doing it wrong could make things way worse. I’m hoping to talk to some of the people not just where I’m headed—which I hope is London, because I always wanted to go to London—but also in Paris and DC and wherever it was he said in the Netherlands. Try to make sure they aren’t leaving a trail or raising any alarm bells along the network. I’m the newest one here, so I should have the most up-to-date knowledge, right?” His eyes were shining with excitement, and he was chewing but not tasting his food.

Neahle leaned her head on his shoulder for a quick second then sat up. “Proud of you, cuz. And jealous. I don’t have any skills. I had a hard time cutting up onions for dinner!”

“Abacus says we’ll have a week or two of training, learning the tunnels, and going up top into Paris. You might find something you’re good at during that, but if nothing else, you’ll get to see Paris.” Marty smiled.

“I’d rather have gone on a study abroad, but I guess I can’t complain about seeing Paris, however it happens.”

“Did he say what the training would be like?” Clay asked.

“Um, yeah, sort of. Like I said, the layout of the tunnels. He said Vasco would take us through some safe portals. I don’t know if there’s some trick to using them, or what. And self defense training, guns, and, if you want to help hunt for meat, bow and arrow.”

Clay’s eyes lit up. “Awesome! I’ve done a little hunting with Bryan’s dad, deer and turkey and ducks. Okay, the duck hunting didn’t go very well. But I can shoot fairly well, and I’d love to use a bow.”

Neahle smiled. “Two down. Now, if I can just find my own thing, we’ll all be good.”

Chapter Eleven

V
asco stuck his torch in
the sconce next to the short dark tunnel and smiled. “So here’s your first excursion. It’s kind of like when you followed the ducks—you’ll go on a little bit in the tunnel and then it will change in some way you’re not quite sure how to describe. Then you’re somewhere else. This one is really stable. The older the tunnel, the more permanent the portal is.”

“Does that mean you could get stuck somewhere for good?” Neahle asked, horrified at the thought.

The older man shook his head. “No, although, to be honest, the first time it happened to me, I was afraid of just that. What we’ve discovered is that the location of the doorways is fixed. But if the tunnel system is new—say a subway system or an underground mall—it’s not always open. It may take a few days for it to come back. The longest we’ve had to wait so far is two weeks, in Crystal City, Virginia. That’s a part of DC with an enormous underground mall. There’s a second portal to DC, through some old sewer tunnels that are no longer in service, so we try to use those unless we need to be in the southern part of the city fast.”

“What happens if you can’t get back for two weeks?” Neahle asked.

“You just keep on with your mission. If you have a short assignment, say to deliver a message, and you can’t get back, the rebels or any of our people on the ground can put you to work. If you are participating in a long term operation you just get back to work and check the door every day. It always opens eventually.”

“Eventually. Great.” Neahle blew out a sigh.

Laughing, Vasco entered the tunnel, stooping over. “Watch your head, this one’s low!”

“Where are we going?” Marty asked.

“To one of the oldest tunnels we have—a city that was called Gadara in ancient times. It was part of the Decapolis in Jordan. It’s got an old Roman aqueduct that was originally about ninety-five kilometers long. Where we’re going, it’s only about four hundred meters long and not super exciting. Just a tunnel cut out of rock. There’s nothing in Gadara—or Umm Qais as they called it in modern times—anymore. It was eliminated. But it’s pretty, with hills and fields, and it’s not far from the Sea of Galilee. We’ve got a couple of bikes there so we can go down to the lake, maybe even a swim.”

“A swim!” Neahle said. Their bathing to date had been sponge baths from plastic buckets and one soak in a small reservoir. “That’s excellent!”

Moving forward, they quickly lost any light from the torch they’d left behind. Neahle had her right hand on the wall to keep her bearings; she realized that the rock had changed. Whereas the rock in the Paris tunnels was cool and always at least a little damp to the touch, the rock under her hand now was crumbly, dry, and slightly warm. She saw that there was dim light ahead. As her eyes adjusted, the walls looked no longer dark brown; they were now light grey. As the tunnel roof receded and she could stand upright, she looked around.

“Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Marty whispered.

They wound their way out of the ancient tunnel following Vasco, who had lit a new torch. The stone walls were roughly chiseled and Neahle learned quickly to tuck her arms tight to her sides to keep from being scraped.

“The Romans dug wells first, then chiseled through and connected them to each other in a line. In some places the aqueduct was two hundred and sixty feet deep,” Vasco told them as they aimed for a dim light ahead.

“How come there’s no water now?” Clay asked.

“The pipe started in Syria and ran above ground for about sixty or sixty-five kilometers to the cities of the Decapolis, then went underground. The swamp where it started has been dried up for centuries, and the pipe that was above ground was destroyed centuries ago, which is good for us.”

“It’d be a long way to swim,” Marty said.

“Here we go…” Vasco pushed aside a wall of dried shrubs and they found themselves standing in an access shaft. A stone retaining wall held a hillside at bay. The arched opening was still solid because of perfectly fitted stone. As they came out into the open, a flat expanse of green stretched out before them.

“Wow, that’s beautiful!” Neahle said, squinting in the bright light. They hadn’t seen the sun in a week; it felt marvelous on their skin but a little less marvelous to their eyes.

Little yellow flowers dotted the landscape and a line of short trees and shrubs marked the edge of a hill.

“So there’s nobody here anymore?” Marty asked.

Vasco shook his head. “No. Most of the Middle East was deemed Third World and was wiped out. There were a few cities saved, like Dubai, and, of course, the Firsts have their slave labor working the oil fields.”

“So this tunnel is kind of worthless then,” Clay said, walking forward and picking a long piece of grass. He stuck it between his teeth.

“It’s useful for vitamin D and general well being,” Vasco said. “You can’t live in the dark forever; you’ll get sick, not to mention depressed. We send everybody who’s not out on ops here at least once a month, in small groups. They bring picnics, swim in the lake, run in the fields, get some exercise. It’s good to realize that there is more to life than war. The good thing in all this mess, if there is one, is that the Firsts left so much empty land. Almost all of Africa, for instance, is uninhabited by people.”

“Can we go there?” Neahle asked. “I’ve always wanted to go to Africa!”

“We haven’t found a tunnel yet,” Vasco said. “I don’t think there were a lot of tunnels in Africa, and caves don’t count. It has to be manmade.”

They walked for a long time in silence, feeling the breeze through their hair and the sun on their skin. After a mile, Neahle spotted a homestead in the distance and pointed.

“There! Was that a farm?”

“Barely,” Vasco said. “They were subsistence farmers. We think they had a small plot of vegetables and probably sheep or goats. They also had two old motorcycles; we’ve gotten them up and running so we can get down to the Sea of Galilee.”

“Somebody’s a mechanic?” Clay asked. He was pretty good with machinery himself.

“Samson’s our main mechanic. We’ve got a couple of other younger guys who took shop or helped their dads in the back yard, but nobody’s as good as he is.” He noticed Clay’s interest in the bikes. “You a mechanic?”

“I was learning to be, before. I went to community college for a year. It was a two year program, so I guess I won’t finish…”

“Sounds like maybe we have your job figured out,” Vasco observed.

“I like to work with my hands, and if the engines are older, I won’t have any problems. The newer ones with computers and all, those were trickier.”

“We haven’t gotten any of those up and running, although we’ve stolen some from the Firsts and need to keep them running. Be sure to tell Samson when we get back; he’ll be very glad to have a partner!” Vasco led them down an overgrown path that had been, at some point in the distant past, lined with rocks painted white and blue.

Inside the barn were a lot of rusty equipment, an old cart, and the two motorcycles under a sheet. Vasco whipped the sheet off, filling the air with dust and sand. Everyone coughed. “Sorry! They get some fierce winds out here, and, as you can see, the walls aren’t very weatherproof.” The walls, in fact, were made of rough, warped planks of wood and many places had gaps ranging from one to three inches.

After topping off the fuel tanks from a red plastic gas can, Vasco screwed the caps back on and patted the seat. The black vinyl was cracked and had been mended with tape, but the tires were in good condition, with lots of tread.

“Fire it up!” he said to Clay. He straddled the other bike and cranked the engine. They turned over quickly and settled into a satisfying double growl. He motioned for Marty to climb on while Neahle climbed on behind her brother.

It was only a ten mile drive to the large lake, and they could see it growing as they came down out of the hills.

“We’re in Israel now,” Vasco yelled. Neahle peered around her brother’s broad back to check out the difference between the two nations. It all looked the same.

Soon they were parked along the shore of the bright blue lake. There was a narrow rim of coarse yellow sand where they stopped; they could see that some places were rimmed with bluffs, and others had a dark rocky shore. Taking off their shoes, they walked down to the water.

“Is it safe?” Neahle asked Vasco.

He shrugged. “Yeah, as safe as any untreated water and you’re good to swim, wade, whatever. No one’s gotten sick yet. There’s good fishing in here, too.”

“I know the story of Peter’s full nets,” Marty said. “But back in Jesus’ time they had boats.”

“I’ve got some poles stashed. You guys enjoy the beach; if anybody wants to fish, you can join me over there.” He pointed northwest towards a rocky outcropping. “We have good luck there, and Will’s all set for a fish fry back home.”

They watched the older man trudge off through the loose sand, his boot laces tied together and wrapped around his neck.

“This is pretty weird,” Marty said.

“You’re just now figuring that out?” Neahle asked.

“What I mean, specifically,” he said, glaring at his cousin, “is that we’re in Israel. We just crossed over from Jordan. And there’s no one, anywhere. Just us, fishing in the lake with old Uncle Vasco. All my life I’ve heard about Arabs killing Jews and the border problems and all that, and here we are, and… nothing. Just swimming and fishing like we’re on vacation.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Clay said. “I don’t think most of the world is like this.” He pulled off his shirt and threw it on the ground. “I’m going swimming, and then I’m going fishing, and I’m not going to think about Firsts and wars and mass murder and slaves until I have to.” He ran, barefoot and in his jeans, and dove into the water.

Chapter Twelve

T
he McClellands first excursion to
the surface in Paris started in the dead of night and was a totally different experience. Most of the locations had only one portal, but Paris had hundreds. Many came up through manholes in the street, but those were only used at great need. Typically, the outsiders entered the city under the boarded up Opera Garnier, where the largest reservoir of water was located, or through an ancient wine cellar that led to a long abandoned house on the northern edge of Paris.

Dressed in black from head to toe, the McClellands joined Samson, Hannah, Vasco, and a man they hadn’t met on a mission to bring supplies to rebels living a couple of miles. Displaced and hunted, the small band of ten had been holed up in a former grocery for almost two months, not daring to venture out.

“We’re bringing them food for the next few days,” Vasco said. “And we’re going to try to figure out from some of the other rebel groups if the pressure’s off. We call this little band the Northside group. When they first came together, they were way out in the northern suburbs. They haven’t had good luck… This is their fifth or sixth safe house.”