Dorian tried to speak, but he couldn’t fill his lungs enough. He emitted a scratchy sound and closed his eyes. There was a little more air. He opened his eyes. “What… do you want?”
“I want what you want, Dorian. I want you to save the human race from extinction.”
Dorian squinted at him.
“We’re not what you think we are, Dorian. We would never harm you, the same way a parent would never harm their child.” He nodded. “It’s true. We created you.”
“Bullshit,” Dorian spat at him.
The Atlantean shook his head. “The human genome is far more complex than you currently know. We had a lot of trouble with your language function. Clearly we still have some work to do.”
Dorian was starting to breathe normally now, and he sat up. What did the Atlantean want? Why the charade? He clearly controlled the ship. What could he possibly need Dorian for?
The Atlantean answered him as if Dorian had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Don’t worry about what I want.” On the other side of the room, the heavy doors slid open. “Follow me.”
Dorian got to his feet and thought for a moment. What choice do I have? He can kill me anytime he wants. I’ll play this charade out, wait for an opening.
The Atlantean spoke as he led Dorian down another dimly lit gray-metal corridor. “You amaze me, Dorian. You’re intelligent, yet your hate and fear control you. I mean, think about it logically: we came here on a spaceship that employs concepts in physics your race hasn’t even discovered. You putt around this tiny planet in painted aluminum cans that burn the liquefied remains of ancient reptiles. Do you honestly think you could beat us in a fight?”
Dorian’s mind went to the three hundred nuclear warheads aligned around the outside of the ship.
The Atlantean turned to him. “You think we don’t know what a nuclear bomb is? We were splitting the atom before you were splitting firewood. This ship could withstand the force of every nuclear warhead on this planet. You would do nothing but melt the ice on this continent, flood the world, and end your civilization. Be rational, Dorian. If we wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. You would have been dead tens of thousands of years ago. But we saved you, and we’ve been guiding you ever since.”
The Atlantean had to be lying. Was he trying to talk Dorian out of attacking?
The Atlantean smiled. “And still you don’t believe. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. We programmed you this way—to survive, even to attack any threat to your survival.”
Dorian ignored him. He held his arm out, stepped closer, and ran his hand through the Atlantean. “You’re not here.”
“No, I’m not. What you see is my avatar.”
Dorian looked around. For the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope. “Where are you?”
“We’ll get to that.”
A door slid open, and the Atlantean walked inside.
Dorian surveyed the small room. It looked like a walk-in-closet with a post-apocalyptic theme. Two environmental suits hung on the wall and a shiny silver briefcase sat on the bench below them. His mind began working on an escape plan. He’s not here. He’s a projection. Can I disable him?
“I told you we could do this the easy way or the hard way, Dorian. I’m letting you go. Now put the suit on.”
Dorian eyed the suit, then scanned the room, desperately searching for anything he could use. The door slammed shut, and Dorian felt the air draining. He reached for the suit and began putting it on. In his mind, a plan formed. He took the helmet under his right arm, and the Atlantean motioned to the silver case.
“Take the case.”
Dorian glanced at it.
“What—”
“We’re done talking, Dorian. Take the case and don’t open it. No matter what happens, do not open the case.”
Dorian took the case and followed the Atlantean out of the room and down the corridors, back to the open space where the dead bodies lay. The sliding doors that had slammed shut were open now, and the vast tomb spread out before him. Dorian eyed the open tube David had exited. Both he and Dorian had… “resurrected” in the tubes after their deaths. Would David return again? If so, that could spell trouble. Dorian motioned to David’s empty tube. “What about—”
“I’ve taken care of him. He won’t be back.”
Another thought occurred to Dorian: the time difference. His father had been down here eighty-seven years, but on the inside, only eighty-seven days had passed. The Bell at the perimeter formed a time dilation bubble. One day inside was a year outside. What year would it be out there? How long had he been in the tube? “What year—”