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.
A new body. Another one.
The Atlantean stood there, watching him placidly. Dorian studied him, his face, the white shock of hair on his head. It had been him on the ship, in the dream. Or was it a dream?
The tube opened, and Dorian stepped out.
CHAPTER 27
Two Miles Below Immari Operations Base Prism