Chapter 65 - The Monolith Protocol
"We don't leave her," I said. My voice was completely steady now, the panic burning away, replaced by an icy, unnatural clarity.
Arthur looked at me for a long moment, then nodded once. "Grab her arms. I've got her legs."
We carried Evelyn down the final corridor, her boots dragging across the cold concrete, her head lolling against my shoulder. The distant thud of heavy boots echoed behind us; the remaining Praetorians were regrouping, closing the net.
The blast doors at the end of the hall were ten feet of solid cast titanium, cold to the touch, framed by massive hydraulic rams that looked capable of withstanding a tactical nuclear ground-burst. In the center of the right door was a recessed brass plate, etched with the same triple-ring insignia that was stamped on the elevator.
Beside the plate, an antique optical scanner hummed with a pale, ultraviolet beam.
"Arthur Vance," the mechanical voice of the PA system chimed, though this time it sounded closer, piped through directional speakers directly above the vault door. *"You have delivered the asset. Step back from the terminal, and your termination will be painless."*
"Go to hell, Sterling," Arthur snarled, raising his middle finger to the overhead camera.
"Julian," Arthur turned to me, his breath coming in ragged wheezes. "Place your right hand on the brass. Look directly into the ultraviolet prism. Do not blink."
I laid Evelyn gently against the bulkhead wall. Her fingers weakly clutched at my sleeve, her lips blue, trying to form words she didn't have the breath to finish.
"I've got you," I whispered to her.
I stepped up to the massive titanium door. The brass plate was ice-cold. When I laid my palm flat against the metal, a series of tiny, razor-sharp needles bit into the skin of my fingers—not to cause pain, but to draw capillary blood.
*CHIRP.*
The ultraviolet light flared, blinding my right eye.
A heavy, industrial computer voice, completely distinct from Sterling's transmission, boomed through the corridor from deep within the walls:
`BIOMETRIC CONFIRMED.`
`GENETIC MARKER: ARCHON-7.`
`SUBJECT: JULIAN VANCE.`
`RESTRICTED ACCESS GRANTED. COMMENCING FULL SYSTEM RESTORATION.`
The mountain shook.
A pneumatic release vented thousands of pounds of compressed air with a deafening roar that blew the dust from the ceiling rafters. The massive titanium doors unlocked with the sound of a train coupling, slowly sliding apart on greased tracks to reveal the inner sanctum of the Cradle.
The interior was not a ruin.
It was a pristine, circular command theater, gleaming with brushed steel, illuminated by soft amber lighting, completely isolated from the rot and decay of the world above. In the center of the room sat a massive, spherical terminal surrounded by liquid-cooled processor banks that hummed with quiet, terrifying power.
And standing beside the central console, leaning heavily on an ornate black cane, was a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit.
May you like
He looked no older than fifty, his silver hair neatly combed, his dark eyes fixed entirely on me.
"Welcome home, nephew," the man said with a cold, elegant smile. "You look remarkably like your grandfather... before he became a thief."
