Cradle Of Destiny

“Grant’s brain is fractured,” Kane said.

“More like his consciousness is spread over two levels. Like a shadow cast on an uneven surface,” Brigid told him. “Here, he’s a ghost. Pure ego.”

“And in the past, his body is running around with…what?” Kane asked.

“A good vocabulary, but not much memory, going by our encounters with him,” Brigid explained.

“So Grant’s not operating at his best,” Kane said.

He could read his own face reflected in Brigid’s concerned features.

“We’ll find him. We’ll bring him home and make him whole again,” Brigid told him.

Kane squeezed his eyes shut, then looked down at the darkened pit, where weak, helpless moans rose. He didn’t want to think of what horrors Grant had to face five millennia in the past.

The present life of men on earth, O king, as compared with the whole length of time which is unknowable to us, seems to me to be like this: as if, when you are sitting at dinner with your chiefs and ministers in wintertime…one of the sparrows from outside flew very quickly through the hall; as if it came in one door and soon went out through another. In that actual time it is indoors it is not touched by the winter’s storm; but yet the tiny period of calm is over in a moment, and having come out of the winter it soon returns to the winter and slips out of your sight. Man’s life appears to be more or less like this; and of what may follow it, or what preceded it, we are absolutely ignorant.

—The Venerable Bede

c. 673–735

The Road to Outlands— From Secret Government Files to the Future

Almost two hundred years after the global holocaust, Kane, a former Magistrate of Cobaltville, often thought the world had been lucky to survive at all after a nuclear device detonated in the Russian embassy in Washington, D.C. The aftermath—forever known as skydark—reshaped continents and turned civilization into ashes.

Nearly depopulated, America became the Deathlands—poisoned by radiation, home to chaos and mutated life forms. Feudal rule reappeared in the form of baronies, while remote outposts clung to a brutish existence.

What eventually helped shape this wasteland were the redoubts, the secret preholocaust military installations with stores of weapons, and the home of gateways, the locational matter-transfer facilities. Some of the redoubts hid clues that had once fed wild theories of government cover-ups and alien visitations.

Rearmed from redoubt stockpiles, the barons consolidated their power and reclaimed technology for the villes. Their power, supported by some invisible authority, extended beyond their fortified walls to what was now called the Outlands. It was here that the rootstock of humanity survived, living with hellzones and chemical storms, hounded by Magistrates.

In the villes, rigid laws were enforced—to atone for the sins of the past and prepare the way for a better future. That was the barons’ public credo and their right-to-rule.

Kane, along with friend and fellow Magistrate Grant, had upheld that claim until a fateful Outlands expedition. A displaced piece of technology…a question to a keeper of the archives…a vague clue about alien masters—and their world shifted radically. Suddenly, Brigid Baptiste, the archivist, faced summary execution, and Grant a quick termination. For Kane there was forgiveness if he pledged his unquestioning allegiance to Baron Cobalt and his unknown masters and abandoned his friends.

But that allegiance would make him support a mysterious and alien power and deny loyalty and friends. Then what else was there?

Kane had been brought up solely to serve the ville. Brigid’s only link with her family was her mother’s red-gold hair, green eyes and supple form. Grant’s clues to his lineage were his ebony skin and powerful physique. But Domi, she of the white hair, was an Outlander pressed into sexual servitude in Cobaltville. She at least knew her roots and was a reminder to the exiles that the outcasts belonged in the human family.

Parents, friends, community—the very rootedness of humanity was denied. With no continuity, there was no forward momentum to the future. And that was the crux—when Kane began to wonder if there was a future.

For Kane, it wouldn’t do. So the only way was out—way, way out.

After their escape, they found shelter at the forgotten Cerberus redoubt headed by Lakesh, a scientist, Cobaltville’s head archivist, and secret opponent of the barons.

With their past turned into a lie, their future threatened, only one thing was left to give meaning to the outcasts. The hunger for freedom, the will to resist the hostile influences. And perhaps, by opposing, end them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Prologue

Were his face capable of showing more than just the crudest replication of human expression, Ullikummis’s features would have been cast in a brooding, troubled scowl. He had come to Earth in an effort to usurp this fragile blue globe from the talons of Enlil and his brethren, only to find himself dealing with humanity itself. What had most troubled the godling was a face that he had encountered millennia ago, before his banishment.

The one whom he knew by the name of Enkidu, the warrior who had pummeled one of his thralls into unconsciousness, lived in this time as a man called Grant. The last time Ullikummis had seen him was when he was still a child, in the court of his half brother, Humbaba….

As a boy of eight, Ullikummis was already different from his fellow Annunaki. He was larger and stronger than those his age, and the early buds of stone that would form his famous invulnerable hide were mottled discolorations on his scales. As he walked with his mother in his half brother’s court, the beautiful alien rulers of Earth cringed at the sight of him.

Ullikummis knew he was a freak, but his mother told him of the glories that would be bestowed upon him at the hand of Enlil. As it was, the young Annunaki covered his distortions beneath his cloak, glaring from the shadows of a hood at those who knew not the beauty of raw power that had been cooed in his ear by Ninlil, his mother.

“Your half brother, Ullikummis, and his mother, Ninlil,” spoke one of Humbaba’s reptilian Igigi slaves, introducing the pair.

The master of the court of Urudug cast his cold amber eyes to his kin, taking in his height, taller than many of the reptilian slave folk who worked in Humbaba’s court, whose flesh resembled a dried clay tablet, stony with a cracked and pocked surface. Humbaba’s mouth, catlike in nature with a deep cleft, the upper lip dimpled with the bases of several undulating, tentaclelike whiskers underneath a black triangular nose, turned up in a semblance of a smirk, or as close as the feline giant could manage. It was an ironic grin as he recognized his father’s tinkering with the Annunaki perfection.

Humbaba himself was a cast of the die thrown by Enlil. Where the child before him, growing plates of granitelike skin, was obviously an effort at recasting Annunaki genes in a silicon-based life form, Humbaba was combined with one of the races discovered in northern Africa, the Anhur. Conquered by Enlil’s armies, the lion folk had impressed their mutual father enough to warrant experimentation. Though Anhur had been all but scourged from Earth, Enlil had saved a bride from the feline colonists as an experiment to relieve his boredom, curiosity and lust.

The result was nine feet and four hundred pounds of rippling, coiled muscle sheathed in a blend of golden fur and glimmering scales along his chest, belly, arms and legs. Humbaba had proved his might in single and multiple combat with Nephilim and Igigi, showing his might as a match for any five of those servitor beings. Humbaba mused over Ullikummis and what kind of beast he would be in adulthood.

He was tempted to throw the brat before his new prize, but Humbaba didn’t want to waste his slave or incur the ire of his father, depending on who won their conflict. Even under Shamhat’s influence, Humbaba was not certain the man-beast would accept orders. Enkidu had arrived, unable to speak the language of the apekin the Annunaki ruled over, not a problem with the mental abilities of the overlords. Telepathic communication enabled Enkidu to understand their words, even though the wild man’s brain was a scramble of disjointed information, making it nearly impossible to know his origin. All they could tell was that he was human, and he bore technology far beyond the simple tools that the apekin had developed.

The cloak he wore, the weapon strapped to his arm, even the small implant put subcutaneously on his mandible, were materials either thousands of years distant for humankind, or inspired by the technological genius of the Annunaki and their slaves. The cloak and weapon hung on a pillar, not far from the bound giant. His skin was shades lighter than the ebony of the natives of the continent of Africa, indicating that somewhere along the course of his family, the blood of Europeans and Asians had mixed into his genes. He was a melting pot of all manner of humanity’s strengths—that much was apparent from Humbaba’s gene crafters. They had even seen some of the hand of such gene tampering in the protein strings that decided his form.

His musculature had only improved in the time since he had first appeared, and his will was still strong, despite the brainwashing techniques of Shamhat, the finest of Humbaba’s scientists. That iron determination not to be dominated and the odd scrambling that had stripped Enkidu of his identity had stopped them cold.

“Do you like my man-bull?” Humbaba asked his half brother.

“He’s…impressive,” Ullikummis replied. As tall as the young Annunaki was, this was the first human who towered over him. Dark eyes blazed with rage and defiance, a fire inside that was not quenched. “How long have you had him?”

Humbaba frowned. “Not long enough.”

“He hasn’t been broken,” the son of Enlil said. “I repeat…how long have you had him?”

“Four months.” Humbaba sighed with resignation.

Ullikummis looked at the chains wound around Enkidu’s wrists. Shoulders swelled like melons, his forearms corded so tightly that the veins stood out on them. He was straining against secondary orichalcum, one of the strongest alloys developed by the Annunaki. “He’s that strong?”

“He could not burst the links on the steel chain we put him in,” Humbaba said. “But he used those bonds to crush the throats and break the necks of four Nephilim.”

Ullikummis tilted his head.

“He’s just a human,” Humbaba said.

Ullikummis narrowed his eyes.

Humbaba didn’t sound quite so convinced of his superiority as the chained apekin stood. This was not a beast who railed savagely against his captivity. This one quietly flexed, his muscles struggling to find a single weakness in his bonds, all the while watching for the opportunity to get the upper hand.

Either Humbaba and Shamhat would break him, or this giant among humans would see their downfall.

It would be worse should Enkidu remember his true name.

The man who would be known as Grant five thousand years from now bided his time, waiting for his chance to break free, to find out who he truly was, and return to where he knew the language and the people.

Chapter 1

When Grant’s eyes fluttered open, consciousness seizing him once more, the first thing he saw was the tanned, soft shoulder of Shizuka. The beautiful, black-haired woman breathed deeply in the peace of sleeping bliss. The jet-black silk of her hair poured over his right biceps and her back pressed against his barrel-like chest, while his left forearm rested in the saddle formed by the curve of her waist between her rib cage and one sleek, muscular hip. Nothing separated their bodies save for a thin sheen of perspiration. The only other things that touched them were the cool predawn air, the futon mat they lay upon and a thin sheet of slick gossamer cloth.

Shizuka was entwined with him, her supple form spooned against his, and Grant let the heaviness of his eyelids drag themselves closed. He didn’t want to disentangle himself from the Japanese goddess, her cheek lying on his muscle, using it as a pillow. He allowed himself a small smile, enjoying the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin.

For all intents and purposes, Grant and Shizuka were man and wife, one heart that had been repaired when the warriors of Cerberus redoubt had encountered the Tigers of Heaven from New Edo. It had been hard weeks since he had last seen her, his time claimed by the arrival of a grim godling from the stars. At the memory of Ullikummis, Grant’s joy at his reunion with Shizuka was plucked out like a worm in soft, moist soil.

“Grant?” Shizuka asked sleepily, roused from her slumber by the deep, guttural rumble that rolled through his chest, riding the crest of disappointment washing over his heart.

“Sleep,” Grant whispered, kissing the back of her head, but Shizuka was a leader, not a follower. Her strength of will and her warrior spirit were strong enough to dispel centuries of tradition to make her the commander of the fabled samurai of the Tigers of Heaven.

She turned with effortless grace, and her dark, almond-shaped eyes stood out in the premorning gray that crept through the rice-paper wall panels of Shizuka’s Spartan abode. Concern had creased her brow and Grant’s frown followed the downward curve of his gunfighter’s mustache.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said.

“I felt your turmoil when you first stepped from the mat-trans,” Shizuka answered. Her slender but rope-muscled arm reached up, looping around his neck, and Grant winced as he realized that his deltoids were drawn taut with tension. “We managed to put it away for a while, but it’s returned strong enough to wake me.”

“Can’t even take a full night’s sleep.” Grant folded his arm, putting his hand under his head as a pillow between his head and the futon, fighting down the regret that weighed heavily on his broad, powerful shoulders. His eyes met Shizuka’s, drawn into the dark pools, succumbing to the depths as he peered through the windows of her soul.

Grant had loved Shizuka almost from first sight, and while the attraction to an athletic, confident and beautiful woman was hardly a mystery, there was something in her that seemed a sort of anchor, a bond that immediately formed between the two warriors. He cupped his free hand at the nape of her neck, black silk cascading over his fingers like cool water, and pulled her gently to him, meeting her halfway in a kiss. It was a cleansing of his mind, driving away his doubts, regrets and worries as he sheltered himself in her loving embrace.

Shizuka’s delicate fingers caressed his cheek as the kiss broke. “It’s time for me to wake up anyway.”

Grant sighed. Shizuka was disciplined, and as much as he would have enjoyed having her in his arms again, she would do her exercises, the regimented katas that honed her into one of the finest samurai warriors on the planet. For his sake, however, Shizuka forwent putting on her robe. Her muscles glided under her tanned skin like sinuous serpents writhing beneath a blanket as she moved. Each motion was precise, intended to insure limberness, not an actual movement to counter an enemy’s attack. Her daily training was designed to keep her muscles supple and joints flexible, able to respond to any threat.

Grant looked down at his own body. There was no doubt that he was a powerful man, his lifestyle keeping the tone of his arms and shoulders prominent as he was active, often serving as pack mule for the Cerberus explorers as he was reluctant to go anywhere underprepared. Still, his frame was not lean and taut. He was too old for his waist to slim down to hard-packed abdominal muscles, his torso becoming a sculpted V. While everyone else who knew him saw a slight thickening of his waist since his years as a Cobaltville Magistrate, he hadn’t tried to fit into the perfectly tailored polycarbonate armor that served as the uniform of the Magistrates, or enforcers of the villes. No longer young, Grant was indisputably powerful and menacing, and he could arm wrestle any two of his fellow Cerberus allies with one arm, except for Edwards. But even then his strength was an edge higher.

Grant had even been powerful enough to go hand to hand with Maccan and Marduk. The former was the last of the pure-blooded Tuatha de Danaan princes on Earth, while the latter was an Annunaki lord standing a full seven feet of perfectly sculpted muscle and otherworldly strength. The battles had been inconclusive, to be honest, but they had been tests of might that showed Grant’s guile and his brawn. He was capable of holding his own with nearly any opponent on the planet. That was before the arrival of the stone-bodied son of Enlil, a towering eight-foot creature with limbs as thick as small trees and eyes that glowed like magma.

Ullikummis was nominally an Annunaki, but the son of their mortal enemy had been genetically modified, his body augmented with materials that had allowed him to survive the cold vacuum of deep space for four-and-a-half millennia and repair bodily damage, even after being dropped in a furnace after being pelted by volleys of hand grenades.

Such a monster gave even Grant pause. Grant knew that he wasn’t the most physically powerful being on Earth. However, among the triad of heroes who had formed the core of the Cerberus resistance, he was the man who provided the muscle. Since few weapons could harm Ullikummis, it would take either the scientific genius of Brigid Baptiste or the skill and determination of Kane to bring down the mountain that walked as a man.

Grant let his head drop back down to the futon, rolled onto his back, and looked at the plain wooden boards of the ceiling. Their dark stain provided a sharp contrast to the white rice-paper windows that made it seem inky-black, even on the most moonlit of nights, giving him a focus on which to meditate. With the growing light of dawn, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the empty space to clear his mind of his doubts.

His clothes lay folded in the corner, the external component of his Commtact placed with them. Normally, the device was unobtrusive as it adhered to the pintels subcutaneously installed along his mastoid bone, but Grant was loath to have it on during his quiet intimacy with Shizuka. There were multiple threats in the world, and Cerberus would not hesitate to summon him in the event of an emergency. It was his first night here in New Edo, and he thought that he could get at least one evening of peace.

Reluctantly, he rose from the futon, folded their light blanket and went to get dressed. He held up the Commtact as if it were a dead rat, looking at it for a moment, hesitant to put it back on. Grant slipped it into place, and keyed it to call the redoubt. Given the time difference between Montana and New Edo, in the island chain of the remains of California, there was a good chance that he’d get in touch with Bry on his morning duty.

“Reporting in,” Grant said. “Everything quiet on the home front?”

“Boring as any other day.” Bry’s voice reverberated through his skull. “Well, most other days. Why? Afraid we’d call you back home?”

“Yeah,” Grant answered.

“Both Lakesh and Kane have threatened me in their usual manners if I pull you from home too soon,” Bry answered.

Home, Grant thought. That’s what this tiny island remnant of the sunken West Coast of the United States had become to him. New Edo and its neighbor, Thunder Isle, were among the new archipelago that had formed in the wake of the nuclear holocaust that nearly drove humankind into extinction on January 21, 2001. Powerful earthshaker bombs had shattered California, dumping entire cities into the Pacific Ocean, utilizing the instability of the San Andreas Fault to wreak havoc. While the nuclear war was primarily between the United States and the Soviet Union, the conflict had been touched off by an incarnation of the Annunaki god-king Enlil, then disguised as Colonel Thrush.

How many billions had been scoured from the face of the Earth, literally by the hand of their greatest enemy? With the arming of a bomb placed in the basement of the Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C., Thrush/Enlil had ushered in an age where the hidden and sleeping Annunaki overlords could awaken and recast the planet as their renewed jewel, as it had been millennia past.

This was history that had been drummed into Grant, so much that it came unbidden just as he thought of the island where his true love resided. A turmoil of those memories could flood unbidden if he couldn’t pre occupy himself. Right now, though, even the splendor of his unclad lover, flexing her taut, beautiful body in the near-poetic dance of martial arts katas, wasn’t enough of a distraction.

“Grant?” Bry asked. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Grant answered. He regretted using Shizuka as an excuse, but there was no other way to explain his inattention. “Just admiring the view this morning….”

“Say hi to Shizuka for me,” Bry said. “I’d say give her a kiss…”

“But I already got to that,” Grant concluded, trying to inject some lightness into his tone. He wished he could feel that bit of joy he’d fabricated.

“Kane says get to it some more,” Bry added. “His orders.”

“Since when is Kane my boss?” Grant asked.

“He figures that this will be his only chance to order you to do something and have you do it gladly,” Bry answered. “Forget the world for a while, okay?”

Grant nodded, then winced as he realized the motion was useless over the Commtact. “I’ll try.”

Shizuka appeared at his shoulder, and she put her head against Grant’s, skull-to-skull contact allowing her words to be heard, as well. “Grant will have some help.”

Bry laughed.

It was something that Grant hoped that he would remember how to do.

THE FERAL ALBINO outlander known as Domi swept her ruby-red eyes across the empty, desolate shores of the Euphrates River. They were dozens of miles from the nearest large settlement, and on this part of the mighty thoroughfare, there was no gradual drop-off to the water, no beaches. There was a six-foot miniature cliff on either side of the flowing river.

It was a lonely, desolate place where there was no irrigation, so vegetation was sparse, no different from the desert wilderness back in America. It was at once familiar visually, but alien in terms of scents, the feel of the sun’s heat beating down on her shadow suit’s shoulders. Domi was a small woman, just under five feet in height, but her body was athletically sculpted, muscles coiled like cables around her lean limbs. The black sheen of the high-tech shadow suit poking out from under her cargo shorts and multipocketed vest made her arms and legs seem sticklike where they poked out.

Given that she had accompanied Kane, Grant and Brigid Baptiste from the depths of Africa to the Moon itself, Domi knew the likelihood of running into an environment that would require the suit’s protective qualities. Also, even after two centuries, radioactive wastelands were not uncommon. Radiation poisoning was something that Domi had been lucky enough to avoid during her brief, hard-fought life. She wasn’t about to endanger that successful run by not taking the proper precautions.