Dark Rising (30 page)

A new lead capsule was already in place, constructed according to the president’s design. The exterior had been decorated with Persian prayers and the names of the prophets, all swirling in beautiful calligraphy over every inch of the capsule. Inside was the homing beacon and communication equipment, although Al Janaddi doubted they would ever be of use. There was one more special addition to this particular capsule – a shoebox-sized padded container for an as yet unknown item. The president had inferred that he would be bringing a guest with him who would be travelling in the capsule.
Oh, lucky man
, thought the scientist.

He pursed his lips as he thought of the result of their first test, locked away in the containment room. Once the president had gone, he would have the poor thing put out of its misery and its remains cremated. He shuddered at the thought of the creature and marvelled at how it managed to keep on surviving when its organs and body were so grotesquely distorted. He didn’t understand why the president wanted it kept alive. It would be best to have that mistake well and truly dealt with before his Nobel Prize.
Ahhh, life will be good then
. If he could only get through this one final demonstration to his fanatical president.

The creature followed the thermal traces of the HAWCs’ footsteps across the cold sub-basement ground and quickly found the doorway to the stairwell. It needed to compress its segmented exoskeleton to fit through the frame as its broad, flattened body was not made for the tall and narrow structures these smaller animals seemed to favour. Its eyestalks swivelled to take in the small space and the stairs to the next levels. It sensed danger, but couldn’t detect any movement or sound from the stairwell.

It moved forward warily, and had just placed one sharp leg on the bottom step to test its purchase when two small boxes fell upon it.

The explosive spiders had been placed high on either side of the doorframe, and had been activated by the creature’s movement. In a microsecond they scanned their catalogue of friendly signatures and didn’t find a match – unsurprising, as the creature’s strange physical signature could not have been categorised by any but the most demented of military programmers. The spiders leapt from their ambush placement to land on the flattened, heavily armoured back.

For a being that weighed several tons, the creature moved with an unnatural swiftness – perhaps due to the lighter gravity of earth, or to an exoskeleton that allowed more surface area for muscle attachment. It lashed out at the little boxes faster than any human eye could follow, crushed one as if it was no more than silver foil.

The second exploded on its back carapace, causing it to wheel around in anger then rear up in defence. The small explosive charge created little damage to the creature’s hardened procuticle – it had evolved under a different sun and was suited to conditions far more arduous than those of this benign planet. But there was a consequence of the charge, and not one the HAWCs could have expected. It ignited in the monster a primal fury that would not be satisfied by merely feeding on the small creatures it searched for. Now it wanted to rend them to shreds.

Five flights up, the subsonic scream of rage smashed into Alex’s brain like a spike. He winced and shook his head to clear away the blinding fog of pain. They were about to be squeezed, and he for one preferred the potential human danger behind the door to what was about to climb those steps.

The sound of the explosion caused the team to halt and look to Alex.

‘Sam, Rocky, get us through that door – now,’ he ordered.

He peered over the railing; smoke was still billowing around the bottom of the stairwell five flights below and he could see nothing moving in the hot fog of the explosion.

‘Irish, watch our backs.’

O’Riordan nodded, stepped down a few stairs and looked over the railing. He smiled; the redheaded HAWC seemed to be looking forward to the coming battle.

FORTY-ONE

P
resident Moshaddam was accompanied by the leader of the Islamic Guardian Council, Mostafa Hossein, and four of the largest bodyguards Al Janaddi had ever seen. Each wore a black suit, carried a sports bag and looked to be hewn from a slab of dark granite. They all moved with an extraordinary silence that belied their six-and-half-foot frames. Their eyes seemed totally devoid of any human emotion, like obsidian buttons.

Al Janaddi’s face was flushed as he welcomed the president and his guest. He showed them to the facility’s meeting room, where refreshments were waiting for them, then launched into the update briefing the president had requested beforehand.

‘This is our grandest achievement,’ he began. ‘I have . . . er, Iran has gone beyond the creation and stabilisation of a Judgment Event – a magnificent feat on its own. We now possess the ability to capture and store the powerful gamma radiation itself. No other country has this technology, my President, not the Germans nor the Russians nor even the Americans. This magnificent and powerful energy source will free Iran from fossil fuels forever.’

He looked at the president, waiting for a response, but the man remained stony-faced. Al Janaddi felt the excitement ebb from his belly. Perhaps he needed to explain in a little more detail what a triumph he had achieved, how he had turned a scientific impossibility into reality. He took a deep breath and continued. ‘My President, let me explain the concept behind this accomplishment. Man has been trying to harvest the sunlight since the time of the Pharaohs – and indeed the Egyptians managed to capture the sun’s rays using polished copper discs to light the corridors deep within their pyramids. Today, we use photovoltaic solar cells to trap and store radiation from the sun and turn it into energy.’

Moshaddam had closed his eyes in an open display of indifference. Al Janaddi decided to get to the point. He reached for a glass of water and raised it shakily to his lips. He swallowed, cleared his throat and continued.

‘My President, where I have achieved the breakthrough is in applying the principles of storing solar radiation to capture the more powerful gamma rays. I have devised a thermoelectric power cube that is fuelled by the particle heat of the gamma radiation created by the Judgment Event. The quarter-inch cube is made of porous copper and covered in micro-thin film arrays of thermocouples mounted on all six faces of the cube, which convert the radiation heat into electricity. These cubes, though tiny, have a retention half-life of eighteen years and potentially can store and release nearly 300 gigawatts of power each.’

The ongoing silence from the president was crushing. Al Janaddi licked his lips and was about to forge ahead when Moshaddam held up his hand.

‘Ahmad Al Janaddi, do you know of the Yawm al-Qiyamah?’

Al Janaddi nodded slowly, though his mind was scrambling to remember the details. Like all Muslims, he had read the Qur’an, but he could not remember the specifics of every individual sura.

‘And do you believe in it?’

The president was watching him like a snake watched a mouse. Al Janaddi hesitated. He knew that Moshaddam believed the Qur’an directed his life and the entire world around him. If a plane fell from the sky, it was written. If a king was toppled, a sandstorm struck, or a car hit your brother, it was all written in the holy book. You just had to interpret it correctly – and it was said that no one could interpret it like the president. To him, the Qur’an was more than just a religious book; it was the key to everything – past, present and future.

The president didn’t wait for a response. His lips curled up slightly in a smile and he spoke slowly and lovingly, as if to a child. ‘The Yawm al-Qiyamah is the Last Judgment and belief in it is fundamental to our faith. The trials associated with it are transcribed in the seventy-fifth sura of our beloved Qur’an. You, me, every Muslim, every non-Muslim, every human being, will be held accountable for their deeds and will be judged by the one and only god, Allah.’

Al Janaddi remembered the sura, but couldn’t understand why the president wanted to discuss it now.

Moshaddam placed his fingertips over his eyes, then his lips, then brought his hands together as if in prayer. He was still smiling as he spoke. ‘Whether you call it the Day of Resurrection, the Day of Judgment, the Day of Reckoning, or even the Day of Distress, it is now upon us, my friend. At a time preordained, and when the people least expect it, Allah will give permission for the Yawm al-Qiyamah to begin. The archangel Israfil will sound his mighty horn, sending out a blast of truth for all mankind and a warning to unbelievers to prepare their souls for judgment. I know this to be true because I heard this horn myself, only a matter of weeks ago. The Last Judgment is here, the day of Allah’s return is upon us, and I have made this happen! Praise be to Allah. Praise be to me.’

Al Janaddi’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. How was the president responsible for this prophecy coming about?

Moshaddam continued speaking, but he was not focused on the scientist anymore. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to anyone else in the room. He closed his eyes and Al Janaddi took the opportunity to look at the others. The bodyguards looked bored, as though they had heard this before. But Mostafa Hossein was watching the president with narrowed eyes, as if he were hearing this for the first time and didn’t approve of it.

The president began to recite his favourite verses of the seventy-fifth sura: ‘All the men and women of the world will fall down unconscious. Those who distorted or ignored the word of Allah will be judged, and if guilty will be engulfed in hellfire. Those who are truly pious will be taken to Jannah, and the rest of the world will be collapsed and destroyed. The Earth, the Sun and the Moon will turn black, and the beast shall rise; healed wounds will reopen, children will become hoary-headed and women will miscarry. Even the angels will be fearful as, on this day, it is said that God will be angrier than ever before and his wrath will be terrible.’ Though he continued to smile, tears were running down the president’s face; he seemed almost rapturous. He tilted his head up to the ceiling, as though bathing his face in sunshine. ‘All will be judged, but so few will be saved, my friend. Allah has asked that from every 1000, take out 999 and cast them to Jahannam, and this is just in the lands of Islam! The West will be made barren and its unholy people tormented for eternity. Oh, Allah be praised.’

The president turned his wet face to Al Janaddi and nodded slowly. ‘The people will beseech Abraham, Moses and Adam to intercede on their behalf, but they will turn their backs. But not I; I will not turn my back on my truly penitent people. I will beseech Allah that he saves all those who repent. But in turn we all must face the Judgment and cross the bridge over the abyss. The flames and torments of Jahannam await those who fall.’

Al Janaddi remembered from his study of the Hadith in school how difficult it was to cross the bridge across the abyss to reach paradise. For sinners, the bridge appeared as a thorny path as thin as a human hair and as sharp as the edge of a sword. But those who were true would see it as a wide stone bridge covered in the softest grass. They would cross safely to Jannah, heaven, while all others would fall to an eternity of torment in Jahannam, hell.

He glanced again at Mostafa Hossein and saw that the old man’s jaw worked in his jowly, bearded face, as though he were grinding his teeth. He took a sip from his own water then replaced the glass on the table so it made a loud
thunk
. ‘Perhaps that time is not yet here,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the signs are not being read clearly. After all, it is also written that the archangels themselves said, “With Allah alone is the knowledge of the Hour”. We must be careful not to bear false testimony regarding the coming of the hour, for that in itself is a sin before Allah, his glorious name be praised.’

President Moshaddam stood and placed both fists knuckle-down on the table. His arms were shaking, not from strain, but from his sobbing. ‘I am not surprised you do not recognise this day for what it is, or even recognise me, my brother. For some time now I have fought against my destiny. I refused to believe I was worthy, and I tried to ignore it – but no more. The signs are there and more will come. I have been chosen by Allah and told to reveal my true destiny; I have returned to my people to lead not just them but all the faithful peoples of the world. I will lead them to the al-Kawthar, the lake of honeyed milk, and whoever drinks from it will never thirst again. I will lead them all to the river of paradise and beyond. It is I, my brother;
I have returned
.’

Hossein’s eyes were wide in disbelief and horror as he finally understood what the president was saying. Moshaddam actually believed himself to be the Twelfth Imam, the Returned Prophet whose coming heralded the end of the world.

Hossein stood slowly, shaking his head. The president’s desecration of the Qur’an was clearly too much for him. ‘Blasphemer!’ he cried. ‘You are not the Mahdi! Many have claimed to be He, but were not. Many have deceived and have been judged harshly, as you will be judged harshly, Mahmoud Moshaddam. The Ayatollah will remove you from power and have you locked away for your crimes against the word of Islam and its one true prophet, Allah!’ The old man, head of the most powerful religious body in Iran, was visibly shaking with rage as he finished speaking.

Moshaddam lifted his left arm and drew his sleeve across his eyes to wipe away the tears. When his other hand came up it held a small black pistol. He fired point-blank into Hossein’s face. The cleric stood for a few seconds as if in disbelief, his mouth forming an ‘O’. A second hole had appeared above his right eye and he slid silently to the floor.

Al Janaddi fell back in his chair, white-faced, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gulping for air. The other scientists cried out, and some raised their hands up over their faces. The president’s bodyguards didn’t even flinch; they just sat motionless, watching the president.

Al Janaddi looked at them more closely. Each had a star and crescent scar on his temple – the sign of the Urakher, the warrior dead. Trained from the age of six to kill with weapons or bare hands, these soldiers had been specially selected by the president himself to provide an impenetrable and deadly barrier of protection wherever he went. They would follow him into the furnaces of hell if called to. Even the Takavaran knew to avoid any conflict with these giant, indomitable warriors.