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  DIE BACK

  Book 1 of the Alchimeía

  By

  Richard Hacker

  Del Sol Press

  Washington, D.C.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Copyright © 2018 by Richard Hacker

  All rights reserved

  Del Sol Press

  www.delsolpress.org

  ISBN-13: 978-1985029804

  ISBN-10: 1985029804

  Dedication

  I dedicate this novel to my wife, Sidney, who has endured the struggles, celebrated the high points, and walked at my side throughout this journey—not just this book, but in life. I first set eyes on her as a teenager and have been smitten ever since. As individuals and as a couple we have evolved over the years, something like a fine bottle wine—a nice Cabernet when young, but now, with years to mature, there’s alchemy in that bottle.

  Acknowledgments

  Like most novels, Alchi̱meía evolved over the course of several years. I’d like to thank a number of people for their critique, ongoing support, and encouragement during the process of writing this story. I’m fortunate to have a cadre of fellow writers who provided feedback on the manuscript. Joyce Bamburger, Stephanie Cole, Emily Deutsch, Ben Starnes, and Chris Caldwell all provided insights and thoughts which contributed to the book. Thank you. I also want to thank the good people at the research library at the Museum of Flight in Seattle who helped me access primary documents and first-hand witness accounts of the first fatality in a powered aircraft during the Wright Brothers’ test flights for the Army at Fort Meyers, Virginia in 1908. Stephanie Cole brought back first-person observations of the Chilean Andes and especially Machu Picchu, which found their way into the Inca scenes. Frederique McAdam checked my French. I’d also like to give a big thanks to Chip Locklear for his careful reading and proofing of the final manuscript. And finally, I’d like to give a special thanks to Mike Neff. We met several years ago around an early draft of Alchi̱meía and he has offered honest feedback and support all along the way. You’ve challenged me, commiserated with me, offered honest critique, and encouraged me. Thank you, my friend. The work of an author is supposedly one of isolation and seclusion, but all of the people mentioned above not only have my gratitude, but I consider all of them friends, which makes me a lucky guy.

  Table of Contents

  Jersey Legionnaire

  Café da Vinci

  Bequeathed

  Alchemy

  Dead Reckoning

  Taken for a Ride

  Ripped

  The Hole

  Die Back

  The Alpha and the Omega

  Mission Up

  Ah, Heckety

  Shift Happens

  The Alchimeía

  Goodnight, Jules

  Atawallpa’s Bride

  Dying to Live

  Temple of the Sun

  Tawantinsuyu Rising

  Paradise Lost

  Meeting in the Sky

  Dead Sexy

  Reunion

  Play Ball

  Tonkaweya

  Adieu

  Erekutoronikku Antīku

  Best Laid Plans

  Collateral Damage

  Pursuit

  A Final Inking

  Aftermath

  About the Author

  Book 2 of the Alchimeía

  Jersey Legionnaire

  I am an Inker. Without death my job goes undone. Like other Inkers, I plan for it, yearn for it while never loving it, but this time, death might well prove to be my doom. Alchemic algorithms placed my partner Nikki and I at the historic burning of the Great Library of Alexandria, Egypt, in 272 AD. We had inked ourselves into the consciousness of the right people—an arthritic librarian and his slave boy—and stole the Alchi̱meía papyrus scrolls for their rare alchemical formulas.

  Our plan should have worked without a hitch. Instead, we are now faced with a severe obstacle: a massive Roman centurion in heavy scale armor, a member of Aurelian's legions currently sacking the city in an effort to defeat and demoralize Queen Zenobia. The centurion stands at least six foot three, his armor smeared with Egyptian blood, his mouth open and yelling at me, not in Latin, but with a voice oddly reminiscent of twentieth century New York:

  "Stop, Inkahs!"

  He blocks a narrow passageway of the library, holding an infantry gladius, a short-sword with a golden hilt, sunlight from the open courtyard glinting off his blade. There is no way forward or around him. White limestone walls on my left, stonework railing and black marble pillars on my right, and a long drop over those rails into the quadrangle. We are so screwed. I speak in the librarian's Coptic dialect.

  "You must be mistaken, brave centurion." I nod to my partner, Nikki Babineaux, an athletic twenty-something woman present-side, but a small, twelve-year-old boy in this passageway. In our robes and sandals, an old man and a boy, we define defenseless. "I am a librarian and this boy is my slave."

  "Bullshit."

  American English with a New Jersey accent. Who is this guy? I feign confusion, continuing in Coptic, hoping to buy some time. "What is this word you use? Are you a foreigner?"

  "Enough, Inkahs. Gimme the satchel!"

  Nikki drops the pretense, shifting to twenty-first century English, "You know killing us won't do you any good."

  "The satchel, ya little prick!"

  Before I can stall, the New Jersey centurion surges forward, scale armor clattering against leather, his short sword poised to strike. Nikki dives to the right while I hurl myself toward the son of a bitch. His powerful forearm catches me in the chest like a cinder block, slamming me back against the wall. My vision blurs, but I see the boy jump to his feet, the satchel hanging from his shoulder. He tries an evasive head fake, but the centurion proves too quick in this narrow space, his blade piercing Nikki's side. The crack of breaking ribs echo down the passageway. Nikki sprawls to the floor with a shriek, and lies there moaning, crimson blood spreading from the wound. No, this was not going well at all.

  "Goodbye, Inkahs." With a clean sweep of his blade, the centurion cuts the satchel loose. He rips the bag from Nikki, turns, and runs.

  Who is this guy working for?

  Whoever he is, I hope the bastard runs face first into a flaming arrow for his die back. I’m still winded and dazed, but I crawl over to Nikki. The boy opens his eyes, color draining from his face, the savage wound foaming with blood.

  "Thomas—" He coughs a red mist. "We failed."

  "We'll get another chance." I tear a piece of my robe away, placing the cloth under the boy's head. "We didn't expect a fight with Arnold Schwarzenegger in Roman centurion gear. I thought Aurelian's men were still out in the harbor burning the docks."

  "Merde." The boy closes his eyes, grimacing. He swallows, opening his eyes again. "Wrong time, too."

  An early die back is always a potential problem for Inkers, especially if the premature death alters the temporal flow. "You're supposed to get run over by a cart later today, but this will do."

  Nikki manages a smile, a rivulet of blood dripping from the boy's mouth. "Bummed 'cause you won't get to throw me," he grimaces, taking in several quick breaths, “…under the wheels, mon ami?"

  We always die, but I never get used to the final moments. "You're still pissed about me garroting you with a string from one of Puccini's violins? Tho
ught you'd be honored. It was Puccini's string. Of course, you're the one who shoved me in the path of the Starlight Express."

  Nikki, in the boy’s body, labors with each shallow breath. Reaching with a weak hand, the boy touches my arm. "Mind yourself, Thomas Shaw."

  "I'll do my best." I lean in, the boy, just a few years younger than my own son, dying in front of me. I thought I would pass my legacy on to my son, but now I know differently. I can't let him walk into this hell. "Nikki, there's something you need to know, just in case."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Just a hunch, but be on your guard present-side."

  Nikki fought for another breath. "Compromised?"

  I hold his gaze. "Someone I trust told me I'm dead."

  "Murdered?"

  "Does it matter?" Dying back into a dead body equals dead. Permanently dead.

  “Who…kills you, Thomas?"

  "My friend didn't know. But keep an eye on Cameron."

  Nikki winces, blood oozing between lips thin with pain. "I know…you have history, but Cameron?"

  Yeah, we definitely have some history. "I'll never forgive him, but the League sanctioned his actions, so that's the end of it. Besides, I don't even know if he's the threat. It could be anyone. But Cameron has…well, he's killed before. Just watch your six. Five bucks says we'll be drinking a beer together, laughing about all this, in a few minutes. And if not…"

  Nikki tugs at my sleeve. "No, mon ami."

  We lock eyes. "If not, I made some arrangements. Renascentia is safe, but…my son. I've changed my mind. Find someone else. He's been through enough already."

  "He's stronger…than you think."

  "No. We assumed we were just dealing with a rogue, but our enemy is proving far more malicious than we thought possible. Addison would be risking everything. His very existence. You have to promise you'll keep him away from all of this, Nikki. Promise me."

  Nikki glances at the wound, sucking in air through clenched teeth, then exhales. "I don't know, Thomas… Ahhh.” The boy moans, squeezing my hand with his remaining strength. "Doesn't know League. When he does…" His chest rattles with each breath.

  "Addison's strong, but he's in pain. If I'm gone he'll need you, Nikki. I'm counting on you. Keep him out. Got it?"

  "Copacetíc…," he chokes up more blood, "mon…ami."

  “There’s a letter. You’ve got to get it from my lawyer.” A hiss of breath leaves the boy’s blue tinged lips. “Nikki?”

  His grip slackens and I’m looking into vacant eyes. I stop talking.

  Nikki has died back. I should have held her after we'd made love on her favorite red chaise lounge last night, her scent still a precious memory. I should have stayed the night with you, Nikki.

  "Forgive me, my darling."

  Footfalls echo around me. I rise turning just in time to see another Roman soldier close enough to smell his sour sweat mixed with blood. Without a word, he drives his blade through my heart. A savage pain explodes in my chest, dissolving to nothingness as my mind leaves the old man’s body.

  ***

  Thomas stirred, now removed from the “I” of the old librarian, after-images of Alexandria flashing in his mind: Nikki’s dying breath, the grand sweep of sunlight outside the Great Library, the intense burning pain of a sword tip thrust through his host’s chest. He took in a gulp of air, his eyes fluttering open. A moment of disorientation before the tumblers fell into place.

  Present-side.

  He scanned the desk of his study, pen still in hand, his eyes registering a figure across from him. Blue jeans, tee-shirt, Asian, leaning on the desk, his veined arms rippled with lean muscle. The figure spoke.

  “Don’t you want to ask me who I am, Thomas?”

  Their eyes locked on each other’s. Thomas suspected the mind behind those eyes belonged to another—an Inker from the past.

  “Not really.”

  The man laughed, stepping back from the desk as if he had dropped by for a casual visit.

  “I’ll give you one thing, Thomas. You do have…what is the word…a man in Juarez begged me not to cut them off. What was it? Cojones! Yes, you have cojones.” He scowled. “Your feigned courage in the face of certain destruction. Very moving.” His eyes flashed to the pen in Thomas’ right hand. “Good, I see you’ve got your pen for me. Excellent.”

  Thomas kept his eyes on the intruder, all the while inching his left hand toward the gun in his desk drawer. The man’s eyes flitted to Thomas’ gun hand as he swung the weapon up. With a speed Thomas didn’t anticipate, the man leaped on the desk, and with a violent swipe of his foot, sent the gun smashing into the wall, the knee of his other leg crashing into Thomas’ face, slamming him, chair and all, to the floor.

  Thomas lay still for a moment, dazed. Then he rose with slow, deliberate movements, pain hammering his head.

  “So, who do you think I am, Thomas?” His attacker had stepped off the desk and now danced like a boxer waiting for an opportune moment to plant a combination punch.

  Nose broken, blood pouring down his face, Thomas maneuvered to keep the desk between them. “One of Cameron’s hired guns, I imagine. Been expecting you.”

  The man stopped dancing, putting his hands on his hips, cocking his head. “Expecting me? Oh, you’re talking about the two dead sentinels in your back garden.”

  Thomas had posted two Inkers at the house to prevent this very thing. Crap. “What did you do?”

  He glared at Thomas. “Terrible how some people lose their heads at the first sign of trouble.”

  “You didn’t?”

  He smiled with a chuckle. “I’m afraid I did.”

  “My…God. Cameron wouldn’t…Who are you?”

  “My name is Kairos. I’m the one who is going to kill you and destroy your League.”

  Kairos had been a threat in the past, but the League had stopped him. No, it can’t be. Too much has been sacrificed. Rage and grief exploded from Thomas. Crying out, he hurled himself at the man, but a fist slammed into his chest with an unexpected ferocity, the sternum fracturing with a loud, crack! Reeling back, his knee exploded in agony as he went airborne, slamming to the floor on his back with a forceful thud. He tried to move, but the grinding of his fractured sternum and the throbbing jolts of pain from his knee slowed him down. Kairos grabbed Thomas’ feet. He heard the sound of his own agonized cry of pain as something outside of his body. He took in a breath, willing himself to focus. Kairos dragged him down the hallway. Thomas’ head banging across the floor, he reached for door jambs, furniture, anything to slow Kairos’ progress. But each time he resisted, Kairos twisted the broken knee, causing Thomas to break his hold, screaming in torment.

  At the open basement door, Kairos dropped Thomas’ legs. The world constricted to a small dark space filled with anguish. In the distance he heard his attacker.

  “Stay with me, Thomas. I don’t want you to miss the finale!”

  Kairos levered him up against the wall, each movement a hundred knife wounds slashing his broken body. He opened his eyes to his attacker’s dark, angry gaze. In a labored voice, Thomas spoke.

  “You. Won’t. Succeed.”

  “Oh, but I will, Thomas. After I kill you, I will kill every League Inker until I have possession of the five pens.”

  Every League Inker? No! Through the pain, a panic crossed Thomas’ face.

  “Not…Addison. Not…Inker.”

  “The son of the great Thomas Shaw?”

  He grabbed Thomas by the shirt, dragging him to the open door.

  “Don’t worry another moment. Once I have your pen which you have so kindly left for me—” He shoved Thomas down the staircase. Slamming into a wall, Thomas’ ribs cracking against a handrail only for his battered body to flip, shattering his jaw against a stair tread, Kairos’ words taunting him as he fell.

  “Consider.”

  He slid across several steps upside down, and rolled, the broken knee punching a hole with explosive force in the wall.
r />   “Addison.”

  Thomas tumbled, limbs askew, the concrete floor rushing toward him…

  “Dead.”

  ***

  Kairos went down the steps to the body crumpled at the lower landing, his victim’s head and limbs twisted awkwardly. After checking for a pulse to be certain the deed had been done, Kairos returned to the study for Thomas’ pen. The League had five pens which, individually, enabled an Inker to transfer his consciousness to someone living in the past. But together… Ah, together the pens will create new continua. Imagine, the power to forge a new world at my fingertips! He expected to gather Thomas’ pen from his desk, but instead, he found a green puddle of melted acrylic, alloy, and ink.

  The son of a bitch built a self-destructing pen?

  Enraged, he tore through the study, pulling out drawers, ripping books off shelves, checking floorboards, but turned up nothing. Even in death Thomas had managed to be a thorn in his side. He considered scouring the entire house, but if Thomas had the forethought to create a self-destructing pen, he certainly wouldn’t leave the real pen somewhere vulnerable. Besides, he had a better idea.

  His current host, Kwan, a martial arts instructor from San Francisco, had come in handy, killing Thomas and the other two Inkers. But now he needed a host with a bit more finesse. He got in Kwan’s car, driving the short distance to Seattle’s Sunset Park overlooking Puget Sound. With Thomas dead, surely his son would take up his duty as an Inker, which means, the young man would certainly have the pen. He pulled a Glock 17 from the glovebox, and dropped the sun visor to gaze into the vanity mirror, Kairos’ consciousness giving fire to Kwan’s eyes. He smiled at the thought of ripping the life out of Thomas’ boy, Addison, once he had acquired his pen.