The Cydonia Objective (Morpheus Initiative 03) Read Online Free PDF Page B

voice, and addresses the standing legion. "If your commander refuses my order, who will follow it?"
    No one speaks. The snow continues to fall, collecting on their bare heads, on their bloodied, scarred shoulders.
    "The penalty for disobedience is death."  Maximian moves his horse around Maurice, riding in front of the first line of legionnaires. Studying each one's face. He rides down the line, then back. "And the sentence will be carried out here. On this rock, today!  Who will step forward and command the legion? Who will march back into Gaul and do as I ask?"
    Maurice lifts his eyes to the spear, and it's as if he still stares into the brilliance of the sun. Tears collect, roll down his cheeks.
    And as one unit, the legionnaires set down their weapons.
    Drop to their knees.
    Lower their heads and clasp their hands together in prayer.
    Maximian stops pacing. Stares at them, at the entire force. Rides back to Maurice. "We have determined their loyalty."  He glowers at the commander, fury rising in his blood. "Very well." He raises a fist, rushes back and grasps the spear, yanking it from the earth and setting it across his lap. He rides into the midst of his centurions. And yells:
    "Kill them all!"
    He continues riding against the onrushing force, galloping away as fast as his steed can carry him over the rocky terrain. Far into the hills and rocky trails, far enough to escape the sounds of slaughter.
    Until he hears the sound of returning hoof beats, Emperor Maximian stares at his prize, the lance and the spear point that seem to pull at his thoughts, influence his emotions and stir up even greater dreams of power, dominance and subjugation.
     
    #
    Caleb interrupts the vision. Tries to peer back further. Willing his mind to track the spear. Where was it before Maurice…?
     
    #
    A series of glimpses, fast and appearing intercut with the darkness, lightning-quick:
    A figure on a hilltop before a series of thatch shacks, brandishing a scintillating spear point atop a different-looking staff, thicker, whiter, made of Birch wood. He yells out a command in Spanish, and descends upon a force of invading Roman warriors.
    Irish moors, low fog over an ice-packed shore. And an assembly of warriors in fur cloaks and wooden shields. Men of huge stature, led by a hulking brute of scarred man with a misshapen head, and but one eye…  Facing him and this immense force is a loose confederation of young men and even women, barely armored, woefully under matched—yet surging with confidence, following a blond youth with a spear held high—its point seething with reflected brilliance, bathing the leader with a fiery aura and causing ripples of panic in the mass of giants ahead.
    Further back:
    Something brilliant streaks from the night sky, dashing against the barren cliff side, startling the inhabitants of mud and clay huts, who rush into the desert. One man races to the glowing impact site, tools in his hands, shouting to his brothers. They gather around the crater, looking down to the glowing, spherical rock, tinged with cracks of emerald, pulsing and giving off intense heat.
    The man's eyes widen. They all drop to their knees and bow their heads.
    "When it cools," he says. "Bring it up to my workshop. God has spoken to me in my dreams. Told me this was coming. Given me instructions. Shown me what I must create."
    His brothers nod, and the mason trembles with excitement, his hands tingling with power, anticipating what will take years to mold.
    "His will be done."
    #
    Too much. Caleb tried to pull back. Dimly aware that Alexander and Xavier were around him, carefully monitoring his condition but fearful of waking him.
      Come on. Refine the question. He focused, thought carefully.
    Where did Commander Maurice get it?
    A blast hit him, bright and intense:
    A centurion, this one wrapping a cloak about himself as he races alone on a horse across a craggy terrain. Pouring rain, raging winds. The same spear, strapped to his back as he