Threshold

  Threshold

  Robinson, Jeremy

  For Norah, Solomon, and Aquila,

  because you’re at your best when you’re together.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Threshold is my seventh novel. My third hardcover. And my best book to date—I know, I know, I have to say that, but it’s true! As I look back at the past few years I’m amazed and thrilled to see that the same people who supported me when I self-published my first novel, when I used three credit cards to start my own small press (Breakneck Books), and when I moved on to Thomas Dunne Books, are still in my life and as supportive as ever. So it’s with great appreciation that I thank the following.

  Stan Tremblay and Walter Elly, you guys get top billing this year. The time and effort you two put into helping me with web design, social marketing, and something I’m typically not prone to do: relaxing, is amazing. Some people say that it takes a village to raise a baby. Well, I say it takes a village to write a novel. You guys are my village. C’mon, group man-hug!

  For consummate proofreading and story comments, I once again thank Roger Brodeur.

  Thanks to my agent, Scott Miller at Trident Media Group, who discovered my first self-published book, signed me on, and has been a shrewd counselor since. Thanks also to MacKenzie at Trident Media for being fast, diligent, and fun. Go team Miller!

  Now for the people at Thomas Dunne Books, who put the Jack Sigler series on the map. Thanks to Peter Wolverton, my editor. Your advice has improved my story telling immensely, a gift for which I will always be grateful. Anne Bensson, you are an amazing source of fast answers to my endless questions and an awesome support. Rafal Gibek and the production team, if not for your awesome copy-edits, people would think I was a dolt. For the incredible jacket design, thanks to art director Steve Snider and illustrator extraordinaire, Larry Rostant, whose work has always impressed and inspired me.

  And always last in my acknowledgments, but never least, I thank my kick-ass wife, Hilaree, who was graced with the ability to put up with and love a moody author and artist. And to my children, Aquila, Solomon, and Norah, you remind me what it means to be a child and help keep my imagination free of the prison known as adulthood. I love you guys.

  Sick I am of idle words, past all reconciling,

  Words that weary and perplex and pander and conceal,

  Wake the sounds that cannot lie, for all their sweet beguiling;

  The language one need fathom not, but only hear and feel.

  —George Du Maurier (1834–1896)

  5 But the Lord came down to see the city and the tower that the men were building. 6 The Lord said, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them. 7 Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other.”

  —Genesis 11:5–7

  Mathematics is the language in which God has written the universe.

  —Galileo Galilei (1564–1642)

  PROLOGUE

  The Past

  HE CONTROLLED THE world through fear—merciless fear—conjured by the memory of genocide. He had scraped the earth clean, leaving only a single bloodline alive. To remember. To fear.

  But Nimrod saw through the fear, watching how it manipulated the populace like silt stirred in the Euphrates. When the rains came and the thunder boomed, the people cringed and turned to the mysterious Originator for direction. When food was scarce, they tore at their clothes and begged for mercy.

  The Originator demanded nothing less, despite his promise.

  Nimrod doubted that such a promise had been made, just as he doubted the validity of the mass extermination story. It had been, no doubt, conjured by his great-grandfather to control the people. And he would not fear something or someone that was not real. He would not be controlled.

  As a man, he learned that fear could motivate men to do his work. With whip, club, and spear, he had instilled a greater fear in men than the Originator could with the story of a deluge that few living people claimed to remember. It was with this fear that Nimrod came to power and laid the foundations of his kingdom. The cities of Uruk, Akkad, and Calneh flourished under his rule, finding plentiful food and water on the shores of two mighty rivers. But it was Babylon, nestled between the Tigris and Euphrates, that had become his greatest achievement.

  But even glorious Babylon would soon be outdone and the Originator’s annoying voice would be reduced to a faint whisper, fading along with an age of paranoia.

  As a direct descendant of his people’s founding father, he had been privy to the secrets of the language supposedly taught to mankind by the Originator himself. Not only could words move the hearts and minds of men through fear, but they could also move mountains. And move mountains they did. For with them, he had constructed a tower unlike anything humanity had ever seen, rising toward the sky, higher than any thought possible. Its ominous presence instilled fear into all who saw it.

  Nimrod stroked the long, gnarled hair growing from his chin. It was black with a thin streak of gray. His face, thick and leathery from long days in the sun, was just beginning to show signs of his age. But his body was healthy and fit. Combined with his formidable height and baritone voice, it wasn’t hard for him to subjugate the people.

  But even fear, it seemed, had its limits. For on the eve of what was to be the consummation of his greatest achievement, he had learned some distressing news.

  Treachery.

  It seemed his family shared some of his resistance to the compulsion of fear. But rather than use the fear, his great uncle, Shem, conspired against it.

  Against him.

  So as he sat alone in the central chamber of his newly constructed ziggurat, he considered the available options. Speaking to his uncle was out of the question. Leniency would reveal weakness, and weakness would give strength to the opposition. But without knowing the true strength of his enemies, or their numbers, he was acting blindly. A dangerous undertaking.

  He needed something definitive. Something that would be feared for generations.

  That’s when he saw the hands. Strong and unyielding. Impervious to sword or spear, and loyal to him—the creator of gods. The statues surrounding him in the large central chamber stood fifteen feet tall, and featured the heads of wild creatures and the bodies of men—images of the heroes of old. The men of renown. The gods given shape by his hands and life by his words.

  As though a block had been removed from a dam, ambition surged into his mind, filling his thoughts with images of a magnificent future. The true capabilities of the power hidden within their language were further reaching than he had ever dreamed.

  The Originator, living or not, had abandoned them. And he would be replaced by someone who truly understood how to instill fear and gain loyalty all the while being praised.

  He looked at one of the tall statues, whose mighty hands now stretched up to the ceiling but had just months ago laid the very stones of the ziggurat’s foundation. It would begin with them.

  The people had grown accustomed to their presence, but still trembled at their passing. Now they would witness their fears made real.

  Nimrod stood from his chair, and walked to the nearest statue. He leaned into the marble, looked up at the large blue eyes, and spoke in the language of his forefathers, using the tones and inclinations taught to him alone.

  “Versatu elid vas re’eish clom, emet.”

  He moved on to the next statue and repeated the phrase. He continued around the room, speaking the words into stone, ten times.

  He strode back to his throne, which felt more comfortable as the growing knots in his back unwound. The assurance that normality would be restored before the rising sun cast his tower’s shadow over the plain
s allowed him to relax again.

  Even if just for a moment.

  The heavy wooden door to the inner chamber swung open and clunked against the solid stone wall. Azurad, his most trusted advisor, rushed into the room speaking quickly, his long mustache twitching with each syllable.

  “Slow down, Azurad. Breathe. And tell me what has you so troubled.”

  Azurad rested his hands on his knees, his purple tunic hanging down to the floor, which was thick with dust from a year of construction. He took a long slow breath through his nose, smelling the same earthy dust, stood straight and spoke. “My lord, Shem and his followers are approaching.”

  The knots returned.

  “Their number?”

  “In the hundreds.”

  Nimrod felt his chest tighten for a moment. Hundreds of men? It seemed an impossible number. He would be undone … if not for the giants now waking behind him. He couldn’t see them, but the widening eyes of his advisor revealed their animation.

  “You … you would use them … to kill?”

  “The gods of old are not bound by—”

  “You will bring down his wrath!”

  Nimrod stood quickly. “What did you say?” He stabbed an index finger upwards. “His wrath is empty in comparison to mine. His strength is as…” Something was wrong. Azurad’s face should have shown fear. But he was confused instead.

  “Speak, what bothers you so?” Nimrod waited a moment. “Speak!”

  And then he did. But Nimrod couldn’t understand a word the man uttered. The sounds of his words were like nothing Nimrod had ever heard before, clearly enunciated, but sharp and fluid at the same time.

  Yet he did understand the advisor’s facial expressions. The fear he’d expected before came with a flush of red in the man’s face. Then he screamed and ran away.

  A shadow flickering in the torchlight fell around Nimrod. It moved, but not because of the wavering flame. The motion belonged to something else. Nimrod sucked in a quick breath and held it. He had yet to issue his commands to the silent giants. They should have waited for his word before moving, their minds filled only with his bidding. He turned around slowly, his eyes landing on the stomach of the closest statue.

  What are they doing? he thought, and then registered the movement above the statue’s head. Its clenched fists, each the size of a man’s skull, rose up above its lion’s head. Despite its face remaining as frozen as ever, he understood the intent behind its action.

  For the first time in his life, Nimrod’s eyes filled with tears. The fists dropped. The statues surrounded him, reaching for his body like wild animals, and tore him limb from limb.

  Shem stood behind them, watching, arms crossed over his chest. Nimrod never knew that others in his family had learned several of the ancient language’s secrets—secrets they would carry with them through the generations but never again fully entrust to a single man. Wielded by the double-edged sword that is the tongue of man, all of creation could be corrupted. Nimrod had shown him that much.

  As he watched the blood of his nephew’s body slide through the dust on the floor and seep into the cracks, he said a quick good-bye. “Eliam vin mortast.”

  Shem’s heart beat hard in his chest. He understood the phrase he spoke as “Return to the Originator,” but the sounds that came from his mouth were strange. He had spoken in a new tongue, one he had never heard before. He tried to remember the sounds of his native language, but only pieces remained. Most of the words, and the power they held, had been erased from his mind.

  When Shem met his men outside, he found them confused and agitated. Like him, they were all speaking a new language, but they weren’t all the same. The men spoke at least ten different dialects. Using hand gestures to communicate, he separated the men into groups by the sounds of their words. Out of several hundred men, Shem found only thirty-three that could understand and speak his new language.

  He looked over his army, once united to protect the sanctity of their language, now separated. Could they ever work together again? This is Nimrod’s fault, Shem thought. He defiled the Originator’s words and now the tongues of men have been confused.

  His men looked to him for guidance, but he knew only thirty-three could understand his words. Instead of speaking, he raised his hands toward the sky in a sign of supplication they all understood. As one, the men fell to their knees and, in twenty-three different languages, prayed.

  LOST

  ONE

  2009

  AS HE RAN the blood covering the man’s body stiffened with coagulation. The smell of it, like dirty pennies, overpowered the pine scent of the forest around him. He staggered forward, thankful to still be alive but in tremendous pain from his still healing injuries, which burned as though held to a flame.

  He clambered up a rise, slipping on the thick mat of pine needles and moist leaf litter. He had survived the impossible already, but if he were caught by his pursuers, life would not be worth living. Not for a very long time.

  So he ran on despite the pain.

  After topping the crest, he slid down the other side, searching for some means of escape, but saw only tree trunks, rising up to the clear blue sky above.

  Suddenly, his breath returned in full. He paused, feeling better in the brief reprieve, but still unable to turn his head or inspect the wounds he’d received. The burning had faded, but was quickly being replaced by an intense itch.

  A distant explosion urged him back to his feet. The battle continued without him, but it would end soon, and they would come for him.

  Running down the hill, he wove through the trees until coming to a path worn into the forest floor. He followed it, pushing his way through the overgrowth.

  Minutes later, a wall of white in the distance gave him hope. Upon reaching the white fence, he smiled. Beyond the fence lay a lawn of bright green grass in need of a cut and a large house with a garage nearly as big. He waited for as long as he dared, watching and listening. Detecting no life, he moved around the fence and approached the side of the house.

  The driveway was empty.

  He headed for the front of the home. A swing attached to the ceiling of the long farmer’s porch swayed in the summer breeze. Nothing else stirred. Looking across the street, he saw the home’s mailbox popped open and packed with mail.

  No one had been home in a while. On vacation, the man thought, and then eyed the large four-car garage. He found the side door unlocked and entered. The first two spots were empty, but a tarp covered something in the third. He rushed to it, his pulse quickening. The tarp slid free easily as he pulled it, revealing a perfectly polished, black 1957 Pontiac Star Chief, its chrome sparkling in the blue light cast from the garage’s overhead fluorescents. It wouldn’t be fast, but no one would suspect the vehicle was a getaway car, either.

  He opened the door and slid, awkwardly, into the driver’s seat. Wondering for a moment if he would have to search the house for the keys, he looked down at the ignition and found them hanging there, complete with rabbit’s foot.

  It was turning out to be his lucky day after all.

  He turned the key and the old engine roared to life. Smiling, he reached up and hit the garage-door button attached to the sun visor. The door rumbled open, filling the garage with daylight. He put the car in gear, rolled out into the driveway, and pushed the garage-door button once again.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching as the door closed completely. He wanted to leave no obvious trace of his being here. He looked out the driver’s side window, searching the pavement for drops of blood, but his wounds had long since stopped bleeding and his clothes had dried. Unfortunately, there was not time to change from the rancid clothes, but he would find something on the road before long, when he was free of his enemies.

  Not remembering if he’d closed the side door to the garage, he adjusted the rearview mirror, but moved it too far, catching the side of his face in its view. He leaned in close to inspect the bloody marks on his face and gr
inned as he found no wound marring the surface.

  As he leaned back, an awkward pressure pushed against his back, like a clump of clothing or a wrapped-up towel had fallen between him and the seat. As he turned to look, the rearview mirror caught his attention once again. Not only could he see his face, but a second rising up behind him.

  Had the man’s baritone scream not been contained by the thick metal and glass of the classic car, anyone who heard it might have mistaken the cry for that of a local moose. As it was, no one heard the man, or saw him, again.

  TWO

  2010

  “JACK SIGLER, PLEASE take the stand.”

  Jack Sigler, call sign King, sat down on the stand next to the Honorable Judge Samantha Heinz, who had been staring at him with distrust since he walked into the courtroom. It was an unfortunate circumstance that most military child-custody cases involved the active-duty father losing his family for one unsavory reason or another. Ultimately, King knew most of the soldiers were not to blame—combat tended to do awful things to those not wired for it. And most people weren’t. He looked at the judge as she stared down at him over her thick glasses.

  As the bailiff swore him in, King thought about the path that had brought him, one of the world’s most elite soldiers, to a custody hearing. Six months earlier he had been summoned to the Siletz Reservation in Oregon by, he believed, his lifelong friend and the former fiancé of his deceased sister, George Pierce. But the message turned out to be phony, and when King arrived at the reservation he had found it in ruins. The town was in flames. Thousands of people were dead. And mysteriously, a little girl appeared in the backseat of his car with a note pinned to her:

  King—this one is for you. I’ve gone after the rest.

  The symbol belonged to Alexander Diotrephes, a man King believed to be the historical, and living, Hercules. His team had first encountered the man two years previous while searching for a way to stop the Hydra—one of Hercules’s ancient foes reborn by modern genetics. Alexander had been aloof and mysterious, commanding a loyal following he called the Herculean Society and strange creatures they deemed wraiths. Before disappearing he had provided them with the means to stop the Hydra’s ability to regenerate its body and to kill it. But he hadn’t been seen since, and all efforts to track him down led to dead ends. The symbol on the note was the only proof they had that the man still existed.