Prologue
From her place of concealment, the mewman queen surveyed the scene before her. She had tracked this group, part of the conspiracy of would-be usurpers, to the Earth Dimension, where they searched for an ancient artifact.
The queen looked over her shoulder. She felt regret, and anger, at what she saw; a group of terran archaeologists had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the diminishing glow of twilight, she could see their blood seeping into the sandy ground. One had attempted to escape, but was caught before getting very far; his body lay unmoving a short distance from the other victims. It had taken all her willpower to not jump in and save them, but she had to make the regrettable decision that a kingdom full of lives weighed more in the balance than a few terran lives.
Turning her attention back to the usurpers, the queen watched as they entered the cleverly disguised, and badly eroded, Pylon of a temple. The temple was hidden within a tower of rock jutting out of the badlands. She had seen a similar rock feature in a terran movie about close encounters with alien visitors to Earth, although the name of the film escaped her. She smiled; she so loved Earth entertainment. She enjoyed the movies, sitcoms and cartoons, especially the ones with lots of action and romance. She grimaced as her heart ached with a sudden pang of loneliness, never having found her true love before ascending to the throne, just five years prior, when her mother was assassinated.
The prior queen, along with her king, had been murdered in a failed coup. It was pure luck that the current queen, at that time the crown princess in her twenty-fourth year, had stumbled upon the assassins before they were able to continue their murdering-spree by assassinating her and her sister. She defended herself like the warrior princess she was, but it resulted in no beings left alive to shed light upon the conspiracy.
Over the next five years, as she ruled Mewni, the queen sent many a spy to try to root out the corruption, but none returned. She finally, surreptitiously, took on the search herself, using her magicks in her bid to discover the perpetrators.
The queen was powerful; scary powerful. She was a warrior queen, trained in many forms of combat, and was the strongest magic-wielder ever in the history of Mewni. In a bid to counteract this, the conspirators began looking for long-lost magical relics from Mewni's past, that they might use to gain the magical advantage needed to depose the queen.
The queen managed to torture a small piece of information out of a being, using a dark mind-invasion spell, before he committed suicide. She learned that the cabal believed they had found, in the Earth Dimension, the most powerful magical object ever created, lost for centuries. How it had come to be hidden on Earth, a dimension the mewmans had abandoned millennia before, they did not know, nor did they care; they simply saw the end of their vile quest.
The queen smiled derisively; the amateurs had left no guards outside the entrance. She slipped out of her hiding place, quickly entering the rock formation behind them. She caught up with the group inside a large chamber, hollowed out of the rock. She wished she could stop to admire the statues and read the inscriptions, but she had work to do.
"Stop, in the name of the queen of the High Kingdom of Mewni! Bow before your queen, and beg her forgiveness!"
"Never, usurper!" one of the beings responded. She, and the rest of the conspirators, pulled bladed weapons from their sheaths, moving to surround the queen.
The queen smiled grimly, fuming at the nerve of them calling her the usurper, as she pulled the family short-sword from its scabbard. It pulsed as she channeled magic into it, making the wickedly-sharp blade all the more lethal.
The queen made short work of her would-be killers. They fought hard and well, much to the surprise of the queen, but they were no match for her skill and magicks. Belying the blood and body parts splashed about the chamber, this time the queen had been careful to leave one being alive, though he would not be for much longer. She grabbed him by his hair, and as she turned to drag his fading body out of the cave so she could question him properly, a loud explosion echoed off the rock walls. The queen had somehow missed seeing one of the conspirators.
Staggering backwards, the queen slapped a hand to her chest, gasping in pain. She pulled her hand away, gazing at the blood dripping from it. The queen looked up, sharply inhaling in shock at the sight of a mewman woman looking down the sights of a terran ballistic weapon.
"No," the queen sobbed, "not you; it can't be you."
"Oh, but it is. Good-bye." Scorn dripping from her voice, the assassin added, "The queen is dead; long live the queen." She fired, tearing the queen's already broken heart.
The dying queen turned toward the chamber, channeling as much magic as she could, firing at the roof and upper walls of the cave. The assassin cried, "Bitch!" as she turned and fled. Outside, coughing from the dust billowing from the entrance, she was nonetheless jubilant. It would be more difficult for her and her comrades to consolidate and permanently hold power without the magical artifact, as a second royal death so soon after an assassination would raise suspicions, but they nonetheless now held the political power.
Buried inside a pocket within the rubble, her life-force quickly fading, the queen saw a bright, golden, light. She felt its warmth, and heard its cry, sounding like an out-of-tune radio, calling her to it. Knowing there was nothing more she could do, she released herself to its loving embrace, just as it began to glow with a tinge of crimson.
— OoOoO — O — OoOoO —
I
"Congratulations, commander, you've made a remarkable recovery. It's incredible that you survived at all, but to be fully recovered and back to your prior health in twelve months is nothing short of a miracle. I daresay you might even be healthier and stronger than you were before."
"Thank you, ma'am."
Lieutenant Commander Marco Spector, U.S. Naval Intelligence, a tall, buff, 30-year-old, in his dress whites, stood. Placing his cap upon his head, he snapped a smart salute. The doctor stood, returned the salute, then handed him an envelope with the inevitable stack of paperwork, officially declaring Marco's clean bill of health.
"You're certain about your decision?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am."
"We're losing a fine officer ... and, if I may say so, a great human being."
Marco took the doctor's extended hand. "Thank you, colonel."
The doctor smiled. "Soon to be just Doctor Smith to you, eh?"
Marco grinned. "Indeed."
Colonel Smith snorted. "Your captain has been a bad influence on your vocabulary. Dismissed, Marco."
Marco stepped out of the infirmary and walked down the sidewalk to the edge of the street. He looked around, the last time he would see this base, short of a disaster. He'd spent way too much time there, by his reckoning, but he supposed he was being silly; he trusted the doctor's word that his recovery had actually been quite short.
Sighing, he turned toward the transportation pool and the military transport that would return him to his home base. He had one final duty to perform.
— OoOoO — O — OoOoO —
"Well, son, it's done."
"Yes, it is, sir."
Marco's now-former captain snorted. "Stuff that 'sir' shit, Marco. You're a civvy now. Call me Bob."
"Yes, sir," Marco replied, grinning.
"I'm not certain I'm going to miss that insubordinate sense of humor."
Marco sat in the C.O.'s office, in civilian clothes. The few worldly belongings he kept with him in his billet were in a duffel bag next to the closed door.
"I wish I could've talked you out of it. Your resignation is a big loss to this command, and to the country."
"Thank you, Bob, but it was time. The murderers of my parents and the rest of the expedition haven't been found; hell, not even a clue to their identities has been found."
"Your parents were a great loss, as well. As an archeology buff I knew about Doctors Rafael and Angie Spector before I ever met your sorry ass. One of the greatest thrills of my life was getting to meet them, thanks to you." Bob chuckled. "They were wonderful people, too ... writing that letter thanking me for disciplining you, after you beat that Marine senseless for calling you a REMF, is not something that's happened many times in my career. And I have to say it was one of the best decisions I've ever made, taking personal responsibility for your discipline; you've paid me back a thousand fold for getting those charges dropped."
"Thank you for that. As for my parents, I agree, they were great ... I really miss them."
"I still think you were better off staying so you'd have direct access to our resources."
"I understand, but what I didn't have was the freedom to use them when and how I needed them, and to go where I needed to, when I needed to. Those freedoms more than offset the loss of official access."
"Of course I didn't hear that. But any time you need help that's legal give me a ring, okay? I want those bastards almost as much as you do."
"I will."
Bob stood, followed by Marco. Bob offered his hand, which Marco shook enthusiastically. "What're your first steps, son?"
"A little data consolidation and examination, then off to where it happened, South Dakota."
— OoOoO — O — OoOoO —
Home; 4815 Avocado Terrace, Echo Creek, California, USA. Although ... it didn't really feel like home any longer.
Marco was an only child; he sometimes felt regret at that, thinking he would have made a wonderful big brother for a little sister. He had left Echo Creek for Stanford at sixteen, surprising everyone. It wasn't a surprise that he'd graduated early and been accepted to such a prestigious school, it was a surprise that he was moving away from home. He had always been the "safe kid," reluctant to face the unknown. Moving away from home was a huge step for the kid who lacked confidence, and was unwilling to take risks. However, near to campus was a dorm ... almost a group home ... for teen prodigies attending local universities, with staff serving as guardians and mentors, guiding the teens during their final years of personal education and growth.
During that time Marco visited home often ... not often enough to suit his parents, but enough that his parents' house still felt like home. He'd graduated at nineteen with Distinction ... he would have graduated summa cum laude if Stanford awarded that honor ... then joined the Navy, where he was assigned to Naval Intelligence the moment he was eligible. After that, he seldom returned home, then, after his parents' murders, not at all. They were what had made it home.
To this day Marco wasn't quite certain why he joined up. Living away from home helped develop confidence in his ability to face the challenges of life, so the military wasn't necessary for that. Too, the military wasn't exactly a "safe job," for a "safe kid," for many reasons, not the least of which was the potential for death. Marco figured it was because of being around so many military personnel as an impressionable teen. He was also heavily recruited, a boost to his teen ego. In his more honest moments, Marco added the fact that he had always secretly craved a little danger in his life, and the military certainly could supply that.
Marco probably could have gone on to a great career in private business straight out of college and made piles of money ... but he had no regrets, and was fairly certain he felt more fulfilled than being a corporate drone would have made him.
It wasn't just Marco that moved on. Of all his Echo Creek friends, only one remained in town; his ex, Jackie Lynn Thomas, was living in her parents' home while working on her doctorate in history at U.C.L.A. Alfonzo Dolittle had graduated from college and was working a corporate job somewhere on the east coast, Marco wasn't certain where. Ferguson O'Durguson had developed respiratory issues so moved away from the L.A. smog to Minnesota, where he, surprisingly, became successful in politics. There was talk of him running for governor at some point.
Not even her parents nor Jackie knew where Janna Ordonia was ... an unmarked grave, Marco supposed.
Marco thought about calling on Jackie, but ultimately decided not to. Their romantic relationship had been rough ... they never really got in sync ... but they had parted amicably when both decided they just weren't the best match. They'd corresponded now and again while Marco was at Stanford, but lost touch after he joined the Navy. She had called after his parents' murders, once he had recovered enough to take calls, but they hadn't talked since. He thought she would be okay with a visit, but decided he needed to focus on other things at the moment.
Now, with his parents and friends gone, home was just a house. In the current moment Marco was sitting in the spare bedroom of that house, in the middle of three corkboards. He was sitting on a backwards chair, staring at them. On the boards, and on several whiteboards elsewhere in the room, were summaries and photos of everything he knew; the originals, with more extensive details, were on the computer set up on a desk in the corner.
The layout was like those often seen in movies and TV shows, where photos, notes, documents, and so on, were pinned on one or more boards. Various colors of string were used to show relationships among the data.
At least, that's the way it was supposed to be. There was a lot of bare space on the boards, and no strings. As Marco stared at the information, or rather lack thereof, he came to the conclusion that, depressingly, he knew almost as little as the authorities.
Marco thought back to the night in question. His parents had invited him to spend his leave with them at their dig in South Dakota, to be there when they entered what they thought could be the find of their lifetimes. Unfortunately, it had been the end of their lifetimes, as well as the lifetimes of all the support staff and almost himself as well.
Marco's memories of the attack weren't clear; he didn't know why. Even the psych evals didn't shed any light on it. Marco guessed blood loss might have caused brain damage, although Colonel Smith was skeptical of the theory.
Marco clearly remembered crawling over the sandy ground, away from his attackers. He vaguely remembered fighting several, as the rest slaughtered the expedition with bladed weapons, but the strength and training of his opponents outclassed his own. That surprised him; he was no slouch, well trained and strong, yet he had been handled easily. He thought he tried to flee when he realized it was hopeless, and had a blurry vision of one of the women pulling a gun as he ran. The doctors later told him four slugs had been shot into him; two into his right lung, collapsing it, another into his left and just barely nicking his heart, and the final into the small of his back, cracking a vertebra and bruising his spinal cord. That last bullet then traveled through his core, luckily missing any vital spots, before finally tearing into, and lodging in, the abs he was so proud of.
For some reason the murderers didn't finish him off. Marco tried to crawl away but finally gave up and lay there, waiting to die. As he faded, Marco remembered the moon rising, a rare red-crescent-moon, often called a Blood Moon.
Marco remembered nothing else from that point forward until after he woke up in a military hospital a week later. It was nothing short of a miracle that a paraglider spotted the bodies of the expedition members the next morning. He was taken to a local hospital, then transferred to a military hospital.
Nobody, not even Colonel Smith after she became personally responsible for Marco's care, could explain how Marco didn't bleed out, drown in his own blood, suffocate, get eaten by coyotes, or succumb to any of the dozens of gruesome demises the hospital staff speculated could ... should ... have befallen him. The staff called him their "miracle baby." It annoyed the heck out of him, but he wasn't about to pull rank on the caregivers that had saved his life.
The story in the press was that the expedition had been ambushed by drug runners after stumbling upon their operation. The news stories, and official government report, stated the archeologists had been there for a general search, hoping to find anything, but had found nothing prior to the tragedy. Marco knew that wasn't true; they were there to investigate a specific site, which he had told the government investigators, yet that fact was strangely missing from the report. The Spectors had funded the trip themselves, rather than the universities they were associated with, so the schools had no idea what had been found to prompt the trip. There shouldn't have been any mystery about the expedition, so Marco figured that was probably the place to start digging, so to speak, beginning with studying the personal notes of his parents and the expedition members.
Marco yawned and stretched, checking his watch; it was 2am. He dragged himself to his bedroom, put on his jam-jams ... he smiled, not believing he still called them that ... then went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
As Marco scrubbed his teeth with his Love Sentence Singing Toothbrush, surprisingly still functional after so many years, he thought he detected movement in the mirror. He stopped, trying to determine what he had seen. Deciding he had seen nothing, he returned to brushing.
Suddenly, Marco noticed a face in the mirror, peering out from the gap in the partially open shower stall door. It was the face of a woman, somewhere around her late twenties or early thirties, he guessed, with long, blonde, hair. She had intense blue eyes and, weirdly, a light-pink heart tattoo on each cheek.
Marco whirled, dropping into a fighting stance and brandishing the toothbrush like a weapon, but there was nothing there. Pull it together, Spector, he thought. After a few moments he returned to brushing his teeth, then afterwards retired to bed.
Marco's sleep was fitful, dreaming of pyramids and onion-domed structures, under a purplish-orange sky. The dream world had multiple moons, including one very large moon, with a debris ring, that dominated the sky.
— OoOoO — O — OoOoO —
Marco spent the next morning going over some neglected paperwork for his parents' estate. It was routine and mundane, except for the $6,500 monthly royalty checks. The children's character Dora d'Splora was loosely based on his parents and their travels, science, and adventures. The publishers continued the payments to Marco as a token of sympathy for his loss, and to honor his parents whom they, children across the globe who knew the character's origin, and the Spectors' students, current and former, loved and mourned. Marco was so grateful it hurt; they didn't have to do that.
Once the paperwork was out of the way, Marco took his morning coffee and planted himself in front of his computer. He began by browsing through his parents electronic records and notes on their research. He could have concentrated on only the site they were working when they were killed, but his time in Naval Intelligence had taught him that, if a conspiracy was afoot, a single fact, not correlated with a specific event and so seemingly unrelated, could break a case wide open.
It was fascinating work. It was the curiosity and eye for detail he'd learned from his parents that had led to Marco being so highly recruited, but his interests simply weren't in archaeology. Nonetheless, he enjoyed reading about his parents' finds, in no small part because they were his parents'.
Marco dwelled on a passage about the strange, runic, characters used in writings all over the world. They first appeared 6,000 years ago, predating the writings in Mesopotamia by a millennium. The runes had been found in the pyramids of Egypt and Central America, the ruins of Rome, the barrows of Stonehenge, the mounds and flint mines of the Adena and Hopewell cultures of Ohio, tombs in China, Andean burial caves, and many other ancient sites, regardless of whether the local cultures developed writing of their own. The runes always predated the form of writing a civilization became known for, such as hieroglyphics, and appeared to be the basis from which those forms evolved. Angie had named them the primum runes.
The primum runes are nearly identical to the runes used by the Celts, yet are millennia older, Angie wrote. We know the meanings of Celtic runes, but applying those meanings, or the meanings of similar runic symbols, to writings that used primum runes do not result in any recognizable text. Unless we find an equivalent of the Rosetta Stone, we might never decipher and translate them.
Marco examined the transcript of a piece of writing using primum runes, discovered in Turkey in the ruins of what was thought to be a Hittite temple for worshipping Kaskuh, god of the Moon. The original stone tablet on which it was carved had multiple crescent-moon symbols on it; microscopic analysis of the tablet revealed a form of red paint had been used on the symbols. He studied the runes, blocking everything else out, trying to prise from them their secrets.
— OoOoO — O — OoOoO —
Marco suddenly jerked awake. He shook his head ruefully; the coffee hadn't been strong enough to make up for his short, restless, sleep the night before. He yawned, stretched, and groaned. Although his injuries were healed, they could still hurt, especially after sleeping in awkward positions; the pains would diminish with time, but were unlikely to go away entirely. Marco whispered a few, rather vile, obscenities, then turned his attention back to the computer screen.
With a start, Marco realized a word-processor window had been opened and there was text in the document.
Translation: Once every 667 years the light of the Blood Moon drobbles down and selects two lucky souls, binding them together for eternity in its hypnotic, ruby, brodum.
Marco leaned back, his first thought being, What the heck is a brodum? His second was, Who the hell wrote that? After a few moments, he decided, Had to have been me, but 'sleep-translating?' Weird. Curiosity got the better of him; he returned to his parents' notes, looking for a date. Whomever had created the primum runes had used a celestial calendar for dates, allowing them to be recognized and deciphered in modern times. His parents translated the date found on the writing slab as 1315 BCE. Marco pulled out a calculator and did the math; assuming the runes were carved in a year of the Blood Moon, then the most recent Blood Moon would have been the year his parents were murdered.
I remember seeing a Blood Moon that night; what an odd coincidence, Marco thought. Then he thought, Get ahold of yourself, there's no way you actually translated that, even if it was possible to do something like that in your sleep. If mom and dad never figured it out, there's no way I did in only a couple hours. Still, he felt a sense of understanding and satisfaction, as if a burning question had been answered ... and, bizarrely, that it was not his conscious self, but something else, deep within, that felt those feelings.
— OoOoO — O — OoOoO —
A/N: I came up with this after watching a recent Disney series. You know the one. That's right ... The Owl House. I had no intention of starting another novel, but I just couldn't get this idea out of my brain, and it was distracting me from my current story. Since using an icepick again wasn't an option, I decided to write the first chapter to get my idea out there and out of my head. I don't know when the next chapter will be released ... my focus remains on Final Gambit so I have no intention of releasing another chapter for this story until the entire first draft of Final Gambit is completed. But, there could be a chapter or two if I need a break, or I'm particularly inspired, or I'm really gassy and need to let it out in a socially acceptable manner.