The Cydonia Objective

“Back down a bit, I guess. I saw it and took some neat pictures. You have to cross over a narrow walkway, then climb up through the arm. It looks really tight. And dangerous.”

Nodding, Caleb patted the man’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t expect otherwise. Thanks.” He stumbled for the descending stairs.

“But there’s no way you’ll get in,” called the tourist. “If you need to see the torch so bad, why not just go to the museum lobby? The original one’s down there…”

Caleb froze. The pounding of steps below, on the ascending stairs, was getting louder. Nina was closing in. His head snapped back. “The original? How long ago was it moved?” He cursed himself for being so careless. A quick review of the history on the statue’s website might have told him all this.

The man scratched his head and looked at his wife, who had just now come down from the observation area. She met his questioning eyes. “The original torch? I remember—the changes made to it by that sculptor—the one who designed Mount Rushmore…”

“Gutzman,” Caleb said, recalling the man working on the torch, retrofitting the windows with amber.

“Yeah, him. The glass windows he put in? I guess they leaked or something. Water and snow got in and corroded the torch and parts of the arm over time, so they decided to replace the whole thing. What’s up there now is a gold-plated, solid structure facsimile.”

“Right,” said the husband. “And they shine the huge spotlights on it from the base, and it lights up nice now. No need for interior lamps.”

Caleb’s head throbbed. “What year? When did they move it?” Was it after Patton’s man came up here?

“Oh,” said the woman, “not too long ago. I think during Reagan’s term. Part of his public works improvement project, and…”

But Caleb didn’t stay to listen any longer. He was racing down, heading for the lobby.

#

The narrow steps made it difficult, but after first checking to make sure he couldn’t see Nina anywhere down there, he went as fast as he could, but quickly caught up with other people moving very slowly. He squeezed around them wherever possible, but other times had to complain that he was about to be sick and they had to move aside or face the consequences. Soon he was back at the pedestal. Outside, the rain was still falling in torrents and the sky had darkened. The elevator was nowhere to be seen.

But he wasn’t waiting for it anyway. He made his way to the stairs and flew down, finding his energy getting better as the heat and altitude decreased. These stairs were much wider, with plenty of room to race by stragglers. He wondered how far back Nina was. Surely they had found he had slipped by them. Hopefully she may have been sidetracked at the torch, and had gone up there to check.

He could imagine a Hitchcockian scene if he had stuck to his original plan. If it hadn’t been for that couple and their information, the torch might have been his last stand—or more likely—fall.

Now he had a chance. He was almost there. Rounding the last bend, then onto the main floor, past the attendant still sitting with his crossword puzzle. He looked up, recognition in his eyes. “Oh, it’s you! A pretty lady was down here a short time ago, looking for you. Figured you wouldn’t mind, so I told her.”

“Thanks,” Caleb said in a muffled voice. “No time to chat, but if she comes back this way, can you stall her for a few minutes?”

“What? Why?”

“Assassin,” Caleb said, running for the next stairs, heading to the museum.

He burst through the lobby doors, emerging on the second level. A walled railing overlooked the floor and entrance to the museum…

Where the original torch stood in the center of the foyer.

#

A circular bronze railing set it off from public access, and a park attendant leaned against the railing by the main entrance, ready to answer questions or point tourists in the right direction.

Caleb stopped for a moment at the upper railing, studying the torch. He let his gaze quickly take in the details: the oxidized copper lattice-work, an intricate pattern making up the torch support; the weather-worn cylinder supporting the brilliant amber window-set flame, appearing windblown and magnificent, glowing with a comfortable internal radiance. It rested on a four-legged stand, keeping it several feet off the ground.

Caleb shut his eyes, trying to pick up the vision where he had left it. The worker, ascending the ladder…

Nothing but the doors opening, a mingling of voices. Then–

He’s out, emerging through the cylinder, taking a moment to glance over the side, down to the enormous head and crown, and further down to the other arm, cradling the tablet…

And then he kneels and chooses a spot, selecting one section of the artistic railing design, one of the metal bars interspersed between the curved trellises. And he begins to unscrew it, using a heavy wrench from his tool belt. When it’s free, he carefully places it in his satchel and removes something of a similar size. Unravels it from its leather garment, and holds aloft an almost identical bar, down to the knobs at the ends and in the middle. He unscrews the top and looks inside, verifying that the hollow cavity is filled with its prize… and then he screws it back in and sets it in place. When he’s done, his eyes focus and the great Tablet held in Liberty’s other arm is in direct sight, a straight line almost, to the object he just placed in the torch.

It was symbolic and fitting, Caleb realized, coming out of the vision, clearing his head. He wasn’t sure if Patton or this aide understood the spear’s true potential, but it may have worked on their minds, setting up the symbolic relationship. But they hadn’t counted on technology advancements, and the bad luck of leaky craftsmanship.

Caleb moved down the steps quickly, then walked around the torch, studying it.

“Can I help you?” asked the attendant, noticing his interest. “This is the original–”

“Torch, yes I know. I’m just looking for something…” He stopped, studying the layout of the windowed flame, recalling how it looked in his vision. Then he took two steps to his right and looked straight ahead. The bar in front of him…

That was it. But how could he get it?

The attendant shifted, and was now talking to a group of wet newcomers who were complaining about their treatment in the security line and the fact that they didn’t know they needed to reserve crown tickets ahead of time.

Seeing his chance, Caleb bent down, reached over the railing and gripped the bar. As the argument heated up, he twisted. One direction, then the next. It barely budged. He glanced at the door to the statue’s interior climb, expecting it to burst open any minute with his pursuers, then looked over to the crowd at the door, and now a line behind them, shouting to move so they could get out of the rain.

Screw it, Caleb thought. He vaulted the railing. Balancing on his left foot, he raised his right and aimed. Then sent his heel down, kicking hard at the top of the bar. It broke free with a piercing Crack!

The attendant spun around just as Caleb wrenched it free, and without checking inside the shaft, he ran for it. Hurdled the railing and raced for the stairs. He’d never make it through that crowd and back past security. His only chance was to run into the museum or back into the monument, ditch the bar and hide the lance under his clothes and then try to blend in with the crowd and get out the back stairs. Up and to the door.

“Hey!” the guard gave chase while shouting something into his walkie-talkie.

Caleb reached for the door, flung it open—and stopped short.

Nina was there, alone and out of breath. Sweat caked on her glistening skin. She reached into her purse and pulled out a gun, aiming at his head.

#

“Stop right th—” the attendant flew around the corner, only to be stopped by a bullet into his shoulder. He spun around and fell back down the stairs. And only then did the gun’s retort sound in Caleb’s ears. She was using a silencer, but it was still loud enough. Maybe not to draw a crowd, and if the guard hadn’t alerted security yet…

Caleb’s eyes widened. He held the bar in both hands like a weapon, and as he trembled he could feel