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Alien Bet & The Invasion of the Lake Puppets | Ch. 11 - The Cerberus
🕑 Added 2024-10-17 08:45:27 +0000 UTCThe waitress eyed the silver coin Geoffrey had given her, turning it over in her hand as if testing its weight and authenticity. Satisfied, she walked over to Peter Hilton. Geoffrey leaned back into the shadows, watching as the waitress spoke to Hilton and gestured toward him. Peter excused himself from his group and made his way over to Geoffrey's table, sitting down with a calm, steady presence.
From what Red had told him, Geoffrey knew this man wouldn’t come cheap, but the price would be worth it. Peter Hilton was one of the most renowned balatee stockmen on the lake. After whales went extinct, their valuable baleen—rigid yet flexible whiskers used to filter plankton—had become a scarce and highly sought resource. With the world desperate for substitutes and synthetic alternatives banned by the Science Academy due to environmental concerns, the balatees—relatives of the dugong—had become the new source of baleen.
Balatees were massive creatures, reaching up to eight meters and weighing several tons. Though their blubber wasn’t optimal for sirenia oil, the whiskers in their mouths could be harvested, just like baleen from whales. Geoffrey had no experience with balatees. His herd had always been dugongs, and the sensitive nature of balatees meant their care required special expertise. Peter Hilton, known for his skill in managing the delicate creatures, was exactly the asset Geoffrey needed to bring into his fold.
Peter was taller than Geoffrey, with a square face and a large forehead. His expression was stoic, betraying little emotion, though his eyes reflected a sharp intelligence. He waited patiently, his calm demeanor giving nothing away. Geoffrey, assessing the man up close, finally decided to begin.
“How’s work?” Geoffrey asked, probing with deliberate casualness.
Peter’s expression faltered, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face. The question had landed. But, just as quickly, Peter regained his composure, the signs of experience and resilience reasserting themselves.
“Work’s been... slow,” Peter admitted, his tone measured. “Tough times. But I’m good at what I do. Something will come along.”
Geoffrey leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on a more conspiratorial tone. “Maybe it already has.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, showing he was listening intently. “I’m all ears.”
“I represent a businessman who’s been expanding his operations.” Geoffrey slid a card across the table, emblazoned with his estate’s symbol. Peter’s eyes widened slightly, recognition flashing in them. Geoffrey could see the gears turning as Peter considered the offer.
“He’d like to invite you for a meeting,” Geoffrey continued. “A job interview, if you will. Tomorrow, at the estate.”
Peter picked up the card, examining it for a moment before looking back at Geoffrey. “I thought Mr. Geoffrey only dealt in dugongs. I work with balatees.”
“Your expertise is exactly why we’re reaching out. We’re expanding into balatee husbandry, and we need someone who knows how to handle the specifics—like you.”
Peter remained silent for a moment, the weight of the offer sinking in. “And the compensation?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
Geoffrey allowed a small, knowing smile. “More than appropriate for someone of your talents. You won’t be disappointed.”
Peter nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll think about it.”
Geoffrey sensed the man’s hesitation and decided to press just a little further. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know anyone else in your circle who might be feeling... underwhelmed by their current working conditions? Anyone particularly skilled who might want a change?”
Peter’s gaze sharpened, and Geoffrey could almost see the connections forming in the man’s mind. He knew how to plant the seed of doubt, how to make Peter reconsider his loyalty to his current situation. Peter would walk away with the offer spinning in his head, and by morning, Geoffrey was sure he’d be at the estate.
“I might,” Peter said after a pause, his voice cautious but intrigued.
“Good,” Geoffrey replied, leaning back into his chair. “Bring them along. We’ll take care of you.”
Peter stood, tucking the card into his pocket. Without another word, he turned and walked back to his group, but Geoffrey knew the conversation wasn’t over. Tomorrow would bring the answer he was looking for.
*
The day had passed in a blur of exploration, and though Professor Esther had repeatedly asked for "just five more minutes" to continue her research in the lake, Red eventually made the call to head back. The sea cows, their bellies full of seagrass, followed the dolphins and the submarine back to the shore, likely expecting dessert in the form of juicy apples.
Joey had gone from not knowing what a cline was to becoming a near-expert in just a day. He’d seen all sorts of them through the submarine’s windows: pillars of saltwater rising to the surface, root-like patterns of freshwater cutting through the deeper layers, and stratifications that didn’t seem to follow any logical order. Fish stayed in their respective layers, saltwater dwellers keeping to their boundary while dolphins and dugongs freely moved between the two.
It baffled Joey that all of this could exist in the same lake, water but not mixing. Esther, however, had spent the day deep in thought, theorizing about chemoclines, haloclines, and all the other types she could recall. He noticed her fidgeting, her foot tapping restlessly as her mind raced.
“So,” Joey ventured, breaking the silence. “If there are all these types of clines, that means there must be a logical explanation for this, right?”
“This isn’t my first time seeing clines,” Esther replied, her voice distant. “But this... this is chaos. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What should it look like?”
“Normally, it would be horizontal, like layers of oil and water. I’ve seen it in underwater caves—saltwater sinks, freshwater stays on top. That’s what most of the lake showed us today.”
Joey nodded. “And the vertical ones?”
“Those are rarer. You see them where rivers meet, or where river water meets the sea. But today... we saw both. And more.”
“So, it’s normal?” Joey asked, trying to reassure himself.
Esther shook her head. “No, Joey. It’s not. Seeing so many different patterns, all close together? It doesn’t make sense. Especially the root-like shapes. Or the pillars. There’s no logic behind them.”
Joey glanced out the window as the Nautilus coasted toward the shore, the sunset casting a golden hue across the lake. Red was already stepping out of the submarine, his movements fluid and confident, despite his age. Joey felt a sense of relief as his feet touched dry land.
“Thanks, Red. We appreciate you letting us tag along today,” Joey said.
“Don’t mention it,” Red replied with a nod. “We all want what’s best for the town.”
Esther, lost in thought, barely registered the exchange. Joey could see the fatigue weighing on her. He turned to her, sensing it was time to head back.
“Shall we go, Professor?”
She blinked, as if awaking from a trance. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Red.”
They made their way to the locomotive, and soon the rhythmic clickety-clack of the wheels filled the air as they journeyed through the woods toward the city.
“So, professor,” Joey prompted, “is this the part where we exchange theories?”
Esther gave a slight smile. “I suppose so. Any thoughts?”
“I was hoping you’d go first.”
Esther reached into her rucksack, pulling out an old newspaper. She handed it to Joey, who looked at the headline: “Green Comet Sighted by Observatory.”
“I don’t follow. I read about this. Something about good wine this year. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you know the difference between a meteor and a comet, Constable?”
Joey shrugged. “Not really. Aren’t they the same thing?”
“Not quite. Meteors are pulled into the Earth’s atmosphere and, if they’re big enough, they make it to the surface. Comets, on the other hand, pass by without entering the atmosphere.”
Joey frowned. “So what are you getting at?”
Esther’s eyes narrowed. “What if this wasn’t a comet? What if it was a meteorite, and it crashed into the lake?”
Joey blinked, processing the idea. “You mean the flood was caused by a meteorite? Like when you get in a bathtub and the water overflows?”
“Exactly.”
“But... wouldn’t the meteorite have to be huge to displace that much water?”
Esther nodded. “Lake Grassum is roughly ninety thousand square kilometers, and the water rose by a full meter. The meteorite would need to be the size of a mountain to cause that kind of displacement.”
Joey’s eyes widened. “But wouldn’t we have noticed? I mean, something that big...”
“That’s the problem,” Esther said quietly. “If something that size fell into the lake, the impact would’ve wiped out everything for thousands of kilometers. We wouldn’t be here.”
Joey felt a chill run down his spine. “So... it’s not possible.”
Esther sighed. “It seems unlikely. But it’s still too much of a coincidence. Something happened that day.”
Joey nodded slowly, pulling out his notepad. “I’ll send letters to the coastal towns, see if anyone saw anything fall.”
“That’s a good start,” Esther agreed. “If it broke apart before impact, smaller fragments might’ve fallen without causing mass destruction.”
“And what about the idea of an underwater volcanic eruption?” Joey asked, scratching his head. “That’s what most people think.”
Esther tilted her head, considering. “It’s possible. But something this big should’ve caused earthquakes, or at least visible signs like smoke or changes in the water’s composition.”
Joey pointed out, “The water did change. The salinity, the clines...”
“True,” Esther admitted. “But it feels... too organized. Like something planned this.”
Joey shivered. He couldn’t help but wonder what she meant by that.
“Joey,” Esther continued, her tone shifting, “what do you make of all this? How is the city coping?”
“Well, it’s been chaotic. People are panicking, buying up supplies. The mayor and the ranchers are trying to keep everyone calm, but the truth is, the situation is fragile. One flood in a lake, and it’s like the whole country’s unraveling.”
Esther nodded. “And what about Mr. Geoffrey? You seem... suspicious of him.”
Joey’s heart skipped a beat. “You caught that, huh?”
Esther gave a knowing smile. “You’re not the first to use an emissary of the Science Academy for political maneuvering.”
Joey sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s not that. Geoffrey and I go way back. We went to school together. He was poor, came to class barefoot. Now, he’s the hero who saved the town’s oil supply.”
“And?”
Joey hesitated. “I don’t know... something’s off with him. I can’t shake the feeling that he knows more than he’s letting on. Maybe he’s connected to the flood somehow.”
Esther was quiet for a moment, her gaze steady. “You’re not crazy, Joey.”
“Why not?” he asked, surprised.
“Because I feel it too. Something’s not right. Keep an eye on him. We’ll figure this out.”
*
Deep beneath New Lisbon, in the labyrinth of sewers, lay a massive chamber. Its towering archways and vaulted ceilings gave it the appearance of an underground cathedral. Once a bustling hub for workers building the city’s sewage system, the chamber had long been forgotten—abandoned. What was once filled with the roar of steam machinery and the clamor of hundreds of laborers had now become the Black Merchant’s secret lab.
In the center of the chamber sat a young woman strapped to a cold, metal chair. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, but her brown eyes, dull and unfocused, gave her the look of someone far older—someone trapped. Her gray tunic resembled a hospital gown, and her shaved head only deepened the impression that she was a patient undergoing some terrible treatment. Half a helmet rested on her head, its thin metal rods protruding like the spikes of a hedgehog, trembling with a life of their own.
The contraption above her—hanging from a delicate metal crane—mimicked the movements of her headpiece as if the two were connected in some fragile, grotesque dance. Behind her, the machine loomed a titanic structure that filled the chamber with its endless gears and pistons. Some cogwheels were as large as houses, others as small as acorns, all turning with an eerie, hypnotic precision. Steam hissed, jets shrieked, and the entire apparatus hummed with a life of its own.
Minutes earlier, an intruder had arrived. He had triggered an alarm yet evaded every booby trap guarding the lab. Dressed in a business suit, with curly blonde hair, he had moved through the chamber with his eyes closed as if sleepwalking. Now, standing beside the young woman, he gently lifted a water skin to her lips, helping her drink. As the lake water passed her lips, a brief flicker of recognition crossed her face, and she closed her eyes as if in sleep.
Satisfied, the sleepwalker dropped the water skin, turned, and silently exited the lab. On his way out, he tripped on the same wire that had triggered the alarm but continued walking with serene grace, disappearing into the shadows. The last glimpse of him was the brief shimmer of light reflecting off his silver pocket watch before he vanished into the depths.
No more than thirty seconds later, another figure rushed into the lab. Cloaked in shadow, the man moved with determined stealth, rifle in hand. His heavy steps betrayed his urgency despite his attempts at caution. Darting from shadow to shadow, he advanced through the chamber, always keeping his back to the massive machine, his eyes scanning for any sign of the intruder.
Reaching an aperture in the machinery, the man pressed his ear to the humming metal. What sounded like mechanical noise to others was, to him, a familiar song filled with meaning. This machine was his creation—he knew its every whisper, every tick. After a few moments, he relaxed. The hum told him the truth: the machine hadn’t been tampered with, and the intruder had not hidden within it. Smart. Hiding inside the machine would have been suicide.
Confident now, the Black Merchant sidestepped toward the control console, keeping his rifle raised. He resisted the growing urge to rush to his daughter’s side. Not yet. The intruder could still be nearby. His mind raced as he processed the implications. No one should have known this place existed. He had made sure of that.
After several tense moments, he reached the console, pushed a button, and a strip of paper emerged. Balancing the rifle in one hand, he ran his fingers over the punctured holes in the paper, reading them with practiced ease. The lab had been breached nine minutes ago, and the intruder had left four minutes later. None of the traps had been triggered.
“No need for all thessse theatricss...” A voice hissed from the shadows.
Arsurius froze. The voice—familiar, yet strange—hit him like a blow. His heart twisted. It was his daughter’s voice, yet... wrong. The accent was unfamiliar, sibilant. His eyes filled with tears. He turned toward the chair, abandoning all caution.
“Miriam?” His voice cracked as he ran toward her.
But the figure in the chair was not the daughter he knew. Her expression—alien, cold—stopped him in his tracks. His blood ran cold.
“Who... how?” he stammered, his heart pounding. “M-m-Miriam?”
The woman’s lips curled into a twisted smile. “You were a difficult man to find, Arssuriuss...”
