The aurora project we we.., p.1
The Aurora Project: We were not the first (Eemians Book 1), page 1
Eemians
The Aurora Project
Paul McGowan
Copyright © 2023 by Paul McGowan
Viceroy Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.
Visit: https://www.eemians.com
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
A note from the author
Acknowledgements
Preface
Modern-day science teaches us that civilization began 12,000 years ago as the glaciers that once covered Earth began to melt. We’re asked to believe that for the first time in humankind’s two and a half million-year journey, we left the shelter of our caves to go about inventing the wheel; mastering fire; planting crops, and eventually, lording over land, ocean, and outer space.
That was before the Aurora Project discovery changed everything.
We were not first.
Chapter 1
Kangerlussuaq Glacier, Greenland, October 28
High above them, a descending helicopter blocked the morning sun.
“Wave him off!” Kreisman cried over the deafening roar of its rotors.
“It’s not one of ours!” yelled Grant, his post-doc, eyes wide beneath his goggles.
Kreisman gestured with his thumb toward their equipment. “Get base camp on the radio. See if they can stop it from landing.”
In this pencil-thin valley of Greenland’s Kangerlussuaq Glacier, boxed in by towering cliffs of ice and mottled gray magma, the five scientists had nowhere to hide. They huddled together, gloved hands covering their ears and backs turned to the hurricane of blowing snow, praying the thunder of the landing helicopter would not collapse the mountain of ice perched high above them. The chopper crunched onto the valley floor.
Hands raised in front of his goggles to block the snow, Kreisman pivoted to face the intruders. This helicopter wasn’t the university’s blue and white six-seater—not that anyone on their team would be foolish enough to attempt a landing in an avalanche zone. The sleek, jet-black craft was bigger than anything Kreisman had ever seen. Painted on its door was the white silhouette of a statuesque man with angel-like wings.
“What kind of idiot would land in such a tight space?” Kreisman yelled to his team over the whine of the slowing rotor blades.
The chopper’s door slowly opened, but Kreisman was at a bad angle and couldn’t see who or what was on the other side. Then, below the door, ice crunched beneath two huge, white boots that emerged.
Kreisman sucked in a startled breath. Grant, still trying to work the radio, swore. The others drew even closer together, as if seeking protection in numbers.
Kreisman didn’t think numbers were going to help them against this.
A giant of a man stepped through the opening. His bent form kept unfolding until he towered above the helicopter’s door.
“Jesus,” mumbled Kreisman.
The behemoth stepped away from the aircraft and moved nearer. Instead of a parka, he wore a skin—and not one of the ubiquitous sealskins the Greenlanders used to make their clothing. The furry upper half of a lion’s head, feline ears standing erect like horns atop Satan’s brow, served as a hood. A row of yellowing canines formed a reverse crown on the interloper’s head above the gnarled mustache and long, pointed beard that framed his powder-white face.
Two more tall, bearded men emerged from the craft wearing similar garb, though without fallen beasts atop their heads. They remained respectfully behind the first as the trio marched to within inches of the group.
“Where is he?” growled the towering stranger. “I do not see him here.”
Kreisman could not pull his gaze away from the man, but he managed to point a trembling finger toward the rocky fjord’s north-facing cliff. “You could have killed us all,” he said. “That snowpack’s only hanging on by a thread.”
The giant slowly lowered his lion hood, revealing a long shock of flowing black hair. Kreisman trembled before the burning intensity in the intruder’s sea-green eyes. The coal black of his lowering brows only amplified the man’s viciousness.
His eyes, thought Kreisman. My God, they’re merciless.
The behemoth’s gloved index finger pointed at the group of researchers now huddled near one another, and behind him, his companions pulled handguns from hidden holsters. One of the younger researchers—Carter, Kreisman thought—started muttering prayers under his breath.
Kreisman didn’t think those were going to help much, either.
“Satsky,” the man said slowly, as if speaking to idiots. “Where is Satsky?”
“K-Karl?” Kreisman’s voice cracked. “Professor Karl Satsky? What on earth do you need him for?”
The questioner’s eyes never strayed. Never blinked. If Kreisman believed in such things, he’d have sworn that sea-green gaze could read his unspoken thoughts.
“We haven’t seen Satsky since last year,” blurted Grant.
Kreisman cleared his throat to keep the giant’s attention fixed on him. “We don’t know where he is. Karl’s working off-site. What’s this all about?”
“Kneel,” demanded the stranger.
Kreisman’s team shared a volley of surprised glances.
“I am Uzziel!” he roared.
As one, they dropped to their knees. Kreisman couldn’t believe the way he prostrated himself like a supplicant, but the force of the voice brought him down just as quickly as the others.
With another flicking gesture from Uzziel’s finger, the man on his left pulled back each researcher’s hood. The one on his right kept his weapon leveled as his partner moved down the line. Uzziel pulled a photograph from his pocket. His unblinking jade eyes slowly scanned each researcher’s face before comparing it to the image. Satisfied, he settled his lion’s hood over his head once again and returned to the helicopter, followed by his goons, without another word.
What the hell? Kreisman pushed himself upright and covered his ears as the black craft thundered out of the narrow canyon in a cyclone of whipped snow.
Inside the helicopter, Uzziel lowered his sharp-toothed hood and gazed down through the craft’s windshield at the group of researchers cowering below.
“Infidels,” he murmured. Uzziel motioned for the pilot to hover just above the edge of the north-facing cliff. Through his headphones came the crackle of the intercom system.
“Your Holiness. What is your command?”
Uzziel smiled at the pilot before sweeping a finger under his chin in a slicing motion. The pilot nodded and began aggressively lowering and raising the craft, pounding the enormous pile of snow atop the rocky ledge with the landing skids until massive blocks of ice hurtled down the cliff face toward those below.
They never had a chance.
Chapter 2
Nuuk, Greenland, October 28
Sam Sawyer was starving. He hadn’t taken a meal on the flight to New York. Even by his ham ’n’ egg standards, airline food was everything that hack comedian said it was. Then, on the New York to Halifax leg of the journey, he felt it best to sleep. When he landed, the airport’s restaurants had been closed for the evening. By the time they opened, he was on his way to Reykjavik, once again choosing sleep over sustenance. The last leg of the journey was reportedly murderous.
He had landed in Nuuk, disembarked with his luggage, passed through Customs and Immigration without a hitch, and was standing on the tarmac when two Greenlanders approached him twenty minutes later. Even though Sam was dressed for the chill he’d been warned about, he found himself envious of the sealskin parkas they wore.
“Aluu,” Sam said. Despite its similarity to the English word “hello,” he still stumbled over the phrase.
The shorter of the two offered him a smile and extended her hand. Though the temperature was surely below freezing, she didn’t wear gloves.
“Kutaa,” she replied. “I am Imi. This is Papik. Qivittoq has sent us.”
“Oh,” said Sam, empty stomach already sinking. “You have the wrong person. I’m Sam. Sam Sawyer? I’m starting work with Professor Karl Satsky.”
Imi’s enigmatic smile widened. “Aap, yes. You are Samuel Sawyer. Qivittoq said this.” She loosed a short laugh as if at a joke he missed. “This is what we call your professor. Qivittoq. Mountain walker. Others are afraid. We are not.”
“You’re from the university?” asked Sam. They sure didn’t look like they were from the university, and he was pretty sure he’d have known if a pair of Greenlandic Inuit had decided to study in Texas.
Papik’s frown was the inverse of Imi’s smile, and he didn’t meet Sam’s eyes.
“Naamik,” Imi said, shaking her head to reinforce the message of her single-word answer. “Not the university. From your professor.”
Sam shrugged, eager to get out of the cold, and took the offered hand, though he couldn’t bear to remove his own glove to do so. She shook once. Hard. Sam was far too fatigued to care as he watched his arm whip like a piece of slackened rope. Neither Imi nor Papik’s expressions changed, and Sam noted that the latter did not extend his hand for a similar greeting.
Like Imi, Papik’s features unmistakably belonged to the Greenlandic Inuit, though his dark eyes narrowed with a dash of disdain. Or maybe distrust.
Sam sighed. It looked like his long, long journey had only begun.
“Come. Follow me,” Imi said with cheer Sam couldn’t mimic. “We will take you.” She extended her arm toward a cherry-red Sikorsky. The white stripe adorning its side gave the helicopter the look of a mercy vehicle.
The flight was bumpy and loud. Papik remained up front, alongside the pilot, while Imi sat directly across from Sam in the rear of the craft. Wherever the hell they were—it was impossible to reckon, given that everything outside was white and level, and the little light in the sky was hidden behind dark cloud cover—headwinds buffeted the Sikorsky as they veered northeast. Sam coughed, and the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth was garnished with a little sting of bile. He took a deep breath, empty stomach churning.
“A little choppy.” Imi handed him what looked to be a shopping bag. “For puke,” she shouted, as the wind again swiped at the side of the helicopter. Sam squinted, his watering eyes meeting Imi’s. She seemed unperturbed by the upheaval and only turned her head away to look out the window.
Sam looked out at the fog and the snow and wondered what the hell he was doing here. The helicopter. The Greenlanders. Whatever the hell Qivittoq meant. None of it fit with what he had been told to expect upon his arrival in Greenland. He should have been riding a snowcat on his way to the university’s climate research center to work with Professor Satsky, not headed into an Arctic storm in a helicopter clearly piloted by a man with a death wish.
A loud crackle in his headphones was followed by a quick smattering of Danish from the pilot. The helicopter careened to the right, forcing Sam against his seat restraints.
“What’s happening?” he shouted.
Imi shook her head, pointing to her headphones. For the first time since she’d approached him on the tarmac, the smile slipped from her face. She unbuckled and fought her way to the cockpit. Sam held on for dear life, hoping the meager contents of his stomach would stay put. A little river of drool eked out of his mouth and ran down his chin, but he didn’t dare lift a hand to wipe it away.
The aircraft slowly righted, and Imi made her way back to Sam. The smile did not return. She fiddled with her headphones a few seconds before saying, “We must change course.”
Sam took the moment of near-stability to wipe his mouth with his sleeve. “Why? Where?”
“Emergency. Avalanche. We must help.”
“Det her er en nødsituation!” the pilot barked in the headphones.
Imi tightened her seat straps and gestured for Sam to do the same. With a lurch, the craft once again changed direction. His stomach told him they were descending. Outside his window, the endless white suddenly turned to mottled black. Sam looked at Imi, but her eyes were clamped shut. He cupped his hands against the window and saw they were dropping past a sheer rock face. A chill shot up his spine. The craft wobbled and rocked. He followed Imi’s example, gripping his seat and closing his eyes.
“Gør klar til landing!” said the pilot’s voice.
With a thud, the chopper stopped. Sam’s eyes sprang open. Imi was already unbuckling, and when Sam met her gaze, she used her chin to indicate a row of bright yellow parkas. Sam didn’t bother removing his other coat before shrugging into one of these new ones.
Sam’s gloved hand shielded his eyes as the craft’s door opened, and his nostrils burned with his first inhale of frigid air. They had landed on the icy floor of a long, narrow valley carved out of rocks that soared above them like tall spires. Papik and the pilot were already running toward a mountain of snow that seemed out of place in this flat valley. Imi approached Sam, handing him a white backpack emblazoned with a large red cross like the one already slung over her shoulders, before turning away and jogging after Papik. Sam followed, and when he reached them, he fell to his knees, already reaching for the shovel strapped to the side of his backpack. The four of them said nothing, entirely focused on the task of digging through the massive mound of snow.
“Her! Her!” cried the pilot, motioning for the others to join him.
Sam scrambled over the tumble of fallen ice toward an outstretched red sleeve buried in the snow. Papik grabbed the shovel from Sam and began digging until they exposed an ice-encrusted head beneath the snow. Imi brushed the snow from the man’s face then covered his mouth with hers and began rescue breathing. There was a coughing sound, and she backed away.
“Holy shit,” said Sam. “Kreisman? Professor Kreisman?”
“You know him?” asked Imi.
Kreisman’s frozen eyelids struggled open. The pilot and Papik pulled Kreisman’s stiff body from beneath its cage of snowy rubble. Imi wrapped him in a silver warming blanket.
Sam kneeled close to the man’s face.
“Professor Kreisman,” Sam said into his ear, noting a trickle of frozen blood. “Eric. It’s Sam Sawyer. From UT Dallas.”
“K-Karl . . .” Kreisman struggled to say the word.
“No, Professor Kreisman. No, it’s me. Sam.”
Kreisman’s hand emerged from beneath the warming blanket, and with unexpected strength, he jerked Sam within inches of his mouth.
“Karl . . .” he rasped again. “They wanted . . .” His eyes closed.
“They what, Eric? They who? Was Professor Satsky here?”
Kreisman coughed, and Sam grimaced, wiping blood-speckled spittle from the professor’s face.
“Looking for him,” he whispered. “Black . . .helicopter . . .”
“Eric, please. Save your strength. We’ll get you out of here, get you medical attention—”
Kreisman’s lips began to tremble, and if he heard Sam’s words, he didn’t acknowledge them. “White angel . . .maybe demon. Heli—”
Again he coughed blood. His arm flopped to the side.
“Eric? Eric!”
But Kreisman was no longer alive to answer.
As Imi pulled Sam away from Kreisman’s lifeless body, Sam pinched his thigh, certain this entire experience had to be some kind of dream. His heart sank when he didn’t immediately wake up in an uncomfortable airplane seat somewhere over the Atlantic.
“I am sorry,” she said. “But this is not right. Qivittoq was not here. This is not his mountain.”
Sam gazed up. Even in the shadows, he could make out the uneven, empty patch at the top of the rocky cliff face where the snow had somehow separated from what looked like a solid slab.
Odd, he thought, as Imi tugged on his arm, pulling him away, muttering about avalanches and danger. And damn near impossible.
Chapter 3
Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland, October 28
Minik had gotten up before the others, before first light, to start a fire in the woodstove that he had kept going all day. He heated a pot of water and warmed his wrinkled hands over the stove’s open grille. He splashed warmed water on his deeply creased face, then pulled back the flap of his sealskin tupiq to check the weather. Clear sky, bitter cold. Autumn had arrived. The ground was covered with hard-packed snow, and the previous night’s storm had only added to it.
