The Pharos Objective by David Sakmyster

stairwell. Caleb tore it out, crumpled it into a ball and brought it to his mouth, chewing into the edge to stop from screaming.
    When the thrumming in his ears subsided and only the knocking and whirring of the chamber remained, he glanced at his watch.
    Only two hours to go.
     

 
     
     
     
    7
     
     
     
    The Keeper stepped out of the white and blue cab, buttoned his suit coat and strode toward the crowded sidewalk. Somehow, in this sweltering city, the temperature had actually managed to rise since the sun dipped below the hillside rooftops. He noted their silhouettes, squat rectangular eyesores where there once stood magnificent temples, royal palaces and centers of learning.
    He grumbled as a mob of unwashed, barefoot kids ran past him. Brushing off his suit and checking to make sure none of them had picked his pockets, he shuffled into an alley that smelled of human waste. He trod carefully around an open sewer grate, breathing through his mouth. Overhead, white sheets and shirts hung from a stained clothesline, and dusty fans whirled in the open windows.
    He turned one corner, paused and, glancing over his shoulder, he expected to see something out of place, someone following him. He scanned the crowds, the hundreds shuffling away from the markets like ants back to the colony after a fruitful campaign. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Relaxing his shoulders, he summoned a weak smile and wondered whether he hadn’t let the paranoia go to his head.
    Then suddenly he felt it. He was certain of it, sure he was being tailed. And the tension crawled up the back of his neck.
Could be anyone,
he thought, imagining narrow faces pressed against car windows, eyes blinking at him from shadowed doorways. There was no reason to expect danger now, but he sensed it nonetheless. Perhaps because they were getting so close.
    The Pharos protects itself
.
    But from us?
He shook his head, turned and kept walking. No, the Keepers were the protectors.
We’re only doing what’s right, following the plan.
    Seeing no one in the next alley, a cramped space between the walls of two butcher shops, he opened the closest door and ducked inside. Within, the dark hallway was lit by a single naked bulb and littered with old newspapers and chicken bones. He walked to the only door on the left wall.
    There was a keypad next to the handle. The door itself was made of heavy iron with large hinges set in a reinforced frame. The Keeper typed in a five-number sequence, whistling softly, and shot a quick look around at the shadows that seemed to gather at the other end of the hall.
    Just as a hissing sound emanated from the door and the handle clicked, he had a surge of doubt, and the suspicion that he had just made a terrible lapse in judgment. He glanced down, and instead of opening the door he pressed the cancel button, then smeared his hands across the keypad, ensuring that no one could determine which keys had just been pressed.
Can’t be too careful
.
    The Keepers hadn’t survived this long by being reckless. The greatest danger had always come from within, from the choices of the other Keepers; and there was only so much you could do to avoid such events. One had to choose carefully, that’s all, as his father had done with him.
    He lowered his hands and flicked his right wrist.
    Choices.
    A slender blade that had been concealed up his jacket sleeve descended from a wrist strap. The smooth ivory handle settled comfortably in his grasp, and the feel of the cool grip calmed his pounding heart. He strode toward the shadows, wishing they had installed more lights overhead, despite the obvious protection such a dingy, dark location afforded to their secret entrance.
    Something glinted in that darkness. An eye? A weapon? He strode faster, crouching, preparing to leap.
    Then came a whisper. And another. Quick and powerful.
    Deadly.
    Two bullets punched through his chest and stopped him cold. The dagger clattered to the floor, a second before his