Jordan Dabolmort is a brilliant architect, a Freemason and a scientist with an overwhelming obsession -to create a New Order of Things- matched only by his desire to gain immortality.
Author: Christos Rodoulla Tsiailis more info
Jordan Dabolmort is a brilliant architect, a Freemason and a scientist with an overwhelming obsession -to create a New Order of Things- matched only by his desire to gain immortality.
But he’s not after a mystical elixir. He knows that true immortality can only be harnessed through science. With the help of three brilliant geneticists, he soon makes a discovery that could change everything: Gamma Klotho, the elixir of life and ingenuity… a breakthrough in nanotechnology.
In a new chapter of the ages-old war between the Black and White Fraternities, a war that moves back and forth through time, from Roman chapels and catacombs to modern universities, from underground tunnels in Athens to the state-of-the-art airborne Metro of the future, there is little this battle of wills leaves untouched.
The countdown to the next stage of human evolution is about to begin.
About the book
KLOTHO SURFACES is a groundbreaking techno thriller about how genetic evolution will eventually lead humanity to immortality. Science fiction at its best, where quantum physics, time travel, and nanotechnology experiments create an alternate reality no one could ever have imagined.
Book 1 of The Omniconstants Trilogy is a complex and thoroughly researched historical and scientific novel, that will imprint on you long after you finish.
Christos Rodoulla Tsiailis
First cover shown, from Kindle edition.
——–Read an Excerpt
At an exclusive nursing home
“N-No! Ugh. No! NOooo!” A loud, high-pitched cry echoes in the clinic.
Jordan Dabolmort opens his eyes and smiles bitterly. He attempts to peek out from the edge of the bed, to look through his toes. He sees his visitors’ shadows already at the door of his ward, half the way in the corridor, moving slowly. It is time.
The veil of silence has just been torn. Dabolmort, a wretched old man, imagines the dyers and the tailors of Time still asleep and unprepared – unaware of the dark danger that has found new residence fifty years later, half a century hiding and waiting for this day. And he senses the three Fates, Lachesis, the measurer, Klotho, the spinner, and Atropos, she who cannot be turned, fixing their stare on the scene from above. It is time and Jordan Dabolmort knows.
For the past few minutes, helpless and unable to move, he has been the silent witness to a scene improbable from beginning to end, without the power to react. His heart beats fast.
“Ugh!” The loud cry fades away. This intense, abrupt, almost staccato cry, issuing from a woman’s desperately pleading larynx, has just shaken the quiet clinic. It started at 13:05:00 and stopped at 13:05:20. Twenty seconds, early afternoon, just after lunch – a time for siesta for old people. And on the twenty-first second, Dabolmort’s nurse falls to her death, in front of his bed.
“Panayia mou!” – “Holy Mary Mother of God,” whispers an old Greek woman in her bed, on another floor of the clinic, and crosses her chest.
On this third floor, though, Jordan Dabolmort is not the only patient in anxiety for the incident. Another old man’s tired eyes are now wide open; his ears strained to the direction of the cry, anticipating another outburst. He is trying to understand what has happened. The cry sounded to him as though it came from the eastern end of the floor, where Dabolmort resides.
This call of despair barely forgotten, Dabolmort sees the shadows of another scene played out on the walls opposite his door – a film noir, as if a second, cautionary veil has descended to cover the holes and tears on this protective veil of Time and Comfort.
With her face half-hidden by her red curls, in unusual and luminous blue tights beneath her white uniform, an unknown nurse walks past the entrance to the ward. Her duty and first task on this important day is to get rid of the nurse who has just been murdered. She scrutinises her very carefully, but she finds no indication as to the way she was killed; there is no blood anywhere, neither on her clothes nor on the marble; only her hair is in slight disarray. Obviously having been stunned by a cataclysmic force, it is as though this beautiful blonde woman had been deprived of her existence with no warning, with no chance to fight for her life. The only evidence of resistance is the fast-fading memory of her cry. That scream is etched on her face in her startled eyes and open mouth. The nurse standing on top of the dead woman, free of all superstition, has not even bothered to close her eyes. These beautiful eyes, lifeless now, reflect the yellow ward walls that she had gazed upon just before dying, the image imprinted onto her pupils.
Most of her body is inside the ward, while half her head is just outside the door now. As she is being moved, it is not only the walls reflected in her eyes. There is also a dark, masculine figure, whose presence the nurse seems strangely unaware of. This peculiar man is moving, right now, just as the corpse is being moved and its eyes seem fixated on this motion. It is as though she is trying to say something, to point to this figure even after her death. The strange, menacing figure is being reflected in the dead eyes from inside the ward, in the left corner.
After only a few seconds, the figure mysteriously disappears. While the nurse is carrying the dead woman slowly and with great effort through the entrance, she does not seem to have noticed, nor has she paid any attention to this presence. Dabolmort, too, lying listlessly on his bed in the centre of the ward, seems indifferent to this strange character. He does not actually seem totally in touch with reality, anyway. He appears distant, unable to exert any control over the situation. He merely tries to move his wrinkled, bony fingers slightly, with little success. With difficulty, he finally manages to fix his gaze on the standing nurse’s shaded side, as it is revealed to the light. He sees a scar extending from the tip of her left eyebrow to the base of her earlobe. Bewildered, he addresses her in a weak voice.
“Are … you … you … a, the … new n-nurse?”
No response. The nurse’s lips are firmly closed; so focused on her actions is she, that she seems incapable of hearing the old man’s weak voice addressing her.
Frustrated as he is, he stops looking at the nurse who is alive, and out of the corner of his eye, Dabolmort manages to catch sight of the dead nurse’s red tights and her brown, worn, fifties-style shoes. It is the last image imprinted on his pupils, as time seems to be consuming the whole scene hungrily – shadows, mysterious figures, nurses – just before he closes his tired eyes.
The whole scene mirrored in the dead nurse’s eye is now erased, as her body has been dragged into the corridor, half the way to the direction of the elevator at the other end.
This floor seems protected – isolated – as though it operates under its own orders in the clinic. The wild acoustic adventure of the desperate voice echo-travel has set off a sense of uneasiness, but the mysterious, unexpected silence that has followed seems to be demanded by the clinic’s heavy ambience.
In the distance, a few doors further down the corridor, the elderly patient who has heard the scream got out of his room. He walked some metres in the corridor to the direction of Jordan Dabolmort’s ward. He wanted to listen for that voice should it again cry out, perhaps more softly, and to see if there was something he can do to perhaps help someone, to prevent any further quarrels. He thought he was the only one awake on this floor at this time – but now he is trapped in the toilet. He turned in there as soon as he saw an unknown nurse dragging Dabolmort’s nurse outside his room to the elevator. He is uneasy, and stands idly leaning against the basin, unsure whether he can go out yet.
He peeks out again. The nurse is standing before the elevator door. Cautiously, she pushes the elevator button.
She still holds the dead nurse by the wrists as she waits.
The numbers light up, one after the other.
The nurse rotates the corpse in a fast move and enters, now pulling her by her brown shoes. The nurse’s head bumps on the gap between the elevator and the corridor floor and then rests on the clean elevator carpet – dirtied forever more.
The old man returns inside the toilet. He is thinking. He is trying to understand, to position himself, to see if he should go and stop the nurse. But he is apprehensive. He knows he is not strong enough anymore, even for a woman. However, suddenly becoming heroic once again, for a few seconds confronting his reflection in the mirror, he stealthily creeps out into the corridor as the elevator door closes.
Click-clack, click-clack. The old man hears this familiar sound on the marble. Someone, a man – the footstep is too heavy to be a woman’s – is walking slowly and with purpose. Despite his efforts to restrain himself, he looks to the far end of the corridor behind him. He freezes at what he sees. He is stunned, like the unfortunate gladiator at the first look of the lion, when hope becomes mixed with anger, adrenaline and the smell of death.
Stepping out of his friend’s ward is a mysterious figure, a man dressed in dark, strange clothes, tattooed, odd haircut. The old man does not know it, but this is the same man who was briefly reflected only moments ago in the dead nurse’s eyes. His right hand is upright on the air as he walks. He is wearing a strange, metallic glove with glass tips. He slowly closes his fist and presses a button on it with his left hand. Then, with a sneer, he places his right hand in his jacket pocket. He is surrounded by an aroma of death, like the stink of hungry rats burrowing beneath a sodden woodpile.
Frightened, the old man retreats back into the toilet. He hopes the man hasn’t noticed him. He waits for a minute, counting every second, hearkening for the merest sound of him approaching the toilet. The strange man passes from outside and heads to the other end of the corridor where the elevator is.
The stranger now is very close to the elevator and takes his final two steps. Click-clack. The heavy heels pound the marble floor for another metre and then: a silent pause. He halts in front of the elevator. He waits. He looks to his right and left and then turns back abruptly.
After a very lucky interval of five seconds, the old man cautiously peeks out of the toilet in the middle of the corridor again. He sees the strange man standing there, more confident now that he will be leaving. But he is not willing to accept that this strange man is just visiting – it is not even visiting time. Struck by this thought, his mind cannot abandon the idea of evil. The man’s aura appears to be purely sinister. He holds his slow, noisy breath as he watches, his gaze now fixed on the elevator screen, far in the distance, at the end of the corridor.
The strange man enters the lift. He does not turn back. The old man cannot see his face; he is left with the bitter taste of doubt. He really wanted to be a credible witness. The electric doors clang shut behind the stranger.
The old man is contemplating the two scenes he has just seen. He is trying to connect. A nurse dragging Dabolmort’s nurse – probably dead – to the elevator and then, minutes later, a strange man with a peculiar, mechanical glove on his right hand – he can make no sense. He does not know that the nurse has no knowledge of the strange man. He does not know that she never saw him inside Dabolmort’s ward. He does not even know that she never saw the stranger leave the ward – and this will be the most inexplicable of all the events that are about to take place during this strange day. If the old man understood time, then he would comprehend. But not conventional time; time as it really is. Untamed and conscious.
The old man waits a few seconds, until he is sure the elevator has left. Then he slowly ventures out, faltering slightly, walking the corridor to the eastern end, like a wounded dog, stretching his neck to glimpse into the yellow ward, to make sure nothing is wrong with his friend. Dabolmort is asleep, as if nothing has happened. The old man leaves, worried about, albeit wondering at Dabolmort and his clinic for the first time in the two years he has resided here.
Downstairs, rushing out of the lift, moving quickly towards the exit, the strange man seems to have been out of time; he pauses for a second in front of the reception desk and turns his head around to sniff the air – like a hound. The woman at the reception desk looks at him but does not react. Her fingers seem frozen on the keyboard. Time for her obviously comes in waves. He looks at her satisfied that she took no special notice of him and then saunters toward the exit as a complacent grin spreads across his dark face. Ceremoniously, he places his top hat over his long hair, shaved on the two sides, and slams the door behind him.
In the meanwhile, the nurse has carried the dead woman through the rear elevator exit, which leads to the service wards and out. Nobody has seen her walk along the ground floor corridors; no one has seen her carry the corpse over her shoulder, strong like a man, when she went out in the back alley. It is difficult, but she manages to lift the dead corpse using both hands and dumps it in the large recycle bin. She is certain someone else will take over from here, even if the letter in her pocket does not state this explicitly.
Below the city of Athens
A few hours later, the nurse who dragged the dead woman out of Jordan Dabolmort’s corridor, is walking under the city of Athens, accompanied by an underground guard she only met minutes ago, up on Lycabettus Hill, inside the chapel of Isidoroi Saints. She is not dressed up as a nurse anymore, she has bought new clothes from Monastiraki market and disguised herself so that nobody could recognise her.
“Soon the path will become level, and then we will have to walk faster,” the man tells her, letting go of her hand. It takes her a few minutes to process his words, as she had become so accustomed to the silence.
“What did you say?”
“I said,” he repeats, rewording and speaking more slowly yet not more loudly, “that the ground will become level soon, so we will go faster!”
“Not much faster, I hope!” she gasps. “You are a trained soldier, and I assume you were trained down here, the oxygen is so much thinner!”
“Eventually we will take a vehicle, so don’t worry about your stamina, Miss!”
Though she hates this ‘Miss’ title as very few things in the world, she still does not want to go into introductions and have to worry over issues of familiarity. She will tolerate it until she meets those to whom her identity matters.
After only ten minutes of walking, the passages become high ceilinged and the dirt path is replaced by cement – as are the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. Sometimes they walk along or across tunnels that are obviously part of the abandoned Athens Metro. The walls are still covered with graffiti from years ago – talking about revolutions and pain that this city had suffered for more than thirty years before it became what it can boast of being now – one of the few ‘clean’ cities in the world.
“Where are we now?” she asks the man. She is not holding his hand anymore, as the tunnels are illuminated by hidden lights tucked inside the upper corners.
“We are right under the Hilton Hotel. A colleague will be picking us up at the next corner.” As soon as he says that, they turn the corner.
As they continue walking, she remembers the diagram of the Athens underground passages, as Jordan Dabolmort has described it to her just before. She feels a deep satisfaction at the recognition of theory turned into practice, like when a scientist comes up with a new invention – and she has had this experience quite a few times in her life.
After five hundred metres of descending, the cement is replaced by a thick, shiny, but not slippery material – she is not sure whether it is glass or metal. The walls are now illuminated by colourful LED strip lights, able to bend in curves, blended in 3D shapes extending from the walls. She suddenly realises that they are not just shapes – they are letters – letters of the Greek alphabet, placed in odd, barely random queues to form words. As they proceed she manages to spell out some of these words.
ΕΠΙΓΝΩΣΗ – knowing beyond
ΑΥΤΟΘΥΣΙΑ – self sacrifice
ΟΡΚΟΣ ΣΙΩΠΗΣ – oath of silence
That last phrase makes her feel a little uncomfortable, but she continues reading the big and small words around. It is such a unique and interesting sight to savour. She does not know if she will ever be there again.
Suddenly, a burst of strong light blinds her for a second. She grabs her escort’s arm, afraid she might fall. He stops to help her. Seconds later her eyes are adjusted to the new light. She stands still and is speechless at the sight before her eyes. The mouth of a membrane tube is open in front of her in the distance of two metres, alive, pulsating like a living tissue. As if a giant worm is waiting for them to proceed and be engulfed. She feels frightened again, just as when she saw her escort step out of the hole in the Lycabettus cave chapel above them. However, by now she trusts the man who has accompanied her safely until there, and she stands quietly by his side, waiting for what comes next. She is certain that a capsule will arrive soon, just like they have been doing above ground all these years she has lived here in Athens. Only this time it will be different, she thinks. Oh, how little do I really know about this city!
Precisely as she has predicted, a few seconds later a small four-seat capsule with another man sitting inside arrives. It stops noiselessly at the end of the tube’s open mouth. Without invitation, Roxanne enters the capsule and sits opposite the man inside. Her escort sits next to her and the capsule departs at normal speed at the beginning, until it reaches a speed that pins both of them back on their seat. They are going further down, now penetrating the Earth Mantle.
Hours later, a man stands on the edge of the cliff with his arms open, embracing all the wild nocturnal beauty of Athens. From afar, he can see the illuminated capsules slide through the invisible glass tubes like giant fireflies.
He turns and notices a group of tourists standing in front of the chapel. He mingles with the group and begins to look around. He is trying to locate someone. The group walks behind Saint George chapel. The man detaches himself as soon as he sees the guard hiding in the shadows. As the guard walks towards him, he can distinguish the yellow ‘O’ on his left chest pocket. This is the man he has been looking for. Without any further delay, he shoots the guard with a small revolver that has a silencer. He checks that no one is watching him; then he takes the key ring from the man’s pocket and pushes him over the cliff, thirty metres above a deserted rock ledge covered in bushes and olive trees. The branch cracking followed by the thud of the dead body impact on the solid rock agitates him. Immediately he takes a few steps backwards to hide in the shadows just in case someone comes to see what the noise has been.
After some time he leaves the shadows behind and walks the stone path to the chapel fence again. He hypnotises the dogs inside the fence with a special sound device and opens the gate with the key ring he obtained from the guard. He walks carefully among the sleeping canine monsters and opens the chapel door with another key; he enters; he stands one metre inside the chapel, overcome by feelings of religious awe and guilt, mixed in a tasteless portion. Very fast he comes back to a more grounded reality and looks around in amazement at the beautiful Orthodox chapel. He proceeds further inside and feels the walls and the anaglyph icons. He is looking for something.
Suddenly, he is stunned in position by a disruption of the light behind him and a faint noise of soft shoes on the cold marble. He stops breathing for a moment as he senses the woman with the dark veil covering her face finally enter the chapel and walk slowly towards him.
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