The Uluru Cult

Prologue.

Stonehenge, 52AD.

Shadows whirled and danced in the dusk, outlined against the myriad fires. Close by, the village burned, the thatch roofed huts lighting the scene with an eerie brilliance. There was an explosion of sparks, as a roof collapsed. Pigs ran screaming from the village. The warriors stood in a shield wall, their long spears protruding between the mighty shields. Their unkempt hair swirled in the dying breeze. Swords glittered at their sides, and each neck wads encircled by a intricate torc. They where the greatest warriors in all Pry-tain*. And tonight, they were sworn to protect the last of the Druids. The warriors stirred restlessly, knowing that if they succeeded this night, Pry-tain would be freed of the roman invaders. Th7e white robed Druids moved amongst the massive stones, anointing the altar, and performing their strange rituals. It was almost the time. The huge fires burned, the cattle were ready. And then, from the encroaching darkness of Sammain night, the romans came. The indomitable legions of Rome, which had swept across Pry-tain, destroying all before them. The legions, clad in shinning armour, and carrying iron swords. The warriors of the shield wall tensed. The legionaries approached. Uthur, commander of the warriors cried to the heavens 'May the gods be with us tonight, for this is their fight also!'
And then, the romans hurled their Pilums. The light throwing spears rained down upon the Celts, who raised their shields, and deflected them. A few of the ragged warriors fell, their blood staining the holy ground. Uthur roar to his men, and the shield wall advanced. The romans marched forward to meet them. The Druids moved amongst the standing stones with renewed haste, for they must call the Gods this night. If they failed, then all was lost. Pry-tain could never hold against the Roman invaders, with their superior weapons and tactics. Ashes from the burning village swirled about them, staining their pristine white robes.
On the plain, the shield walls clashed. There were only a hundred Legionaries, and almost twice that number of Celts, but It was a battle against time. It was unlikely that the disorganised Celts would defeat the highly trained romans. The swords clashed, the shields smashed against each other. Uthur roared, thrusting his long spear at the romans. There was no room fro the Celts long sword, and barely enough fro the short roman thrusting swords. The Celts had the advantage, their spears could reach further that the roman swords. The romans had blundered. It was only one of the very few times Uthur had witnessed roman mistakes. At an order from their centurion, the romans sheathed their swords, and brought out their long, thrusting spears. Now, they had the advantage. The advantage of unshakeable discipline. The ferocity of the Celtic attack had beaten them back, but now they rallied. They to knew the importance of this attack. A hundred years earlier, Julius Caesar had invaded Pry-tain and been beaten back. He had written of the superstitions of the Britons. Of course, the practical romans disbelieved the Celtic lore. They would not believe in the abilities of the Druids to call forth the gods, but they knew that destroying Stone Henge would demoralise the Britons. So they forced their way forward, treading over Celtic corpses, and staining their spears with Celtic blood. The Druids hastened about their last preparations. Fires were lit, the cattle driven between them. The sacrifices made, and the ritual began. But to late, to late. The last warrior fell before the roman spears, and they rushed forward to dispatch the Druids. The blood of the wise men fell to stain the sacred stones, and the Romans toppled what stones they could. The power of Stone Henge was broken, the Druids dead, and it could never return. Pry-tain belonged to the Romans, and the old gods of the Celts forever extinguished. It was now only a matter of time before the last Druids, hiding in their sacred woods, fell to the conquering invaders, and ten the Celtic lore would be forgotten, and the race destroyed.
Uthur tole away into the darkness, the chief Druid at his heels. They had escaped the slaughter, and now they ran. They would run to the lands in the north, where the tall proud Scottish would never allow the Romans to come. They would run to the protection of the mightiest of Celts, and if that was not enough, they would flee to the ends of he earth to preserve what they knew. But it would be to no avail, the gods could never return The power of the stones was gone, and there was no other place with such power. Not eve at the ends of the earth. The Gods had gone, but they would preserve their memory. And they could preserve the incomprehensible prophecy.

I

Melbourne, 10:14, November 17th, 2012.

Welcome to the CPA, mankind's last defence against dangerous Psychics, and super natural phenomena. A vast, multinational conglomerate, commanding the latest in information gathering systems, and thousands of highly trained agents. This massive organisation has the capability to instantly assess a problem, and react with all necessary force. Run from a super secret base, this organisation is a global shield against all things unnatural.
Yeah, right.
The CPA is still an under funded, undermanned, unprepared agency. Not only do we receive about as much funding as the Columbian anti-drug police, but we've only got one agent, and five backup staff, one of which is a cat. Out in the real world, millions of super-natural occurrences are going on, but ere, in CPA HQ, buried deep under 333 Collins street, there's nothing but paper work.
My desk was piled with the stuff. It flowed down the sides, and pooled in a six inch thick mass on the floor. Not as if the office wasn't small to start with. Like all CPA offices, it was. But what with me, my desk and the paper work, the Broom cupboard was looking a bit small. Although CPA is the only agency that protects the world from Psychic phenomena, and other weird shit, we still can't afford a bigger base. What we have, is three rooms in the secret American government base under 333 Collins. It's not enough.
I was just contemplating official form No. 1876947-8692-65453-A, which looked like an official requestion for toilet paper, when there was a scraping from the ventilation grille in the ceiling. I climbed on top of my desk, and opened the grille. Berty, the commanders cat and official messenger of the CPA dropped through. We'd just suffered yet another cut back, so the intercom system had had to go. Berty perched on a stack of highly important government documents, which I had no intention of reading, and began to lick himself. There was a scrap of paper slipped under his collar. I pulled it out, and looked at it.

OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT FORM No. 789656-085657-5245-G.
All officers of Her Majesties Navy (British branch) on shore leave in Australia are to carry Signed photographs of Her Britannic majesty Diana the First at all times. Failure will incur a reduction of pay by 4% per offence.

I was puzzled. No one in the office was in the British Royal Navy. What was this, a mysterious code no on Head informed me about? Was it an initiative test? Was it a prank? Was it on the other side?
It was. Typically, we had no spare paper in the office, and had to use official forms instead. Luckily, there was no shortage of them. The real message read:

Titus, your presence required on urgent matter. Official residence. 18:00 hours.
Love, The Commander.

I looked at my watch. It was 16:30. I has an hour and a half. Not near enough time! Frantically, I began to shift boxes of official forms from in front of the door. I would never make it. There was no way I could be there on time. No way known to man! There was just to much junk to shift in front of the door! And then there was the corridor, and the outer office! It was impossible!
Irritably, I hurled aside a box of official vehicle requisition forms, which we used for toilet paper, and addressed myself to shifting the filling cabinet. Exasperated, I kicked the wall, and the ventilation grille fell on my head. I reeled across the room, and collapsed against the desk. Berty licked my face, and leapt into the vent shaft. I looked up dazedly, and was struck by a fall in screw. I climbed to my feet, and the to the top of my desk. I inspected the shaft. It was about 12 inches by 24 inches. Perfect. Through much grunting, heaving and shifting of official stationary, I made it up into the vent. It was cold, and cramped, and smelt of cats piss. I crawled along, until I found an exit vent outside of CPA HQ. I managed to get the grille off, and climbed out. I was in the secret government car park. It's rather new, and the Yanks are rather proud of it. It links up with the real buildings car park, but the entrances and exits are cunningly concealed. There are several car spaces in the outer car park which are actually lift, like the ones on Aircraft carriers. They descend to allow access to the secret park, but only if the correct sequence of coded digits is tapped into a hidden panel. I knew the code. I even knew where my car was. What was bugging me, was the way the Yanks love secrecy. There where no numbers or directions of any kind in the place. I checked my watch again: 16:45. This would be close. Damned close. I had to allow around fifteen minutes for finding the car, then at least an hour to get to the Commanders official residence. It was then that something struck me: Why was the message not in the Commanders writing, and how had Berty made it to the office? I pulled out the scrap of paper. All was answered. It was in Quentin, the armourer's hand writing. Obviously it was a phone message he was passing on. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had suspected a bloody Yankee initiative test.
In a feat of finding-my-way-under-adverse-bloody-circumstances worthy of the now legendary Andy McNAb, I managed to locate my car.
Gleaming and glistening invitingly, it sat under the florotubes. My new car. I'd had to give up the AC Cobra. It was to expensive, and I'd been fire-bombed by anti-smog protesters a few to many times. So now, I had this: The ultimate expression of Australianism. All Australian, All new, and absolutely beautiful: The Holden Kingswood X-2000. As I approached, the door hissed upwards, and the interior lights activated. I swung in, and the door closed. I checked my instruments, and turned the ignition. The engine came silently to life, and I cruised out into the maze of parking spaces.
The X-2000 had been produced to celebrate the 60th anniversary of Holden, four years ago. But what I had was better: The second Generation X-2000 prototype. I'd been given it as a reward for the Bermuda affair earlier this year. Comparing it to the Cobra was like comparing a mouse to an elephant. The cobra had power, grunt, and macho appeal. The Kingswood has Speed, handling, a sexy interior, and patriotism. I still haven't gotten around to spraying over the overly patriotic southern cross on the bonnet. But all of that was as nothing to the X-2000 series II's real appeal: anti gravity. The Americans had been trying to build flying cars for years. Of course, they never succeeded, just like they tried to build VTOL planes for ages, and then the Brits rubbed their noses in it by succeeding with the Harrier first time. Well, Australia had rubbed their noses in it. They still haven't figured out how we did it. If the truth be told, we cheated. We actually got the mechanism from one of several alien races we've contacted but not told anyone about.
With in minutes, I was soaring over Melbourne, with the big cars engines set to full thrust. I set the X-2000 to auto pilot, and sat back to think. What could possibly have happened to warrant an invitation to the commanders official residence? Was it his Birthday? Had he convinced Ivadenov, our Tactician/secretary/tealady and sex goddess in residence to marry him? Was there some sinister plot to lower our funding even further? Who could tell? Who could tell?
There was only one thing to do, so I did it: I went to sleep.