by Jade Kerrion
“Where is Galahad?” General Hayes demanded without so much as pausing for the standard courtesies.
“He had returned here with the abominations, but fled again in the company of a mercenary, Zara Itani, who abducted him two nights ago from Pioneer Labs,” Roland said, his tone strident. “I’m guessing he managed to sneak past your elite military teams?”
Hayes’s teeth clenched. “My elite military teams just had their guts ripped out by your monsters.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “I warned you that they were dangerous, even deadly, but for years, you ignored my requests to euthanize them.” He glanced at the crumpled forms of four abominations, finally subdued and defeated in death, and then at the last abomination—the first one created—badly injured but likely to survive. It snarled in protest as it was herded into one of the rooms in the western wing with incessant prods of several electrical rods.
“Find him.” Hayes gestured to his adjunct, who stepped away to issue orders for the retrieval of Galahad.
Michael asked, “How did you even find out that they were here?”
“We have our sources,” Hayes replied obliquely, his lips curling into a sneer. “Is your research compromised?”
“Compromised?” Michael echoed, his voice incredulous. “Have you been watching the news? The whole world now knows that we created and kept abominations.”
“And Galahad’s genetic code?”
“Irreparably compromised. It’s out there now. It’s gone.”
“So anyone can recreate Galahad?”
“If they choose to defy the guidelines established by the International Genetics and Ethics Council twenty years ago, then yes, they can recreate Galahad.”
“What about the work with live transfusions?”
“Well, all those research files are still secure but—” Michael’s voice trailed into silence. He looked at Roland, his brown eyes wide, stunned with disbelief mixed with growing horror.
“What is it?” Hayes demanded.
“Nothing. I—” Michael began, but Roland stepped between him and General Hayes.
“None of this is beyond salvage,” Roland said. “The abominations have been neutralized. Galahad will be located and retrieved. There is one more loose end though. One of the templates used to create Galahad now knows that his genetic code was used without his permission to create Galahad.”
Hayes’s eyes reflected his disbelief. “Do you have any good news for me at all?”
“Well, we know where he is now, and in the interests of national security, I strongly suggest that he be neutralized.”
“Neutralized, as in killed?”
“Father.” The young man who had been standing behind Roland and who had thus far been willing to listen in silence objected. “You can’t do that.”
Michael looked similarly aghast, but Roland held up his hand. “He knows he is pivotal in this, and if he ever decides to take his information to the media, the public backlash would shut down the Galahad project immediately.”
“Why? So you borrowed his genes without asking. So what?”
“Because he is an alpha mutant. His name is Danyael Sabre.”
“Damn. Wasn’t there anyone else you could have used as a template? Why a goddamned alpha mutant? Which of his genes did you use?”
“Physical appearance.”
“The easiest thing in the world to prove. Did any of his mutant powers transfer?”
“No,” Roland said.
Hayes looked toward Michael, who shook his head. “We don’t think so. It’s never easy to say for sure with an alpha, because their mutations are usually very complex, but our best guess at this time is no.”
“First good news I’ve had all day.” Hayes growled. “I agree that he’s a security risk but silencing him won’t be simple. He’s under the jurisdiction of the Mutant Affairs Council, and they can get real touchy when we off their people without consent. Especially alphas.”
“So what can we do?”
“There are other ways to silence people without killing them. We issue a code red emergency, which will allow us sufficient authority to take a mutant into custody. We can then order a memory wipe,” Hayes said, his demeanor brooding. “Net net, the effect will be the same. He will know nothing. The security risk is effectively eliminated.”
Roland nodded. He seemed pleased. “I’ll oversee it personally. I want to make sure it is done right.”
“All right. Let me call the Mutant Assault Group. I’ll need their people.” Hayes glanced over his shoulder at another aide. “Set up a command center, and connect me with General Kieran Howard.”
Twenty minutes later, he finally got in touch with the commander of the Mutant Assault Group. “What can I do for you, General?” General Kieran Howard’s tone was all cool politeness.
Hayes struggled to contain his distaste for the man he had only met twice, but who had unnerved him both times. “We’ve identified a security risk, an alpha mutant, and we’re ordering a memory wipe.”
“On an alpha?” The disembodied voice sounded only mildly interested. “I will need more information from you to assess the risk associated with trying to contain an alpha.”
“That information is beyond your security clearance, General Howard.”
“And containing an alpha mutant is well beyond your capabilities, General Hayes. I believe you need me at this point. I’d recommend a demonstration of basic courtesy on your part.”
Hayes ground his teeth together. “The alpha mutant in question was used as one of many genetic templates for Galahad.”
“The one whose escape is causing such a furor? Were the mutated genes incorporated into Galahad?”
“We do not believe so,” Hayes replied frostily, insulted by the condescending tone.
“Ah, what a shame. He would likely have been a great deal more perfect than he is now, had the genes been incorporated. Who, may I ask, is the alpha?”
“His name is Danyael Sabre.”
There was a long silence on the other end.
Confused and more than a little concerned, Hayes finally prompted, “General Howard, are you still there?”
“Yes, I am. Where should I send my team to rendezvous with you?”
“We’re at Pioneer Labs at Boonsboro.”
“Very well. They will be there within twenty minutes.”
There was a sharp click. General John Hayes pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it as if it were a snake. Something had been put in motion, and he was not entirely sure if he liked it, or if he even knew what it was.
~*~
General Kieran Howard’s day had started out poorly. The president had ignored his explicit request to allow the Mutant Assault Group to restore order to Washington, D.C. That rejection had seared his pride, but things were starting to look up.
Comfortable in jeans and a black sweater, the general leaned back in his chair and stared at the large screen on the far wall, covered with the faces of the alpha mutants he had been monitoring, carefully watching for the faintest crack in their fragile grasp on normality. Among them was Danyael Sabre, golden-haired, dark-eyed. He was more fragile than most, yet far out of the general’s reach because he was also stronger than most. The alpha empath was resilient, and worse, determined to keep a low profile and play by all the rules of the council.
Playing by the rules set by pitiful humans kept Danyael out of the general’s grasp, but by God, he wanted Danyael. There were no empaths who were Danyael’s equal. Not in the United States. Not in the world. Now it appeared that circumstances were conspiring to drive Danyael into his arms. General Howard smiled, the action so unnatural, so rare that the muscles in his cheek strained at the effort.
“Whom should we send?” his aide asked, trying to assess his boss’s mood.
“Tim Brown. Assign a human squad to him and make sure they’re protected.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide hesitated. “Sir, are you sure that this is the right thi
ng to do? An alpha empath without memories would be unstable.”
“Exactly. I want Danyael destabilized. He is council-trained, but when his world is crushed by the will and decision of humans, he’ll realize that the only way to protect himself is to ally with mutants. And not just any mutant group. Certainly not with the pacifist council that considers itself a supporter of the administration. He will turn to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure Tim is aware of how important this is.” The general’s tone was contemplative. “Among the alphas, empaths are the rarest because their powers tend to get them killed long before they learn how to control them. Danyael is exceptional because he has survived and thrived in spite of his mutant powers. And combined with his healing capabilities, there is simply no one like him. I want Danyael. We need him.”
General Kieran Howard pushed to his feet, pleased with himself. He had much to plan. It was far more than an intellectual exercise now. How much pressure could he possibly put on Danyael Sabre before the alpha empath snapped?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dr. Seth Copper, alpha telepath and the leading expert on mutant physiology, looked down at his latest patient. Danyael Sabre was unconscious, the extreme blood loss taking a severe toll on an exhausted body pushed past the limits of human endurance. The empath appeared pale against the white sheets, but his breathing was steady. IV bags pumped fluids into one arm, and blood into the other. Seth glanced at the equipment that monitored Danyael’s vital statistics. Danyael was in no danger. He would make it; it was just a matter of giving him enough time to regain his strength.
Gently he ran a finger over the faint bruises on the inside of Danyael’s elbows, the discoloration merging with the faint blue-green tint of the veins beneath his skin. If Danyael had not struggled, the needles would have left no marks. If the off switch had worked, if Danyael had remained unconscious as he usually did through the procedure, he would still be utterly ignorant.
Now that Danyael was aware of the live blood transfusions, he would be a far more dangerous target, but Seth did not fully regret the change in his previously safe indulgence. There had been something compelling about Danyael’s anguish and torment as he had attempted to pull away from Seth’s touch just two evenings earlier in the plane ride from New York City to Washington, D.C.
Change. Change was inevitable, and good.
Seth sighed, a satisfied sound that matched the smile on his lips. Sixteen years prior, he had met Danyael Sabre for the first time. The boy had been absolutely exquisite even then—young, brutally damaged, impossibly fragile, yet unbroken.
Because Seth had been a different man then, because he had actually cared, the boy’s hopeless plight had moved him to help.
Over the years, Seth had lost the innocent altruism of that feeling, but he still clung to the memory. He had wanted nothing more than to help the boy gain control over his unchecked empathic powers. Merely trying to teach Danyael had not helped. The boy had been too traumatized to trust the functioning of his mind and his powers to another. In desperation and frustration, Seth had stepped outside the boundaries of accepted science. Live blood transfusion had been the answer; it had allowed him to slowly cultivate Danyael’s ability to create strong psychic shields, the hallmark of a defense-class alpha telepath. Those shields were the key to Danyael’s ability to function normally.
How could he have known that Danyael’s blood would be as intoxicating as his physical beauty, that the rush of energy, of power, that suffused him would be so addictive? That it would change him as surely as it had changed Danyael?
Seth stripped each piece of clothing from the unconscious mutant until Danyael lay naked on the bed. Seth dipped a clean towel into a bowl of warm water and then washed Danyael’s body, cleaning off the blood caked on his skin. He smiled as he trailed the towel down the length of Danyael’s body. The act of cleaning Danyael’s body was nothing compared to the intimacy they had already enjoyed for sixteen years through the sharing of blood.
You see, Danyael. You can’t escape. Even where you think you are safest, there is no one to protect you from me.
~*~
Lucien looked up at the building before him. The Mutant Affairs Council occupied a nondescript three-story office building in Alexandria, Virginia, overlooking the Potomac. Nothing about the dull gray-brick structure hinted that it might be the powerbase of the only non-military government-sanctioned mutant organization in the United States. There was hardly any security to speak of, but when most of the people in that place were effectively armies of one, Lucien supposed the council would not need much security anyway.
He had been there many times when Danyael was younger and still struggling to control his emphatic powers. The last time was many years before though, Lucien recalled as he parked his car in the crowded parking lot and entered the building. Little had changed. The furniture in the small reception area had been spruced up, but not significantly. The décor still screamed “frugal government” instead of “lavish corporate.”
Xin rose from her seat and smiled at him as he walked in. Stepping up to him, she slipped her small hand into his. She said nothing, but then again, she did not have to. She was there, and just then, it was all that mattered.
The motherly gray haired receptionist at the front desk smiled as Lucien and Xin approached. “You’re expected, Mr. Winter.” Her voice was welcoming though raspy from a lifetime of smoking cigarettes. “You and Ms. Xin are welcome to take the elevator to the third floor. Mr. Saunders is waiting for you in room three-oh-one.”
“Thank you,” Lucien said. He took a few steps toward the elevator and tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Is the council the only organization that employs telepaths instead of computer systems to verify the identity of visitors?”
The receptionist flashed a quick smile that made her seem younger, brighter, and prettier. “Identification can be faked, Mr. Winter, but no one can lie to me. Have a good day, sir.”
Xin chuckled softly as they walked down the linoleum-tiled corridor toward the elevators. “Mutants can certainly keep you on your toes.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Lucien said, easily recalling the first few weeks, heck, the first few months when he had taken Danyael under his protection. Every day had been a series of one barely averted disaster after another. Danyael’s empathic powers had been out of control, and Lucien did not dare leave his side, for fear that someone would come along and hurt him. The memories that had receded into Lucien’s distant past returned vividly. He knew exactly why. He feared for Danyael’s sanity, for Danyael’s peace of mind. An unstable alpha empath was a natural disaster looking for a place to happen; he knew it better than most, and he also knew just how thin the line was that separated Danyael’s flawless emotional control from the madness of an emotional maelstrom.
The elevator doors opened onto a third floor that was several tiers of luxury removed from the dull reception area; Persian rug runners decorated burnished hardwood paneled floors, and expensive art was displayed on smooth cream walls. The temperature was cool and comfortable. The air was subtly scented with pine and cinnamon, and soft Christmas music piped through invisible speakers. “Maybe redecorating downstairs just didn’t make it into this year’s budget,” Xin said.
“They’re not big on visitors, and most people don’t make it past reception,” Lucien said, amused as always at the stark difference between the façade people saw and the real face of the Mutant Affairs Council. “The director general’s office is down this way, if I recall.”
“Do you know Alex Saunders?”
“We met once before some sixteen or so years ago, when the former director general introduced the team assigned to teach Danyael to control his powers. Alex Saunders was a part of that team. Their sessions were private, so I never saw Alex again after that first introduction. He’s done well since; I think he was promoted to director general about three years ago.” Lucien nodded at an open door. “The office is this way.�
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Looking in, he saw Alex on the phone, standing behind his desk. Lucien stepped back to give Alex the privacy to complete his call, but Alex held up a hand, asking him to wait. “Be right with you,” he mouthed. He nodded, “Yes, sir, I understand. We’d be happy to assist in bringing the situation back under control…Thank you, Mr. President. I’m honored by your trust in us. We’ll deploy immediately and keep you apprised of the situation.” He hung up the phone. “Please come in and have a seat. I know you’re eager to see Danyael. This will be just another minute.” He raised his voice and shouted across the hall. “Jake!”
The brown-haired, nerdish-looking mutant who had been part of the team that followed Alex Saunders to Pioneer Laboratories earlier that day popped his head into the office. “What is it?”
“The president has decided that he doesn’t want tanks and APCs, even if they’re American-made, rolling through the streets of D.C. Get a team organized and bring the city back under control. No civilian deaths, not even accidental ones. Apparently the Mutant Assault Group requested permission to restore order to the city, but he turned them down because he didn’t trust them not to hurt civilians. I don’t want to hear the words collateral damage or property damage. This has to be subtle,” he emphasized.
Jake used an index finger to poke his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes. “If you want subtle, we’ll need an empath. Most of the other people I can think of off the top of my head don’t even know how to spell subtle.”
“Find ones with better spelling skills then,” Alex said. “The only alpha empath who has the capacity for large crowd control is Danyael Sabre, and he’s a little indisposed right now.”
Jake sighed. “Fine, we’ll figure out something else that doesn’t involve too much bleeding on anyone’s part. How long do we have to make them sit down and behave?”