GENESIX: THE TRILOGY

by Greg Logan

  It was ten o’clock at night. This part of the city was slowing down. There was little night life, except for occasional gang activity. Exactly the place for a meta-human who fancied himself a vigilante.

  Tompkins had said he didn’t believe in the Darkness. He had said this man was no more real than the Easter Bunny. Davenport didn’t know what he believed. All he knew was he was assigned to go through the motions of a hunt, and he was doing as assigned. This was the third store he had waited in this week. He and his agents would be here all night, if necessary. Just like they had the previous two.

  There was one difference to tonight’s venture, though. A little theatrics were going to be employed. It had been the idea of Agent Quinn. The one in the apron, behind the counter. Instead of just waiting, they were going to stage a little incident. See if they couldn’t draw out their quarry.

  “All right,” Davenport said into a mike mounted on his shoulder. “Let’s give it a go and hope for the best. And remember, if this character does show up, don’t give him any reason to attack you.”

  “Roger that.”

  Within seconds, a man burst through the front door. He was African American, with long dreads falling out from under a bandanna tied about his head. In his hand was an automatic pistol.

  “Nobody move!” he screamed. “Don’t nobody move!”

  Agent Quinn, behind the register, screamed. Long and loud. The man with the dreads, Agent Carter, fired his gun into the ceiling. “I said nobody move! Quiet!”

  Suddenly there was a different feeling that came over the room. A sort of hush. If Davenport hadn’t been waiting for something to happen, he might never have noticed. And then the lights began to rapidly dim.

  A baritone spoke from the air around them. “Stop where you are. Put the gun down.”

  “Now,” Davenport said into the microphone on his shoulder.

  Outside, on the other side of the street, was a moving van. A couple of agents waited inside for Davenport’s order. They flipped switches and inside the store, cameras began rolling. The still-shot camera began snapping off photos, its strobe flash lighting up the store like a small lightning storm.

  Agent Carter stepped back, still holding his gun, but holding it down toward the floor. He wanted to do nothing to infuriate this being.

  Davenport decided it was his place to put himself in the proverbial line of danger. He was head of the task force, after all.

  With his gun gripped with both hands, cop style, he moved forward. “Don’t move. Whatever you are. This is the F.B.I. You are under arrest.”

  The being suddenly fled the building. Rapidly. Davenport thought he felt a sudden rush of wind.

  “Well,” he said, looking at Agent Quinn. “You get an A for the day. Your plan worked.”

  “I don’t know what it really proved,” she said. “Whatever it was, it was only here a few seconds.”

  “What it proved, if nothing else, is that this thing is real.”

  Davenport went out to the van to review the footage. Quinn went with him, as she was his second-in-command. In this digital age, footage could be reviewed instantly.

  He poured some coffee from a thermos, and he and Quinn watched one of the monitors as the footage of the store suddenly growing darker was played on the monitor. Strobe lights were going off. You could hear Davenport telling the thing it was under arrest, though nothing could be seen on the screen except the room growing darker. And then, it grew lighter again.

  “Wait,” Quinn said. “Did you see that?”

  Davenport looked at her curiously. He was tired, he had to admit. But he had seen nothing other than a video display of what he had seen in the store.

  She said to the tech, “Rewind it and play it slowly. One second at a time.”

  The tech was a nerdy looking kid who didn’t look old enough to be out of high school. Retro, horned-rimmed glasses. A zitty face. Probably a Star Trek fan, Davenport thought.

  The kid did as requested, and the scene in the store began replaying itself in ultra slow motion.

  “Now watch,” Quinn said. “As soon as the strobes start going off.”

  Davenport stood and watched. He took a sip of coffee. The store began to darken, one excruciatingly slow second at a time. And then the strobe began to go off.

  “There,” Quinn said. “Freeze it.”

  The tech froze the scene.

  “Look,” Quinn said. “In one corner of the room, the side closest to the strobe light. It suddenly got brighter.”

  She was right, Davenport thought. Looking at it like this, there seemed to be a cloud of darkness over the room, especially around the counter and surrounding Agent Carter. And when the strobe started going off, it pulled back and away from it.

  “Go forward,” he said. “Real slow.”

  The tech did as requested.

  The scene crept past them, one second of footage taking ten seconds to roll by. The cloud of darkness continued to pull back, away from the strobes. Then it seemed to be pulled toward the door and was gone.

  Quinn said, “It’s almost like the strobe lights hurt it.”

  Davenport nodded. As preposterous as all of this was, he had to admit it looked like she was right. “Well, this isn’t much, but at least it gives us something to work with.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Scott used the same regeneration fields on Quentin that he had on Mandy, to help him recover fully in just a few days. Scott had determined Quentin’s problem was when he activated his telekinetic power, the blood pressure in his cranium shot up to life-threatening levels. With the help of Sammy, he designed a little device the size of a hearing aid, and it could actually be worn in one ear. It emitted an energy field that would regulate blood pressure, which meant Quentin now had the ability to use his power without any fear of physical side effects.

  Now, he would be able to practice using his telekinesis and develop even more control of it. The only question was, what were his limits?

  Scott designed a suit for Chuck Burroughs that looked like something worn by astronauts, but it allowed Chuck to be able to generate as much cold energy as he wanted while bringing no harm to himself as long as he was in the suit.

  And for Rick Wilson, the solution was as simple as giving him a battle suit like Jake’s, but which included a hood and full face mask so air friction wouldn’t burn him when he moved at super speeds. He was now free to explore just how fast he could actually move. Scott had conducted a few tests already, and Rick had shown he could actually exceed Mach One.

  Chuck and Rick had decided to remain with Scott and Jake and become part of the team. They decided to go with the code names Freeze Guy and The Comet.

  Scott had also extended an offer to Quentin to stay and join the team, but Quentin said, “I need some time to think about it. I’m not sure being part of this team is for me.”

  Scott said, “Fully understandable. Take all the time you need. But remember, you always have a home with us if you want to.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  This left Scott with what to do about the Sammy situation. After all, Sammy had reached beyond his programming and killed. It had been done as an act of revenge when he believed April had been killed, but the action had also saved Scott and the others from being captured by Tompkins and his uniformed thugs. Sammy had felt murderous rage, but then had reigned it in, showing the thing called restraint.

  Sammy said, “I threatened Tomkins, telling him I would hunt him down. But I can’t do that. This kind of thing can eat away at you. And besides, April’s still alive, so he’s sort of off the hook.”

  Jake said, “How do you feel about the lives you took?”

  “Not good. It feels like sort of a weight on me. I wonder if it’ll ever go away. Somehow, I doubt it will. Maybe it never should.”

  Philosophers debated what constituted the definition of being human. It seemed to Scott Sammy was qualifying as human more and more, every day.

  And now
Sammy wanted a body. A human body, or at least as close as possible, so he could walk around like a humanoid. So he could actually look Scott, Jake and April in the eye. And so he could drink a beer.

  “I have some ideas, old friend,” Scott said to him. “I’ll need Jake to round up some materials, but I think we can do something to help you.”

  A few days later, Scott stood outside on the mountain slope, looking off to a snow covered peak in the distance. He wore a parka, the hood pulled tightly over his head. He had come out for a walk, to remove himself from the clinical world he had built for himself. To reconnect with the world about him. Something he was going to start doing more often in his quest to begin more fully appreciating life.

  The evening before, Jake had told him over beers what Mandy had said.

  “I disagree,” Scott said. “Do you believe in God?”

  Jake shrugged. “I’m not sure what I believe in, anymore.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “You? The most technologically advanced super scientist in the world? I thought all you scientists were atheists?”

  “All the stuff you and I have seen has only convinced me more and more there is at least an entity coordinating all of life into one large, multidimensional tapestry.”

  “Intelligent design?”

  Scott nodded. “Science is a way of studying life from the outside in. Spiritualism could be said to be the study of it from the inside out. Eventually, both are going to meet somewhere in the middle, and this is when true human advancement will begin.

  “I believe these abilities you and I have are, essentially, God-given. What triggered my genesis gene into action, I don’t know. I’m still researching that. And the same with Rick and Chuck. With April it was physical trauma. We know that.”

  “And I’m the result of an accident. Pure coincidence that I was standing where I was when the zeta reactor blew up.”

  Scott shook his head. “There is no such thing as coincidence, my friend. It’s all part of that tapestry. We are here, with the level of abilities we have, for a reason. We’re not monsters as long as we don’t act like monsters.”

  Scott stood on the side of the mountain, replaying this conversation in his mind. Inside were Chuck and Rick—Freeze Guy and Comet—new members of the team. Jake was off gathering materials for Scott to use in helping Sammy. And Jake’s child was quietly growing inside its little synthetic womb.

  Scott thought about all of this, and the new frontiers waiting to be explored. And he thought about April and what was growing between them. This was a new frontier for him, also.

  There was a sudden flash of light beside him, and then April was standing there. She wore a gold battle suit, designed by him to make the transformation to pure light and then back again as she did. Her hair was loose and flying about in the mountain wind.

  She said, “So I’m still trying to come up with a code name for myself. How about Quanta?”

  “I think that one might be owned by one of the comics companies,” he said. “How about Angel Girl? After all, I can think of nothing more angelic than a beautiful girl materializing from a flash of light.”

  “Aw, you’re sweet.” She snuggled in close beside him, and he wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “And we need a new name for our group now.”

  He raised a brow. “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Well, there are six of us now, counting Sammy. We should call ourselves the Genesis Six. Kind of a play on words. Get it?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of sounds like a video game.”

  “Well, then we can combine it. We can call ourselves GeneSix.” She pronounced it jennasix.

  “I don’t mean to be a kill joy, but people will look at the spelling and think it’s gene six.”

  “Well, they’re just pronouncing it wrong, aren’t they?”

  Something about the way she thought struck him as wacky and wonderful. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

  “I’ve had my suspicions,” she said. “So, what’s next? You’ve been talking about a visit to Europa. Or a trip to the alternate Earth you mentioned.”

  “First, I have to build a body for Sammy. I think we owe him that.”

  “Cool.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Quentin Jeffries pushed a glass door open and stepped into the bar. It smelled of cigarette smoke and old, stale beer. The lighting was poor, and a few patrons milled about. Some at tables and a couple at the bar. A pool table stood at one side of the room, waiting for someone to play a game. A television was mounted on a wall behind the bar, and a bartender lounged lazily.

  This was not a sports bar or a lounge of any kind. It was not a café. It was just an old-school bar, situated on the corner of a side street in a residential section of Boston.

  Mandy Waid left a table in one corner where she had been nursing a vodka martini, and drifted through the cigarette smoke toward Quentin. She was in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back in a tail, and the tail was pulled through the back of a baseball hat.

  “About time you got here,” she said. “I’ve been hit on three times.”

  “I doubt you have any trouble taking care of yourself.”

  “None. But I’m was trying not to draw attention to myself.”

  Quentin let his glance travel from one patron to another. A woman at the bar, easily forty but dressed like a teenager, flirting with a man in jeans and cowboy boots, and whose hair was worked into an Elvis pompadour. At a table were a couple older guys with gray hair and beer guts, their eyes fixed on the television. Sitting at a bar was a thin man with a relaxed slouch to his shoulders. A faded Red Sox hat was on his head and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. In front of him was a cup of coffee.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Mandy said, “there’s our man.”

  As they watched, he took a sip of coffee and scowled. Apparently it had grown cold. He touched a finger to the coffee and within seconds the coffee was again steaming hot. He then took a sip and returned his eyes to the television.

  Quentin slid onto a barstool beside the man. The ear piece was in place. He now wore it continually and it was concealed by his hair. Mandy took the seat on the other side of the man, trying to make it seem casual, as though he was not being flanked.

  The man with the cap nodded to Quentin, and returned his gaze to the television. A news broadcast showed an armored truck moving along, and the newscaster was saying, “In light of the disaster in Boston two months ago that saw the destruction of the Portland Press Herald building, Peter LaSalle has been moved out of his previous facility in Virginia to one in an undisclosed location.”

  Quentin said, “I saw what you did with the coffee.”

  The man was suddenly defensive. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

  Mandy said, “We saw you heat up the coffee with just a touch of your finger.”

  “Look, lady, I don’t know what you think you saw, but I’m just sitting here..,”

  His words died away when he realized the sugar bowl was hanging in mid-air in front of his nose.

  Quentin said, “Would you like a sugar? Perhaps two?”

  “You’re like me,” the man said. “Both of you?”

  Quentin allowed the sugar bowl to descend gently to the bar. “We need your help. We’re recruiting a small band of people for a special mission.”

  “What kind of mission?”

  “In the long run, to save mankind. But first,” Quentin glanced toward the television, “we need your help in pulling off a little jail break.”

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  One Year Later

  April Hollister lounged in bed, one side of her face buried in a pillow, as she watched the smartest man in the world sleep. His hair was tousled like it had been exposed to a strong wind all night. She couldn’t help but smile.

  He opened one eye.

  “Are you staring at me again?” he said.

  “Nope. Well, maybe.” She said
through her smile.

  He groaned. “It’s morning, isn’t it?”

  She nodded cheerfully. “Has been for a while.”

  He shut his eye. “Morning comes too early. I have to try and do something about that.”

  “I think it’s so cute. The smartest man in the world is not a morning person.”

  “All these brain cells need more sleep.”

  The bed was king-sized, with a dark wooden headboard rising at the corners into swirling spires. Scott had a touch of old-world taste in him. The rest of the room was spartan, though. The walls were of smooth concrete, painted a soft light green by April because she thought earth tones would add a sense of warmth to the place. There were no windows, as beyond the walls was solid rock. There were bookshelves, though. Scott had dozens of books on things like molecular biology and theoretical physics. He could read one entire text book in half an hour. He also had DVD’s of things like Star Trek and Battlestar. And, of course, Firefly. A true geek couldn’t be without his Firefly DVD’s. And the Serenity movie.

  One wall was actually holographic. It could fade into nothingness, and reveal a closet holding a few clothes. Mostly jeans and t-shirts and a couple lab coats. And the requisite long brown coat, which he had bought at a sci-fi convention a few years ago. The floor space of the hidden closet was entirely made up of boxes of comics.

  April had quarters of her own, but they spent hardly any time there, as Scott’s bed was bigger.

  She said, “Mastermind. That’s what we should call you as a code name.”

  “Please don’t.” He was holding one hand over his eyes, as though he might be able to somehow block out the day and get a little more sleep.

  “No, seriously.” She propped herself up on one elbow. “We’ve been trying to come up with a code name for you. I’m Angel Girl. Rick is the Comet. Chuck is Freeze Guy. Jake is Captain Courageous.”

  “He hates that name, you know.” Scott began rubbing his eyes, as though the morning somehow actually hurt.