The Tenth Legion (Book 6, Progeny of Evolution)

by Mike Arsuaga

  Or General Electronics.

  Most of the business world knew Gen-El’s displeasure with Ed’s intrusion into fields they had dominated for decades, like the cargo plane. Their sour grapes bordered on petty, becoming the subject of ridicule in late-night talk shows. Fifty years earlier, the CI corporate model became the example taught in the schools of business administration. The consensus held Gen-El represented the obsolete past. Their vigorous, innovative rival was about to leave them in the dust. Would they give X-10 the virus to prevent that, remaining at arm’s length while the disease went to work? Of the three thousand members of the community on Earth, a hundred of them ran the corporation. Kill them, and the company would die, along with the main bulwark against X-10.

  A light went on in Lorna’s brain and she sat bolt-upright at her desk.

  That’s it!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Dammit, I don’t care if he’s in meditation with the spirit of his long lost cousin George!” Lorna shouted into the phone. “This is a matter of life and death. Get him on the line.”

  “Ma’am, I have no way to do that,” replied the temperate voice. “He’s in meetings and has blocked all calls.”

  “Fine!” she shouted, slamming down the phone. Thomas and Karla also didn’t answer, probably attending the same meeting. Lorna picked up the phone, selected the encrypted option, saying, “Ethan White.” Voice recognition software dialed his number.

  Presently, a deep voice said, “This is Ethan White.”

  “Ethan, this is Lorna. I need your help. It’s about X-10.”

  “Do you know Father’s been trying to get in touch with you?”

  “Yeah, he’s tied up in a meeting. Listen to me very carefully. I don’t have time to explain, but I have reason to believe X-10 has a virus designed to affect us. They have plans to use it soon.”

  “Have you told Father?”

  “I tried, but as I said, he’s incommunicado.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Get everything you can on a scientist named Lorenzo Armendariz. Pay particular attention to what he did while employed at General Electronics. Also, anything on a local woman named Elsa Travers, along with the X-10 organization here. There’s a big meeting planned soon. Jeremiah Winston will be attending.”

  Information that would have raised the adrenaline level of anyone else didn’t budge Ethan’s pervasive calm. “Quite a lot you have there. I’ll get right on it.”

  “And one more thing. Be careful who you bring into this. We may have a traitor close by.”

  “I understand. Where will you be?”

  “I need to get inside the building where they’re going to meet. Tell your dad’s men to back off. This is police work, meaning no one here can be involved.”

  Ethan paused. “Will you be working with S.W.A.T.?”

  “Absolutely.” She winced at telling the lie.

  “All right. Father wouldn’t abide you going there alone.”

  Like he really cares.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The car Lorna checked out from the motor pool idled with a labored panting sound, a sticky valve no doubt. After completing a slow drive by of the building, she pulled into a restaurant parking lot to consider her options.

  God, I wish Mike still had my back.

  * * * *

  The building stood alone on a field of fresh green. The evening sun, radiating from behind, created an orange corona around a featureless gray brick. The approaching night reminded her she’d missed her usual sleeping time. Yawning deeply, she returned her attention to the building.

  Every entry door, including the one for vehicles, was double padlocked. Security cameras surrounded the place, far more than normal warehouse storage required. After a bit of observation, she discovered a blind spot on one side. The cameras’ arcs did not intersect. The window in the blind spot sat an unreachable ten feet off the ground.

  In her mind, she ran through a list of city ordinances that would get her inside—vermin, fire hazard, excess trash, even sanitation violations—but the place was squeaky clean. No leverage there.

  If I can’t find an excuse to get in, maybe I can make one for someone else and follow them.

  From a nearby Wal-Mart, she bought the things she needed, including a small tin of roofing tar made from petroleum distillate and a can of mineral spirits. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have the water-based kind?” the clerk offered, referring to the roof tar. “It’s much easier to clean up.”

  Observing the half-empty shelves throughout the store, she turned back to the clerk, who worked from behind a panel of bulletproof glass. “No,” she answered. “This is just what I need.”

  Stepping out to the curb, she inventoried the purchases to make sure she had everything. The inspection had to be quick because behind her, in an otherwise abandoned and boarded-up strip mall, the double storefront comprising the Wal-Mart prepared to close for the night. Upon entering the car a distant cracking sound, either a gunshot or a backfiring exhaust, raised her adrenalin level. She touched the handle of her firearm for reassurance. At the back of her mind lingered a small regret the two burly security men Ed had assigned to her weren’t around.

  As night approached, a wind blew up, carrying a damp, chilly edge. In the car, she assembled a smudge pot from a glass quart jar costing five dollars. At one time, such containers were used once and then thrown away. Such extravagance seemed unbelievable, although in some ways, fortunate. The jar, probably a hundred years old, had come from a landfill.

  She scooped out the tar with a butter knife, kneading in the crushed soda crackers and the mineral spirits. When some of the mixture dripped on the leg of her pants suit, she cursed under her breath. To avoid letting the distinctive odor into the open to attract unwanted attention, she kept the car windows shut until the last minute. Eyes watering from the distillate laden car interior, she packed the mixture into the container, tamping the last bit flush with the open top, and tore a washcloth into strips. She finished by screwing them into the threads of the jar with the cap.

  Darkness arrived by the time she finished. Orange security lights illuminated the perimeter of the building, but no guards appeared. Moving across the open ground should be all right provided she took her time. Taking the jar in addition to what remained of the mineral spirits, she put them in a small back pack.

  “Here goes,” she muttered under her breath. “Cithara, protect me.”

  For a good fifteen minutes, she crept across the orange-lit ground, feeling exposed like a raw nerve. At any second, she expected a carload of armed X-10s to come roaring up, but nothing happened. She relaxed only after slipping into the cover of the building’s shadow. The window hung above her, a different texture of black on the wall. In human form, Lorna could throw with the speed and accuracy of a good minor league pitcher. Squatting down, she soaked the rag strip attached to the jar in the last of the mineral spirits. After wiping her fingers clean with the rest of the cloth, she picked up a piece of brick and hurled it at the window. The shattering glass seemed loud in the silent evening. Crouching down tensely, she waited for a reaction either from inside or out.

  Nothing moved. After a minute, she stood up, lit the wick, and hefted the Molotov cocktail through the broken window. The jar shattered on the floor inside. Instantly, a flickering orange glow filled the interior, soon followed by thick, dark smoke pouring from the opening. Waiting another minute until by her estimation the fire caught on, she dialed 911.

  “This is Lieutenant Lorna Winters of the OPD. I have a six-thirteen in progress…” She gave the address. “Yes, I can wait until they arrive.”

  In less than five minutes, sounds of the fire truck’s distant approach materialized from the undifferentiated buzz of the night. A mile away, the vehicle turned onto the street. The blue and red blinking lights grew into a charging red, yellow, chrome, and black machine with a diesel rumble, and a horn to put your teeth on edge. A police patrol car fo
llowed along, standard for nighttime fire emergencies in this part of town.

  The truck wheeled up to the vehicle entrance. Four people in heavy, yellow, firefighter jackets and dark boots leaped out. “I spotted the flames reflected in a window on the side,” Lorna explained to the one in charge.

  While they spoke, the others unreeled hoses. One took a set of bolt cutters to the padlock on the personnel door cut into the larger vehicle entrance.

  “Scott Packs, ladies,” ordered the leader. The self-contained breathing apparatus masks slipped over the firefighters’ faces. One handled the nozzle, while the rest dragged hoses inside. Lorna stayed at the entrance, peering in. A few blasts of high-pressure water took care of the fire. One of the firefighters turned on the lights.

  From the entrance, Lorna saw a stage at the other end of the warehouse. The firefighters opened the side windows to dissipate the smoke. Flags from the five major regions of the old United States, accompanied by the orange, white, and green of West Mexico, draped the stage. A large wooden cross painted an immaculate glossy white dominated the center.

  “Get a look at that,” one of the patrolmen said from behind.

  Several steps inside the building, Lorna turned around. A cork bulletin board covered with photographs of people hung on the front wall. Ed’s picture occupied the pinnacle of the rough pyramid.

  “There must be two hundred of them,” one of the patrolmen speculated.

  “I wonder who they are.”

  Lorna knew. Key members of The Others still living on Earth, including the families, were there. The ones she didn’t recognize must be from other regions. Under each photo, someone had written detailed notes in black marker. Lorna took cell phone photographs of the board.

  “Sorry, guys,” said one of the firefighters, rushing up to her. “The place hasn’t been verified safe yet. You need to leave.” He gave Lorna a hard stare. “Right now.”

  “Ma’am, he’s right,” a patrolman said, nudging her toward the door with a touch on the elbow.

  “It’s a safety issue. There could be a flare-up or even a booby trap. We can wait in the patrol car, if you like,” the other one added.

  Lorna took her time, studying the board, and committing to memory all she could. A photograph of her sat near the top, just below Ed’s. Unlike most of the rest, hers had a big question mark written on it. To her relief, the poor focus made identifying her impossible. Valeria, as yet also unidentified, stood several levels below Ed in the makeshift hierarchy.

  On the side walls hung larger photographs of hollow-cheeked, wild-eyed Ferals, from the most recent to at least two generations back. These were the images X-10 wanted the world to see—psychopathic predators living on the fringe of humanity, good for nothing but extermination. X-10 even had a copy of the Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of Cynthia Meadows, accompanied by First Mother Sam, squatting side-by-side in a lycan state. The original picture showed them mourning Cynthia’s mate. He’d died in the process of saving thirty hostages during a bank robbery attempt that resulted in The Others revealing their existence. X-10 had altered the picture to show them feeding on the entrails of a naked, human male.

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you for that,” the leader of the firefighters said when he saw her taking cellphone pictures of the wall hangings. “You’re holding evidence in a possible arson.”

  “I don’t think so,” Lorna said. “It’s evidence in something much bigger.”

  “Officer, will you please acquaint the lieutenant with the rules?”

  “Ma’am, he’s right. The Fire Department has first dibs on evidence at all fires.”

  Right then, the female firefighter walked in with the crew’s bomb-sniffing dog on a leash. “Max won’t be long,” she said.

  The dog rolled menacing eyes in Lorna’s direction and lifted a lip, showing black gums along with yellowed teeth. The animal growled for a second or two before lunging at her with a staccato of deep snarling barks.

  “She’s a woofer,” A firefighter muttered from behind. Lorna sensed them closing in. If one had a stun gun, she was a goner. Holding the cell phone tightly, she morphed to exclamation of a couple of “Holy shits” from the patrol officers, and bounded from the building, leaving her outfit behind in rags. They untethered the dog, but Lorna had too large a head start. Even if somehow the animal caught up to her, in lycan form, she could kill it, but not without sustaining significant injury.

  Her car sat off the road at the edge of the clearing. Returning to human form, she retrieved the ignition keys, covered herself with a police jacket, and pointed the car toward the sanctuary of corporate headquarters, thankful for having the foresight to leave her purse and ID in the car. Once on her way with no threats in sight, she dialed Ethan.

  I guess the Fire Department doesn’t have the same standards on background investigations.

  “Stand by,” she said before he had a chance to speak. “I’m sending you photos from the X-10 meeting room.”

  “What happened to you, Lorna?” After recovering from the surprise of hearing Ed’s voice, relief swept over her.

  “Got my butt caught in a bit of a sling trying to save our kit and kin. What about you?”

  “The photographs are coming through now,” Ethan said. “Where are you? We’ll send a car to escort you in.”

  “Have them bring a change of clothes.”

  * * * *

  Once on the road, she figured herself to be safe. That relief was short lived once she remembered the GPS, standard issue on all police vehicles. Doubtless, the firefighters had prevailed on the uniforms, none of whom was among the sharpest tool in the shed, to track the car. Within minutes, a menacing-looking SUV pulled in behind her. Another cut in ahead. Stopping wouldn’t work. Turning down a side road was also no good because they were all dead ends in that part of town. Morphing to run for the next precinct station seemed the best option. Hope existed of getting there before the pack of dogs caged in the SUVs caught her. If she did nothing, they’d take her at the dark stretch of road a few miles ahead.

  While she debated the options, two larger SUVs came to the rescue. They cut in front and behind, separating her car from the X-10 vehicles. The one in front butted the X-10 ahead, while the other slowed to a creep, letting nothing pass. After a minute or so, the bad guys peeled off. The convoy entered corporate headquarters through the underground parking lot. At the checkpoint, a woman waited with a change of clothes for Lorna. After a quick side trip to the ladies room, they cleared the ID check and boarded the express elevator to the penthouse.

  The elevator door swished open to a vestibule. An armed guard sat at a desk in front of the door, a massive, dark-wood twelve-footer. Showing a warm, reassuring expression, he said, “Good to see you’re safe, Ms. Winters. Everyone’s already inside.” He opened the great door, revealing a spacious lounge area.

  A score of unfamiliar faces idled on the elegant furniture, sipping drinks or picking at a buffet. Lorna passed an attractive blonde in a suede miniskirt. Upon standing, the hem came to just above mid-thigh. When she returned to repose on the felt cushions, it rode up close to her crotch. She presented the sulky, pouty countenance of someone who expected to be indulged, but who, at the moment, wasn’t. Lorna smelled Bobby’s scent on her. They’d had recent sex. Upon further inspection, she recognized Cynthia’s older brothers, in from Atlanta, both hybrids.

  “In here, ma’am.” The security guard opened another twelve-foot-tall door.

  In the large, bright room, a table, similar to the one where Lorna shared the first meal with Ed, dominated the space. Ed sat in his accustomed position, at the far head. The rest of the family gathered around. Toby and Ethan sat near their father. Lorna ignored the vacant seat beside Ed, refusing to face the embarrassment of being asked to vacate when Valeria arrived. If Ed saw Lorna enter, he showed no notice. To be fair, the staff crowded around, keeping him pretty busy.

  After one or two others arrived behind her, Ed looked up at
the gathering with the penetrating stare that thrilled her to the core. “All right, then, let’s get started.” Despite the formidable expression, circles under his eyes told her he hadn’t slept well in days.

  Was nightlife getting you down?

  An image lit up a white screen beyond Ed, one of the cell phone pictures Lorna had taken of the bulletin board, with the annotated photographs of The Others. “This was taken tonight at the local headquarters of X-10 by a brave operative at great personal risk.” He cast a tentative, hopeful smile at Lorna. “While analysis is incomplete, a first approximation suggests every key member in the Americas, including hybrids, is portrayed.”

  “This means our directory has been compromised,” Thomas added. “I think we can assume X-10 knows the name, as well as address, of every one of us.”

  “We also have strong evidence X-10 possesses a virus deadly to our kind.”

  “How is that possible?” demanded Cynthia’s brother.

  Ed told the history of Armendariz’s work, culminating in the Muslim Bomb. “We’re almost certain there is now a similar weapon designed for us,” he said in conclusion.

  “We can’t just sit by allowing them to pick us off. I say let’s take them out!” someone shouted from the back of the room.

  “No, we’d be playing into their hands. They could wrap themselves in the regional flag, carry a cross, and claim we’re what they’ve accused us of being for the past hundred years.”

  Ed’s animated, passionate demeanor held everyone’s attention. Profiled against the screen, the tensed jaw line stood out, complementing the jutting chin. The actinic projector beam gave his flesh an orange hue, like the stylized coloring of the figures on ancient Greek pottery.

  “Well, if we can’t protect ourselves, what do we do?” demanded someone else, after which a general confusion of voices filled the room.

  When the noise died down, Bobby stood, assuming a stance separating him from the general hue and cry. A reddish blood hickey glowed on his neck, an artifact of the sexual encounter with Miss Pouty Puss. The crowd hushed to silence. Facing his father, he said in a clear but soft, almost self-deprecating, voice, “I have an idea that might work. Why don’t we bring everyone here until the authorities clear things up? We have the best detection equipment in the world. Our people couldn’t be safer.”