"I know where the secrets are buried."
"You sure do. You gonna sell me out to the tabloids?"
Not that they needed any help. They had gone wild with stories about me. Depending on the day and which outlet was desperate for website traffic, I was either a government experiment, an alien, an angel, a goddess, or a demon. And everything in-between. I almost got a perverse kick out of reading these stories, until I remembered they were writing about me.
"For the right price, baby girl. For the right price."
"Get that money, Dad. I can't hate."
"I am the daddy of 'Miss Xtra,' so why shouldn't I cash in?"
I sigh. That name has started to pop up all over the place. It was from one of the kids on the bus. He told the local news station that "the lady" who saved their bus had "something special, something extra, with an 'x'," and the clip had begun circulating with that in the title.
Xtra. The Xtra. Xtra Woman. Xtra Girl.
"Not you too."
"I like it. How does your brand manager feel?"
"Taylor? She likes it too. I think you're all conspiring against me."
"That girl's odd but she has a good head. I think you should listen to her."
"See? Conspiring."
"My Xtra girl," he says, trailing off.
I know that change of tone in his voice. He's thinking about her. I can always hear it when he is. His personality changes and I can hear the love and regret wrapped up in one. This was the love of his life, the woman he planned to spend the rest of his life with.
Nobody knows this better than me. I saw them together. The way they looked at each other, held hands, spoke to one another, and to me. It was supposed to last forever.
But it didn't.
"Oh Dad."
"She'd be so proud of you Carla. So proud."
"The powers are really amazing."
"No. Not that. I mean, they are, but it isn't that. It's you. You decided to do what you're doing with those powers. Helping people. All the time."
"Well, I have to, right?"
"You don't. I'm serious, you don't. Not everyone would."
"But—"
"Not everyone would. Some people, if they got the opportunity to do what you can do, they would just make a load of money for themselves and that would be that. You didn't."
I want to say something, but my heart is in my throat. I don't handle these kinds of emotions well and it's even worse when it's coming from my dad. I thought I had a handle on closing off all this stuff but now it feels like it's all around me every day. And it isn't bad.
"I'm just doing what you both taught me to," I finally reply.
"And I'm proud of you for doing it. She'd be so proud. This is what she would love to see. I think she's seeing it. From above. I'm sure of it. She's watching you and the amazing work you're doing and smiling. I guarantee it."
Tears are running down my face. Taylor walks in to tell me dinner's ready but she sees the look on my face and realizes right away who I'm talking to. She steps back out to give me time and mouths "when you're ready."
"That's sweet, Dad. I appreciate it."
"Always for my baby girl. My little Xtra. The Xtra Woman. You like that one?"
"Dad."
"I'm serious." He laughs loudly. "Serious. It sounds good. It fits. You were an Xtra-handful, now maybe everyone should know."
"You're just going to do me like that?"
"I am. You're grown but you're still my little one. I have to remind you of that from time to time, keep you in check."
"Wow, consider me checked, sir."
"You going to get a costume? Big cape? Some kind of mask?"
"Dad."
"I'm serious. If you're a superhero you need those things."
"Dad."
I don't say anything, but I have been wearing the brown bomber jacket he gave me and wearing his dog tags. I carry Mom and her legacy around with me every day in my blood, but I want to show, in my own way, his role In this too.
Dad fought for the country and these little totems are his legacy. As his living legacy, I want the world to know my roots in this man and what he's done.
I don't need a silly costume to show that.
A cape would be nice.
No, no capes.
Chapter 62
The wind is howling like a banshee. It is loud and it drowns out nearly every other sound in this remote outpost in northern Alaska. This is barren, hostile territory in perpetual darkness that seems designed by nature to keep people away. It is cold all the time, varying only from "bitter" to "deadly."
Yet Madden Blanc is nonplussed. He walks from his airplane across the tarmac of the private airport facility as if it were a clear spring day. He is barely even wearing anything to cover his skin from the harsh conditions.
He hardly notices the biting cold despite the change in color of his skin. He learned long ago to focus on problems and solutions without allowing the petty annoyances of daily life to get in the way. This is no different.
The men accompanying him, by comparison, are covered from head to toe in arctic gear. Their uniforms are designed to withstand the cold weather and keep them loose and limber and ready to act if necessary.
They follow Blanc along toting their large assault rifles, relying on their military training to sense threats and respond to them in the blink of an eye. They are a small private army on contract to protect this area and its priceless contents.
Blanc steps into the waiting black SUV, equipped with all the luxury comforts of the highest end car while also being extensively ruggedized so it can handle the harsh conditions of the outpost.
As he sits down the car pulls off. He doesn't have to say a word about their destination and certainly nobody expects any pleasantries to be exchanged. Blanc doesn't do that and he would fire anybody who even attempted.
They are professionals in every sense of the word and they are paid handsome salaries with that in mind.
The car rolls along into the dark. From the outside it doesn't look like anything is here. Certainly not something worth all this security and secrecy and weaponry, right?
Anyone thinking that would be wrong.
He doesn't show it, because he never shows his cards, but Madden Blanc is angry that he is here.
Being here means that The Overseers are ramping things up. After years and years of steady steps, seemingly moving toward a long-term goal, a giant leap is being made in a short time period.
For Blanc, it shows distrust and contempt. He has never had an emotional relationship with these figures. It was merely transactional: His execution on Earth of their vision in exchange for access to technology and intelligence nobody else could dream of. Mutually beneficial.
But now this woman, this black woman, has them spooked.
They didn't show emotions of course, but Blanc could tell. This project was not supposed to be activated yet. It was one of their long-simmering initiatives waiting to be unleashed. Someday.
But today was now "someday."
They hadn't even considered giving Blanc access to this before her emergence. Maybe he could have done something that prevented the emergence of Carla Logan in the first place if he had. Or he could have found some other way to get to the materials they so desperately wanted.
He never got that chance. It was all decided for him. He was not included in the discussions or decision-making process. Madden Blanc was just their errand boy for the real bosses who stood billions of miles away, removed from the battlefield, but standing by to reap all the benefits of the conflict.
Blanc would go along with things, for now. But as the car rumbled over the snowy roads his mind was filled with contingency plans, ideas and schemes that he would execute without The Overseers, without being at their beck and call.
I'm bigger than them, he thought. They need to know that.
###
The facility took a lot of resources to build. Permits had to be obtained from state and
local government officials through a combination of bribery and blackmail. Money is excellent at making eyes look the other way and stopping questions that probe too deeply.
Blanc had more than enough money to make that happen without breaking a sweat.
It was constructed underground, creating another layer of obscurity beneath the remote location. It was impossible to find without knowing exactly what to look for. It wasn't on any maps, physical or digital.
To the untrained eye it was merely just another dreary, barren stretch of the snow-covered landscape. It went on for miles and miles below the ground. The crew that constructed it years ago had been purposefully kept in the dark. Some thought they were working for the Pentagon. Others believed it was the state government. Another group believed they were in the employ of an eccentric multi-billionaire. That was the closest to the truth but they would never know who it was.
Blanc's SUV comes to a dead stop, as do the other vehicles accompanying him. The engines hum as the cars idle.
Then it happens.
The slab of concrete they are parked on shimmies a little. Then a lot. Gears engage. There is a loud "click," and the ground slowly begins to drop away.
It is like an elevator, transporting the vehicles below the surface of the barren landscape into the massive facility that Madden Blanc created beneath the Alaskan winterscape.
Lights click on as the stone slab descends. Already they have been scanned and digitally tagged multiple times. Nothing gets in or out of this subterranean building without a massive amount of authorization and access privileges.
Blanc has the highest level of clearance and the artificial intelligence software that maintains the building is aware of this.
The vehicle slab drops further and further, bypassing the other levels of activity. These floors merely contain advanced initiatives for Blanc's company, projects and products requiring secrecy and protection beyond his ordinary holdings, but well in line with what other global multinationals are also doing.
Where they are headed makes the upper floors seem quaint.
This is what separates Blanc from the rest. What has been his upper hand. The lowest levels contain the alien technology from billions of miles away that have given Blanc his edge, his unfair advantage that has generated so much wealth and so much power.
With an even louder "click," the slab slides into place at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Blanc has arrived.
###
Melanie Deshan doesn't get out into the world enough and she looks like it. The woman is in her late fifties but her pale skin and gaunt figure make her appear nearly twenty years older than her true age. She has been at the Alaska facility for years with her team, on the cutting edge of science and technology but cut off from the wider world.
That is the price they have been willing to pay for the privileges they have. For Deshan and her team it is worth it. She could never muster up the courage to do it, but deep down she would love to scream out to the world to show them what they have done down here.
But that would be unthinkable and impossible. She and her team create in secrecy and isolation, working on their projects based on Madden Blanc's direct orders and initiatives.
Deshan is not stupid. She has access to television and the Internet. She has seen Carla Logan and the constant coverage of "The Xtra" and knows it is no coincidence that Blanc is making a highly irregular and unusual visit down here.
The minute she saw Logan, Deshan's impressive mind went into overdrive. She wanted to know how the young woman could do these things. Flying. Super strength. Invulnerability. It was a genetic puzzle and Deshan's curiosity had spiked.
But now she has to focus and put it all out of her mind.
Blanc is here.
The doors slide open with minimal sound and her superior steps off the elevator and walks in with his entourage. As usual his face is cold and hard and non-expressive. Of course.
"So happy to have you on-site, sir," she says. As soon as she says the words, she realizes her voice was far too excited and that the words are smashing into each other as she speaks.
Such a long time without supervision, heads buried in science and research, Deshan is not polished like the other lieutenants in Blanc's sprawling empire. She is not a climber, pushing to get up the corporate ladder.
Blanc barely nods in response to her greeting and walks past her. She scurries behind him, keeping pace with his long strides as the entourage makes their way down the hallway. The corridors are long and quiet, covered in a shiny metallic sheen that gleams under the low lights hanging from the ceiling.
This is where Deshan and her team have been living for years, working around the clock on their various projects. The few who have families in the lower 48 have long left them behind, maybe sending an occasional impersonal email to let them know they are still alive.
The project is all-consuming. Deshan is dedicated, and to have Blanc here, now, at this critical juncture, is obviously weighed down with importance.
He puts his right palm up to the black panel next to a giant, dark-red door. It reads his handprint and then a beam of light scans his face. It skips for a moment, comparing his facial characteristics and other measurements to the sample on file.
"Identified. Access granted," the computer voice says.
The doors slide open and create a loud "thud" giving away their immense size and dimensions. What is behind these doors is well-protected, with a level of protection unlike anything else in Blanc's lavishly guarded empire. Even for someone like him, who values security and secrecy the countermeasures in place are over the top. But necessary.
Deshan awkwardly catches up to Blanc and sweeps her arm out, showing off the room. His impression remains stoic. He has seen this facility before. He designed it, built it. He does not care. She smiles, showing too many teeth.
"Over there," she says, gesturing to the furthest corner of the room.
Blanc knows this also and she immediately regrets saying it. She's not used to being tongue-tied like this but Blanc unnerves her. She knows how important and powerful he is, that she owes her personal fortune, and more importantly, her scientific freedom, to his largesse.
For Blanc, she barely matters. She is a means to an end, like everything else in his life. Years ago, when the project was initiated, he merely sought out the best mind for the job. His research led to Deshan, he made an offer, and that was that. It was not personal. He was not wowed by her intellect and passion. She was a pathway to his chosen path, and he merely took it, like he did everywhere else in his life.
In the corner of the room is a massive water tank. It has a similar shape to a simple glass of water but at a much larger scale, at least a hundred feet in diameter.
The water inside the tank is dark and murky, filled with algae and underwater plants with large, thick leaves. It is almost impossible to see anything because the growth is so thick and intertwined.
But Blanc knows what he traveled all this distance for is in there.
Chapter 63
Madden Blanc steps right up next to the tank. He can feel a change in temperature caused by the vessel's climate control system. It is cold, and if he were to touch the glass, his hand would stick to it for a second from the dramatic change in conditions.
He narrows his eyes looking for it. Then he spots it. He almost smiles. It is one of the few things in the world that give him joy. Because it should be impossible, and Blanc loves having a hand in the improbable.
It is a large animal, nearly nine feet tall. It has many of the dimensions of a human male, but at a terrifying scale. It's arms and legs are grotesquely muscular, like a steroid-riddled bodybuilder's body, and there isn't an inch of visible fat to be seen.
But unlike a human being, the creature is covered head-to-toe in thick green-grey scales, like a lizard.
Its head is also more reptilian than human, with a long snout like an alligator. At the end of its arms are claws, not hands, with thick green we
bbing between the individual fingers. The feet have a similar design with large sharp claws jutting off his scaly toes.
It is an unholy amalgamation of human features with reptilian elements, and its massive, muscular bulk floats up and down in the tank. Its home.
Danmoc lives.
"How many cycles?" Blanc asks, staring at the animal.
"Over six months for this one, sir. It is our most stable specimen. We think we finally normalized the sequencing to contain the genetic information we received from our … outside sources."
Melanie Deshan is aware of The Overseers. She has never seen them and has never interacted with them – only Blanc has done that – but she isn't stupid. She is at the pinnacle of her field and she knows that the sequences and technology that have been given to her team are beyond anything on Earth.
The data was raw and powerful, and it has taken refined, methodical work for her group to harness it. She often thought of it as the equivalent of handing a caveman an atomic bomb and telling him to figure out a way to start a fire.
Despite the obstacles, her team has nonetheless achieved its impossible goal and she is proud.
The creature suddenly stiffens, aware of a new presence. It swims up to its side of the glass. It looks at Blanc with the hideous slits where its eyes are, its snout pressed up against the glass. It is breathing through gills on the side of its scaly, green neck. Bubbles float up as the animal stares into the room.
"He recognizes you," Deshan says, trying to control the emotion in her voice. She is proud of her work but also cognizant of the fact that Blanc doesn't want to hear her passion. He wants facts, data, specificity. But she has pride and wants approval from this man that will never truly come.
"The imprinting took several iterations. Earlier prototypes were… failures." She thinks about the carcasses of the other creatures, the dozens and dozens of bodies thrown into the facility's gigantic incinerators, a testament to her team's methodical approach to live testing of genetic science that would violate numerous ethical and moral standards across the world.
It does not bother her conscience. This work has allowed her to go beyond the boundaries, to excel at science that is decades beyond the current state of the art. By any measure the carnage has been more than worth it for her.
The Xtra- Volume One Page 13