V_The 2nd Generation

by Kenneth Johnson

  The prisoner growled and clawed at the air threateningly toward Willy, who continued to speak soothingly. "Easy now, we want to get you out of here." Though the prisoner couldn't walk, he suddenly lunged violently, but Willy was prepared and shot him with a stunner. The brutish prisoner screeched and then, glaring at Willy, slumped to the greasy metal floor.

  THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH THE LEAVES OF THE TREES in Lafayette Park and mottled the sidewalk along posh Washington Street where Emma had just been shopping. Despite her vast popularity as a celebrity, it was not unusual for her to be out alone. She certainly was aware of and appreciated the nods of recognition from passersby and the special treatment she received in the boutiques. But she preferred to be—and to be thought of as—an open, friendly person. She only relied on handlers or an entourage for security among the enthusiastic crowds at her concerts. Nor was it unusual for her to pause as she had on this day to graciously sign an autograph for a star-struck young fan. On the upscale building behind them one of the ubiquitous large vid screens was silently flashing: Suspect anti-Visitor activity? Tell a Teammate! After a last smile to her fan, Emma got into the driver's seat of her silver Lexus. She was startled when the passenger door suddenly opened and a small blond woman got in beside her. Emma's voice, however, was firm. "I'm sorry, but—"

  Margarita rose up behind her in the backseat. "Drive straight ahead, past Franklin."

  Emma was shocked. But the blonde's voice was calm, non-threatening. "We just want to talk."

  Emma looked more closely at the woman in her passenger seat and her blood chilled as recognition dawned. "Oh, my God, you're—you're—!"

  "That's right, she is," Margarita interrupted. "Now, please drive."

  Emma nervously pulled from the curb. She was too rattled to notice that following a short distance behind was a striking black woman on a sleek motorbike. Bryke adjusted a tiny hearing device, listening to the conversation in the car ahead of her.

  Julie had come right to the point. "Emma, the Resistance needs your access to the Visitor High Command."

  "What?" Emma was incredulous. "You want me to spy for you?" She laughed nervously. "Are you crazy? Why would I do that?"

  "To help us get solid proof we can show the world that the Visitors are taking our water and our people permanently."

  "Oh, come on, I don't believe those ridiculous Sci rumors. I've never seen the remotest shred of evidence that—"

  "Of course you haven't," Margarita was less patient than Julie, "because who controls all the media?"

  Emma's mind was racing. She saw a Patrol shuttle passing overhead, but she had no way of alerting it. Her eyes flitted around the busy intersection ahead, but she couldn't see any Visitor Patrollers. She did spot a Teammate unit one block to her right on Franklin, which unfortunately ran one-way against her. Margarita knew what Emma was thinking and cautioned her, "The northbound traffic is too heavy against you. And your horn's been disconnected. Go on across, turn right into the next alley, then stop by the end of it. You won't be harmed, I promise." Emma's fear was turning to anger, but she drove on.

  Julie said quietly, "We know that we're asking a lot, Emma." The singer practically chortled at the understatement, but Julie continued earnestly, "We do know that. Just please look at this vid." Julie put it in the console pocket between them.

  "No, I won't look at it," Emma had found her voice. She was a strong young woman and determined not to be intimidated even under these dangerous circumstances. "So you might as well just get the hell out of my car and—"

  "What happened to your cousin Tim?" Margarita's question stopped Emma cold. The singer glanced in the rearview mirror at the redhead's intense hazel eyes.

  Before Emma could respond, Julie spoke up, "A Visitor Patroller told you Tim was killed in a car wreck."

  "Yes," Emma said, vividly recalling that awful moment. Then, as if defending the statement, "Yes, and that's exactly what happened."

  "Did you or anyone ever see his body?" Margarita's voice was lower now, with an assurance that was troubling.

  Emma shook her head. "His car was burned up. Tim was—"

  "Not in that wreck," Julie said, pausing a moment to let the notion sink in. "He was taken. Tim worked with us. He was in the San Jose Resistance."

  "Tim? There is no way." Emma stopped the car at the end of the alley, trying to cover her uncertainty with anger. "Now get out of my car!"

  Julie was not one to give up. "Emma, please—"

  "Listen"—Emma gripped the steering wheel tightly—"I struggled very hard to get where I am, okay? And I'm not going to risk losing everything, including my life just to . . . to . . ."

  "Help save humanity?" Margarita wouldn't let her off the hook.

  There was a moment of silence, then Julie said quietly, "Please . . . just look at the vid, Emma. It won't kill you. But you could save a lot of good people from being killed if you'd consider helping us. Like Tim did."

  Having trailed them into the alley, Bryke saw Emma's Lexus idling at the end of it. Then she saw Margarita and Julie get out, trade a frustrated glance as they got into Street-C's waiting car and speed away. Behind Bryke a burly Hispanic Teammate with a thick, black handlebar mustache had entered the alley and was eyeing Bryke suspiciously. He walked up beside her, his hand resting pointedly on his holstered pulse pistol. "Hey, bitch," he said arrogantly, "let's see some ID."

  Bryke slowly turned to gaze at him. He was surprised to see that her eyes were bright pink.

  Had anyone been passing the mouth of the alley at that moment they would have been confused by the image within its shadows. The dark-skinned woman had pulled the hefty Teammate into what looked like a passionate kiss. Their faces were locked together. But it was a curious embrace because the man was beating and clawing against her viselike hold on him as his body gyrated in a macabre dance of death. At length there came from him a horrific, gurgling scream and then Bryke released him. He collapsed backward into a pile of trash and lay motionless. From a distance his body looked somehow less robust than it had moments earlier.

  Bryke guided her purring motorcycle toward the mouth of the alley wiping some of his fresh red blood from around her nose, then she glided on out to intermingle with the San Francisco traffic.

  12

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME WILLY AND JON REACHED Hangar Bay Thirty-seven and were guiding their trunk-sized floating cargo container into the back of a shuttle craft. The dispatch Patroller stopped them, requesting the appropriate authorization, and Willy presented an electronic clipboard. Willy also called the Patroller's attention to the large biohazard symbol on the side of the container. "They told me not to open it or we'd be dead in twelve seconds and the hangar bay would be contaminated and sealed off with us in it."

  The Patroller gingerly stepped back from the container, and waved them up the ramp and onto the shuttle. Eric, the research doctor from the Visitor lab, was also boarding and lent them a hand, smiling at his young half-breed friend. "Let me help you there, Jon."

  "That's very good of you, sir." Jon nodded to the doctor who always had a kind word for the boy. Then Jon touched the container and cautioned Willy, "Handle this very carefully, sir."

  "Oh, yes. Indeed."

  They shared a final conspiratorial look and Jon jumped off just as the hatch began to close. Eric glanced curiously at the container in Willy's charge. "What exactly is in there?"

  Willy also studied the container and spoke the truth. "Actually, I'm not quite sure."

  The mouthlike hatch of the shuttle sealed closed and the craft began to rise for departure.

  THE BLACK-MARKET ARMS DEALER, A GOTH YOUNG WOMAN WITH many piercings, always enjoyed doing business with Gary Lavine. He was a charming, gregarious guy who always had the right cash. Gary had left early from the midtown office of the computer company where he worked as a graphic designer. After concealing the two stolen Visitor pulse rifles in his large portfolio case, he walked quickly to his apartment at Fift
h and Howard.

  He carefully locked the door of his sunny, cheery loft and walked through the tastefully Victorian-style living room. He opened a secret panel on a window seat and proceeded to hide the new rifles amid the conventional weapons already in the compartment. He glanced out the window just above it. It looked eastward across the top of the old Moscone Convention Center, which was now used primarily for Teammate training sessions. He looked beyond that, to a commanding view of the Bay Bridge, which stretched from San Francisco across the desolate valley of the dry bay to Oakland. Seeing the rusting hulks of several sunken ships, which had been revealed when the waters receded, he was reminded of his resolution that they would not be metaphoric harbingers of the future of human civilization. Their physical presence fueled his personal determination to prevent that fate. Seeing them out there every day always kept his commitment to the Resistance burning brightly. That commitment had been made to his father years earlier, just before his father had become a victim of Diana's Great Purge.

  Gary was startled to hear the front door open behind him. He hurriedly closed up the cache and replaced the flowered cushion back atop the window seat as he called out happily, "Hey there. You're home early." He stood up from the hiding place and smoothed his already smooth, smoke-colored hair, "Nice day at the office, dear?"

  The Visitor doctor Eric had entered tiredly. He tossed his uniform cap aside. "About like usual."

  Gary gave him a loving hug and a welcoming kiss. "Like usual? Just another little miracle cure? Like mine?"

  Eric's arms were comfortably around Gary's waist. "I'm glad I could help cure you. Otherwise we might never have met."

  "Otherwise my adorable ass would be dead, honey." Gary nuzzled his lover, then sensed that Eric was troubled. "But what is it? What's wrong?" Gary saw immediately the veiled expression develop on the doctor's face and quickly recanted, "Sorry, sorry. Bite my tongue. I know we agreed: no questions." He changed the subject lightly, "Hey, I got you a new E-string."

  He slipped gracefully from Eric's arms, gathered up an acoustic guitar off of their fuchsia paisley couch, and presented it to his partner. Eric smiled appreciatively and took it. He checked the tuning and strummed a blues lick. Gary watched him fondly, remembering how part of their initial attraction to each other had derived from their mutual love of ethnic music. Gary recalled the first time he had taken Eric to hear Mississippi Delta blues being played by one of the genre's oldest living practitioners. Sitting with Gary in that Tenderloin dive, Eric had become completely enthralled with the funky music, which to Eric was "earthy" in more ways than one. He in turn had introduced Gary to some of the music from his own planet and had gifted Gary with a flutelike alien instrument.

  "Nice," Eric said as he felt the quality of the new string on his fingertips. "How are you doing with mine?"

  "Still learning the nuances." Gary lifted the Visitor instrument and after a squeaky false start played a simple blues melody. Eric touched Gary's cheek fondly, then began to accompany his partner in a rhythmic bluesy duet.

  THE BIG BLACK LABORER WAS IN A FURY. "YOU 'BOUT GOT MY HEAD blowed off!" Blue was angrily confronting Nathan at the Resistance warehouse.

  "Take it easy, man," Nathan said coolly, "I was just trying to get info on that new chemical."

  Margarita was mediating, but clearly on the side of her hefty compatriot. "Blue was already working on that."

  Nathan was cavalier. "Just trying to cut to the chase."

  With his powerful, thick hands, Blue snatched Nathan up by the shirt collar. "How 'bout I cut your chase, motherfucker!"

  Margarita touched his broad shoulder. "Blue."

  But the plant worker stayed focused on Nathan. "You know what happened after you breezed outta there? They had a roundup. The Patrollers came and picked four people at random. Innocent people who hadn't done nothin' wrong. And they transported 'em! You know what that means, hotshot! Ain't nobody gonna ever see 'em again!" He tightened his grip. "You stupid—"

  Margarita was calm but emphatic now. "Blue."

  The big man glared heatedly in Nathan's face, then gruffly slung him aside and walked away. Margarita looked sharply at Nathan, who noticed that her freckles were flushed redder than usual as she said, "Listen, you've obviously got skills we can use, but this is a coordinated team. You go off wildcatting again and"—she spoke the words one at a time—"we will cut you loose." She held his eyes for a moment to impress upon him that she was very serious. When she headed off she made brief eye contact with Julie who had watched the whole exchange. Then Julie's cell phone rang.

  Outside the warehouse in the growing twilight, Ayden, Bryke, and Kayta were scanning the building with several alien instruments. Ayden was using a viewer that revealed the shapes of the people within. They had overheard the heated exchange between Nathan and Blue. Bryke looked at Ayden and said, "What do you think?"

  Ayden continued to scan the building. "Soon. Very soon. Keep collecting data and tracking all their comm channels."

  "Here's a new one." Kayta had fine-tuned a scanner.

  They could hear Julie's voice answering her cell, "Hello, this is Lexington Base. Go ahead, Harmy, this line's secure."

  From his bedroom in the run-down Twenty-first Street apartment, half-breed Ted could hear his mother talking on her cell phone in the kitchen. "Mr. W. is smuggling down some weird prisoner he thinks may have been Resistance," Harmy said. "Can you guys come check him out?"

  Ted had spent yet another day of slaving subservience at the middle school and he was as angry as ever about his lot in life. As he listened to his mother's conversation conclude, the boy's scaly brow furrowed.

  Ten minutes later the sun had just set but the western sky was still glowing as Julie and Nathan emerged from the warehouse and headed for the car. Julie tossed him the keys. He was pleased. "Thanks for letting me come along."

  "I'll tell you something, Nathan," Julie said as they climbed into the car, "you remind me a lot of an old friend. He was pretty impetuous, too."

  "Mike Donovan?"

  "Yeah." Nathan saw her gaze turn inward for a sad moment as she said, "A lot of times his passion got ahead of his reasoning. But he was a great asset to our cause once he realized that hitting the Visitors piecemeal wasn't as important as working together to win back the minds of our people."

  Nathan nodded. Though he didn't yet completely agree with Julie's way of doing things, her understated style was much more appealing than Margarita's in-your-face attitude. He was beginning to understand why the others considered Julie to be the natural leader. Being near her was like discovering a welcoming campfire in a dark, cold forest. Julie radiated light and warmth. Nathan thought that if he held his hands out toward her he might almost feel a campfire's comfort.

  The three strangers with the slight sheen to their skin had witnessed the exchange from their hidden vantage point. Ayden, beckoning Kayta to accompany him, moved toward a motorbike to follow Julie and Nathan. Bryke stayed busy refocusing their unusual surveillance and recording instruments toward the Resistance warehouse.

  COMMANDANT JEREMY'S QUARTERS ABOARD THE FLAGSHIP HAD BEEN arranged to his liking. Like Jeremy himself, everything was Spartan and well organized. Though the food containers built into his wall contained various body parts, flesh and organs of freshly killed animals, his patrician tastes drew him to the living examples available. He had been surprised and pleased by the quality of the rodents on Earth. He examined a fat, healthy gray rat that stared back at him. Its beady black eyes were shining, its whiskers twitching, as Jeremy turned it in his hand. Then he distended his jaw for greater ease of ingestion and thrust the living creature into his gaping mouth. Jeremy felt the rat biting and scratching within his leathery throat as it passed down his esophagus. Then began the animal's terrified wiggling, quivering death throes deep within Jeremy's abdomen, which would be so very agreeable to him for the next few minutes.

  The hatch to his quarters sounded its subtle tone advising him that he had
a visitor. Shawn, Diana's aide de camp, looked up from the viz pad on which he had been taking notes from Jeremy. "Shall I answer, sir?"

  Jeremy waved him off as he wiped his lips and activated the hatch himself. It opened to reveal Gina, the fighter pilot. She snapped to attention, looking straight ahead. "You sent for me, sir?"

  "Yes, Flight Leader, I did." Jeremy eyed her lazily, then glanced at Shawn. "That'll be all, Shawn. And secure the hatch."

  "Very good, sir." Shawn nodded obsequiously and departed, brushing past the lovely pilot as he exited. Once in the passageway Shawn closed the hatch, but didn't immediately depart. Instead, he stood outside the Commandant's hatch supposedly checking through his notes in case anyone should pass by. But what he actually did was affix a tiny listening device to the wall beside Jeremy's quarters. Shawn drew a sharp intake of breath when he heard Gina say brazenly to the Commandant, "It's about time."

  Inside his quarters, Jeremy agreed, "Yes, it is." He pulled Gina into a passionate kiss, their long forked tongues probing deeply down into one another's throats. Then she bit his lip, causing him to look at her sharply. "What was that for?"

  "What do you think? I heard about you and the Leader. Where exactly does that leave us?"

  "In an excellent place, my dear." His attitude was low-key but exultant. "My intimacy with the Leader merely advances my own interests"—his hand was caressing Gina's hard body, sliding lower toward her loins—"our own interests." He nibbled at Gina's long neck. "I've already superseded Diana. Her star is falling. Once I'm in total control she will be snuffed out entirely."

  Gina frowned, not certain she understood. " 'Total control'?"

  "Mmmm. Someday our Leader will require a successor"—an expression of feigned innocence crossed his face—"perhaps sooner rather than later, one never knows what fate has in store." Gina was astounded at the audacity of what he was hinting. "Believe me," Jeremy continued with supreme confidence, "very big things are in the offing."