V_The 2nd Generation

by Kenneth Johnson

  The Zedti Flagship's Executive Officer stood in the shadowy, organic, cavernlike control chamber from which Ayden had first communicated with Bryke and Kayta in the Sierra cabin. The officer was a striking, mature woman with Ayden's coloring and amber eyes. She was nude as were all of the other Zedti at various stations behind her. Data flashed on illuminated crystalline sections of the walls. Some of the Zedti technicians seemed to defy gravity as they sat with their feet on the walls and their backs parallel to the floor.

  The Executive Officer was handed Kayta's communication by one of her male lieutenants. She stared at it for a long moment, then she looked sharply back at the lieutenant for confirmation. He nodded solemnly.

  Still the Executive Officer hesitated. Though she was accustomed to the responsibilities of high command and knew her duty well, this was an extremely difficult moment. But she drew a breath and touched a glistening panel at her side. She spoke in the Zedti language. It had a hissing, clicking quality as though it were made up mostly of consonants. Her voice was firm and resolute. "Fleet Command to all stations. Make all preparations for imminent battle. This is no drill."

  Strange internal alarms began to sound as the Executive Officer's voice echoed throughout the Flagship and across the fleet. "Repeat, this is no drill. Make all preparations for imminent battle."

  She looked back at her lieutenant who had brought Kayta's message. They were both veterans of the previous campaign against the Visitor Armada, which had very nearly been disastrous for the Zedti. They knew the situation must be dire indeed for Ayden to alert them in this fashion. They feared for their three compatriots on Earth and for the future of their entire race. But they also knew their duty, and would follow Ayden's order unquestioningly and, if necessary, to the death.

  The officer turned to look through the irregularly shaped view port that bulged out like a huge fishbowl behind her. Against the darkness of space within Saturn's shadow she saw the running lights of other nearby Zedti starships flash from standby yellow to preparatory orange. She knew the lights were changing on all 177 ships in the fleet. They stretched away into the distance farther than her very keen eyes could see.

  She knew that within each ship, the powerful Zedti army under her command was buzzing with activity, readying for battle action.

  18

  FOR THE THIRD TIME IN AS MANY MINUTES EMMA LOOKED AT HER watch: 11:33 A.M. She was waiting for someone who was late. She had dressed for the Candlestick Park planning session in a red sweater and an ankle-length peasant skirt. Now she kicked in irritation at the hem of it and paced tensely beside her Lexus parked on a deserted Berry Street. The traffic on the I-280 moved along the overpass behind her as she looked out eastward over the dry China Basin at the desolate valley of dried mud that used to be San Francisco Bay. Then a brown, rattletrap Toyota finally pulled up nearby. She hurried toward it as Street-C and Gary climbed out. They looked hot and tired, as though they'd been working very hard with little sleep.

  "Jesus! Where were you?" Emma snapped. "I'm going to be late."

  Gary was apologetic. "Sorry, we had a problem with it."

  "Here ya go." Street-C was opening the creaky back door of the old car. He gingerly extracted the device that Emma was to carry to Candlestick Park: a large, portable CD player.

  She hadn't been sure what the device would look like, but she certainly didn't expect what she saw. "A boom box?"

  Gary shrugged. "Little gallows humor."

  Street-C explained, "We figured you could say some of your music was on it and all."

  Emma was eyeing the audio unit nervously. "How much is in there?"

  The men glanced at each other, then Street-C estimated, "Let's just say you want to be a good fifty yards off when it 'plays.' " He slipped it onto the backseat of her Lexus.

  Emma watched, very uneasy. "And the 'problem' you had with it was . . . ?"

  Gary hated to admit, "We can't get the remote trigger to work."

  "What!" She nearly shouted, "Now wait a minute!"

  "Easy, easy"—Gary's smooth hands patted the air in front of her—"it'll be okay. Martin's aware. All you have to do is get it to him. He'll place it."

  "But how will it be triggered?"

  "Automatically," Street-C said. "It's on an internal timer that's set to pop exactly at 12:05."

  Emma looked at her watch again. "Are you crazy? It's already 11:35! What if Diana and Jeremy don't get there on time or—"

  Street-C knew better. "Hey. That bitch is never late."

  Emma looked at the deadly CD player resting on her backseat. She was barely breathing. Gary put a calming hand on her arm. "Emma, if we show them we can strike at the very heart of their High Command, shake their confidence, throw them into disarray, then their Leader may postpone coming. That'd give us and the Zedti the time and leverage we need. Maybe we'd all finally win."

  Street-C nodded encouragingly. "And we'll be on your six all the way, girl."

  Emma's insides were knotting up as she stared at them, then she fluttered her hands angrily in front of herself. "All right, all right." She hurriedly got in her car and the two men headed to theirs.

  IN A RURAL AREA THIRTY MILES EAST OF THE CITY, SEVERAL HUNdred Teammates were training and being watched clandestinely through a high-powered telephoto viewer. From a vantage point within the forest that bordered the training area, Ayden and Margarita were spying on the Visitor Patrollers who were teaching the members of a Teammate unit the correct ways to use the various new chemical weapons. Margarita snapped digital photos. "I see three types of hardware."

  "Four, I believe." The Zedti pointed. "See over there?"

  He was indicating a pair of Teammates in the distance among the hundreds of others. One was a stocky, short-haired teenage female who was working with her partner, a half-breed male. Margarita looked through the telephoto lens of her camera and frowned curiously. "That's odd. I've never seen a half-breed Teammate before." Then she remembered that Harmy had told her about being arrested because of Ted. "He must be Willy's son"—Margarita sighed sadly—"that's heartbreaking." Even from their considerable distance and without hearing the two, Ayden and Margarita could see that the female was dealing harshly with the half-breed.

  "Not like that, you stupid dreg," Debra Stein was saying to Ted. "Jesus, why the hell'd they make you a Teammate?"

  He looked at her with cold confidence, determined to impress. "Because I informed on my parents."

  She glanced at him a moment, taking that in. But then shrugged it off dismissively. "Well, it takes more than just that, scale-face." She grabbed the weapon, which looked like a cross between a rocket launcher and a flamethrower. "You're supposed to shoot it like this."

  The weapon was heavy but Debra was determined to show him up. She took careful aim through the video rangefinder sight atop the thick barrel and fired it. The swirling charge shot across the open space a hundred yards to where heavy plastic targets had been set up. Just short of the target the charge burst into a vaporous orange cloud.

  Ayden looked hard at it as he trained a spectrometer on the gas trying to analyze its composition.

  THE SECURITY SECTION OF THE CHEMICAL PLANT LOOKED LIKE MOST of the other low, metal-walled buildings that were nestled within the industrial pipes of the facility. The exception was that its access doors were clearly marked with a red sign denoting that the area within was Restricted. A short distance away from one entrance, Charles Elgin stood in front of a control panel with various gauges and readouts near the large tank that contained corrosive acid. He was taking notes and adjusting the control panel, but his mind wandered again back to the recent night when Charlotte had died in that godforsaken hospital.

  He had often heard that topping the list of psychological traumas a person could experience was the death of a spouse. And he knew that second on the list was the death of a child. Charles had become living proof of that thesis. He felt that his soul had been drained. His grief was deeper and more profound than he would h
ave thought possible. And it was made all the more difficult for him because of the responsibility he felt to support his wife in her equally unbearable anguish. Charles had returned to the plant the very next morning after Charlotte died, because he couldn't risk giving his overseers any excuse to dismiss him. The survival of Mary and his ailing father depended upon him. So he was on the job, but he was merely going through the motions like a somnambulist.

  Blue quietly walked up beside him. Blue knew about the enormous tragedy that had befallen Charles and had tried to be a one-man support group to ease his friend's heartache. Charles appreciated it as much as he was able. He knew that a great tragedy had also touched Blue's life. The big man's sister had been a history teacher. The Visitors felt that she was a bit too outspoken for her students' good, regarding the parallels between the Visitors and several of the totalitarian regimes of the twentieth century. On her way home from a school meeting one night she had been harassed by a brash Teammate unit. Several people watching saw her standing tall and resolute, refusing to be intimidated by the young thugs. But one of the Teammates bludgeoned her from behind. Then they dragged her into an empty lot between two apartment buildings and decided to enjoy themselves while they taught her a lesson. Before they strangled her they had each raped her.

  Many people heard her cries but did nothing, fearful of the consequences of getting involved. Quite a few actually saw the entire incident from their apartment windows and could've intervened at the time or at least identified the Teammates later. But despite Blue's impassioned appeals afterward, no one would come forward. The witnesses all feared reprisals. They knew that others who'd spoken out about similar incidents had disappeared. That sort of crime, committed by Teammates or Visitors who went unpunished, was not unusual in cities around the world.

  Charles knew only that much of Blue's story. Blue had never told Charles how he had managed to discover two of his sister's assailants; how he had tracked them down and killed them with his bare hands. Nor had he told Charles that when the others fled the city and eluded him Blue decided to fight back on a larger scale and had sought out Julie's group.

  Charles was thus completely unprepared when Blue quietly said, "I need you to do something for me, man."

  "Of course. What is it?"

  "I need you to get me a sample of their new insecticide stuff."

  Charles looked at him in astonishment. "What!" They had been friendly over the last few years and beyond that Charles felt deeply indebted to Blue for pulling him out from under the explosive flames that almost killed them both last week. But this was asking too much. "I can't do that."

  "Sure you can," Blue urged.

  "No, I can't, Blue. What do you need it for, anyway?" Charles saw the look in the big man's eyes and suddenly he understood. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh, my God. You're with the Resistance!"

  "Come on, man. That new chemical is a weapon. All I need is a tiny sample."

  Charles's voice took on a pleading tone. "Blue . . ."

  "You got access, Charlie. I don't." Blue was glancing around to be certain they weren't being observed. There was only a half-breed maintenance worker picking up trash among the pipes and the scaly girl was well out of earshot. "You can do it."

  "Yes, I do have access," Charles said tensely, "but if they catch me taking anything out I'll not only lose that access, I'll lose my job. Then probably get transported and my whole family would be history." Charles's stomach had begun to tighten. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I've already lost my daughter, for God's sake."

  "And I've lost my sister. Charlie, please"—Blue grasped his arm insistently—"we're all gonna lose everything unless we fight back."

  The scientist shook his head adamantly. "I know I owe you, Blue, but I can't do this. I can't. I won't."

  Charles jammed his glasses back on and walked nervously away. Blue watched him go, then he looked back at the door marked Restricted.

  EMMA WAS DRIVING HER LEXUS SOUTHBOUND ALONG THIRD STREET, which paralleled the arid bay on her left. The traffic was sluggish but moving consistently. She was stiff with apprehension. She was just passing the abandoned Bethlehem Shipyards as she glanced at the LCD clock on her dashboard that showed the time to be 11:43.

  Then a sudden burst of noise made Emma jump out of her skin. It was her cell phone. She grabbed for it angrily. "Yes? Hello?"

  She heard Mark's cheerful voice say, "Good morning, how're you doing?"

  "Oh, just fine," she said lightly as she glanced at the explosive device on her backseat.

  "Are you already on the road?"

  "Yes, I'm over on Third, why?" For some reason, Emma felt a tiny dark cloud appearing.

  "Oh, too bad," he said with obvious disappointment. Emma had noted that Mark's voice sounded as though he was also on a mobile phone, which indeed he was. He was speaking to her from the expansive black leather backseat of his mayoral limousine. Two of his aides sat facing him, going over some notes and schedules as he spoke, "I thought I might try to pick you up so we could go down there together."

  "Down where?" Her dark cloud was increasing in size.

  "To Candlestick."

  Icicles crystallized in Emma's veins. "You're going to that planning session?"

  "The mayor's work is never done." He chuckled as he took a sheaf of papers that one of his aides extended to him.

  Emma envisioned the conference room at Candlestick. She thought of Mark sitting there near Diana and the others. And what would happen at 12:05. "Where are you now?"

  "Just leaving City Hall"—he glanced out at the motorcycle cops preceding his car—"but I've got an escort so I'll probably beat you there."

  "Mark, listen"—Emma's mind was racing—"I need you to . . ."

  When she paused he frowned curiously. "To what?"

  "I've got to talk to you beforehand." She was scanning the GPS map on her car's instrument panel to show the area around Candlestick. "Look, meet me at Gilman Park. It's on Griffith just north of the stadium. I can't get there till about ten after twelve. But it's vital that you meet me there."

  He was confused. "But, Emma, the meeting is at noon. We'll both be late for it."

  "Better late than never. Please. You've got to do this for me. Ten after twelve." She waited but heard nothing. "Mark?"

  "Yeah, I'm here." He was weighing her intensity against his own responsibilities. He finally said, "All right."

  Emma clicked off the cell phone and chewed her lip nervously as she glanced again at her clock: 11:45.

  AT THE RURAL TRAINING AREA, A NUMBER OF VIPS WERE SURVEYING the Visitor Patrollers as they instructed the dozens of Teammate units in the proper use of the new chemical weapons. The observers watched from atop a raised, tented platform that had been set up especially for them. It was about ten feet higher than the wide field, which was surrounded by forest and a stretch of marshland that had long since dried up. A pair of Air-Pats were gliding overhead, patrolling the perimeter.

  Some twenty yards directly in front of the observers, the firing line was closely monitored by many Patrollers while others of their kind educated the myriad Teammates in the hands-on operation of the new weapons systems. The targets were a hundred yards beyond and downwind.

  J. D. Oliver and several of his aides were intently watching this field test of their chemical. A smaller, thin man with white hair stood nearby quietly dictating notes to an assistant. Alexander Smithson owned the armament firm that had worked with Visitor technicians using their designs to create the actual weapons and the support hardware. His factories had benefited greatly from being retooled to supply the thousands of guns that had come off of his assembly lines.

  Commandant Jeremy was also watching the training very closely, as was Shawn who was there as Diana's representative. Oliver puffed up proudly to them, "I must say, they all seem to be learning very quickly, sir."

  "Not quickly enough," Jeremy said with effete displeasure. "Double their hours, Shawn."

  "V
ery good, sir"—Shawn looked at two other Visitor functionaries nearby—"Lynette, you and Albert see to that." The two whom he addressed nodded and seeing that Jeremy was preparing to leave they gave him the palm-up salute.

  "Let's get to this Candlestick place," Jeremy said to Shawn, "Diana is never late and I don't wish to be."

  Shawn clicked his heels and bowed. "Very well, Commandant." Then Shawn followed Jeremy as he walked down the metal steps and to the nearby silver shuttle. At the bottom of the ramp Gina snapped to attention as Jeremy brushed past her and went aboard. Shawn, trailing slightly behind his superior, slowed as his eyes meet Gina's.

  She gazed back at him curiously. "Yes?"

  "Just thinking what a privilege it is to be flown personally by our newest Wing Commander," he said with a knowing grin.

  Gina colored slightly, but said only, "It's my pleasure, sir."

  "On the contrary," he said, with his lips pursing slightly, "I'm sure that it's all of our pleasures, isn't it?"

  He held her eyes a moment longer, then climbed aboard. She studied him a moment, sensing that he was not someone to turn her back on.

  From Margarita and Ayden's secret vantage point beneath a stand of elm trees nearby they heard the whine of the shuttle's magnetic engine starting up. Then they watched as it lifted off, passing almost directly overhead. Margarita had often noted how the pattern on the underside of their craft bore a resemblance to the scales of a large reptile.

  "They should be headed for your Candlestick Park," Ayden said as he watched them pass over the trees and out of sight.

  Margarita checked her watch. "I hope Emma's on schedule."

  GARY WAS ALSO LOOKING AT HIS WATCH, WHICH SHOWED 11:50. THE rattletrap Toyota, which Street-C was driving with Gary at his side, was about half a block behind Emma's car on congested Third Street.

  Gary inhaled nervously, then frowned with distaste. "I hate the way this car smells."

  "Sorta like an old taxicab, huh," Street-C agreed. "Like about three hundred people been sick in it."