V_The 2nd Generation

by Kenneth Johnson

  Ayden leaned into the truck. "Have you determined anything?"

  "Not yet," Kayta said. "Neither of us have ever seen a compound like it."

  Julie looked at the Zedti leader. "You said your breathing was impaired?"

  "Yes, extremely."

  "Describe the symptoms for me as carefully and specifically as you can." She picked up a PDA to make notes.

  Ayden thought back. "There was a coolness at first. I paid little attention to it, but then I began to experience light-headedness."

  "You were dizzy?"

  "Yes. Disoriented. And then that coolness began to grow more painful, like placing one's hand on frozen carbon dioxide."

  "Dry ice," Julie said with a smile, "that's what we call it. It can cause frostbite and severe burns very quickly."

  Ayden nodded. "That's what it felt like within my lungs, extremely cold and yet fiery hot at the same time."

  "And you weren't even directly in the line of fire," Kayta reminded him.

  "No, Margarita and I were on the periphery some distance from their targeting range."

  Julie's mind was working, thinking back over research she had done herself trying to discover an airborne biological or gaseous weapon that the Resistance might use against the Visitors. She was trying to imagine how some element of that research might help them now.

  For their part, Kayta and Ayden exchanged a weighted glance. They both knew what a formidable weapon the Visitors had created with this chemical. Since Ayden had felt its effect personally, he particularly had a keen sense of the terrible impact it would have on the Zedti forces. He finally drew a breath and said, "Battlefield circumstances such as Margarita and I witnessed would be bad enough, but if they have delivery systems capable of breaching our warship defenses . . ." He let the lethal consequences hang unspoken.

  But Kayta understood. "The results would be devastating to the entire fleet."

  Ayden looked from Kayta to Julie. "I should say catastrophic."

  "We have to find a method to neutralize this chemical," Kayta said quietly.

  Across the warehouse, Mike had been sitting on his cot watching them inside the truck. He had been particularly studying Kayta, still troubled by something she'd said. As Gary walked past carrying a load of vids, Mike called to him, "Hey, uh . . ." Mike wasn't sure of his name.

  "Rumplestiltskin." The smart-looking man grinned back. "But you can call me Gary."

  "Thanks. You guys got any astronomical data here, Gary?"

  "I'm sure. In our database. It'd be in the bookmobile"—he indicated a nearby truck—"tell me what you're looking for and I'll check it for you after I dump these vids."

  "That's okay, I'll go look for it."

  Gary nodded and went on about his work with the vids. Mike sat up on the edge of his cot and reached for his wheelchair. He was about to slide into it when he paused, staring at it for a moment. He glanced over at the truck Gary had pointed out. It was only about ten steps away. Mike made a decision and spun the chair around so he could grasp the handles on the back of it.

  He didn't notice that over in the kitchen area Harmy had touched Ruby's arm to get her attention. Harmy nodded toward Mike. They watched as Mike struggled up from his cot, clutching the back handles of the chair and leaning on it for support. He was very unsteady and they saw him flinch with pain. But Ruby felt a bubble of joy rise inside her as Mike slowly began to shuffle on his aching legs toward the truck, pushing the chair inch by inch ahead of him.

  He was about halfway to his destination when his right leg suddenly buckled. The wheelchair scooted erratically to one side. Mike grabbed for a handhold on a rickety cabinet beside him, but it wouldn't support his weight and it toppled backward as he fell down on top of it.

  Harmy immediately took a step to help, but Ruby caught her sleeve and whispered, "Wait, let him try."

  Mike's cheek was against one of the cabinet's cold metal doors, his jaw clenched in frustration and anger. He saw that just inside the cabinet was a medical box containing several packets of morphalyne. He stared at the drugs right there in front of him. Pleasant, warm, inviting oblivion was within easy reach. But then he finally pushed himself up from the cabinet and got painfully onto his knees.

  Mike heard a man's voice say with a touch of humor, "Hey, while you're down there . . ." It was Nathan. He grinned, then offered a hand to help, encouraging Mike to grasp it. Mike did and Nathan pulled him up and into the wheelchair. Mike was scowling, obviously embarrassed. He merely nodded thanks.

  "No biggie," Nathan said, then added, "You know when I was a Teammate we all wanted to see you on your knees. Funny how times change." The young man gave Mike a comradely pat on the shoulder and headed off.

  Ruby had witnessed it all from the kitchen area. She traded a smile with Harmy. Ruby was very pleased by Mike's effort and also by her Hawaiian heartthrob being on the scene to help.

  From the door of the electron microscope truck Julie had also been watching Mike. She knew that there was morphalyne inside the cabinet, which represented the easy way out for him. She was encouraged that he hadn't taken it. Then Margarita hurried toward her, enthused about something else. "Hey. Emma called about the Secretary-General. I think we're on to something."

  ONE BLOCK NORTH OF LAFAYETTE SQUARE, NEXT TO THE CALIFORNIA Historical Society Museum on Jackson Street, stood an elegant, two-story Victorian brownstone. The east corner of the house bore a cylindrical appendage that suggested the tower of an old Norman castle with tall, curved windows. Inside the first-floor window sat an elderly woman of Spanish descent.

  She was in her early seventies. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun, like her mother's had been long before. The colorful, thickly knitted shawl that covered her shoulders also emphasized her Spanish heritage. Her kindly face had become very careworn, particularly over the last two decades. She was sitting in the good light inside the window trying to work on a small needlepoint Christmas ornament for one of her seven grandchildren, but she was having difficulty concentrating on it. Her mind frequently wandered to matters of graver importance. She glanced out through the window at the two Visitor Patroller guards stationed on her porch. They, or another pair just like them, were constant fixtures. The old woman sighed and looked down again at her needlework.

  Under the portico, the two Patrollers sat on camp stools. One of them was snacking. He reached in his mess kit and withdrew a white mouse that squirmed out of his hand and tried to scurry across the Visitor's lap, but the guard grabbed it and chuckled. "Ha. 'Fast food.' " He held out the little rodent to his companion. "Hey, do you want it? The white ones give me heartburn."

  Margarita suddenly popped up into view on the west side of the porch. "So will this."

  They jumped to their feet, facing her, reaching for their weapons. But Ayden appeared behind them. The white sword-like bone flashed from his wrist. It zipped one way, then slashed back the other. And there were two less Visitors.

  Ayden and Margarita quickly dragged the guards into a corner of the porch where they wouldn't attract notice, then Ayden turned to face the front door. It was locked. With one hand he easily bashed it open. Margarita smiled tightly at him, saying, "Where have you been all my life?" Then she brushed past him and ducked inside while Ayden kept careful watch.

  Margarita passed a startled half-breed housekeeper. The scaly-faced teenage girl stood staring fearfully. The dustpan she held in her hand had wilted downward and a small trickle of dust was sliding from it. Margarita held up her palms to indicate she meant the girl no harm and then hurried on to the front room where she had seen the old woman through the window. The lady had dropped her needlework when she heard the entrance door crash open and she was standing. She stood tall and her proud eyes seemed almost regal to Margarita who entered and bowed respectfully to her.

  "Buenos tardes, señora." Margarita's Spanish was well accented and she continued in that language. "I've come to help you. To take you to your husband."

  The old woman's e
yes flashed at the striking redhead.

  When they reached the porch Ayden also greeted the Spanish woman with a courteous nod. Then he and Margarita swept her down the steps and into the sedan that Street-C drove up at precisely the right moment.

  A few seconds after their departure the very nervous white mouse peeked up from between the two dead Visitor Patrollers. Then it quickly scampered off to freedom.

  GINA HAD FIRST CAUGHT JEREMY'S EYE ABOUT EIGHT YEARS EARLIER, just before she had left to join the Visitor Armada in its occupation of the Earth. He recognized in her a calculating, upwardly mobile drive that matched his own ambition. She had a whipsaw intelligence and caustic sense of humor that he found a refreshing tonic. While she managed to endure the boring necessities of protocol she was clearly unintimidated by superior officers. Jeremy understood how part of that bravery arose from her virtuoso skills as a fighter pilot. Like many top guns, Gina had long since developed a don't-fuck-with-me attitude because she knew of her extraordinary worth to Team Visitor. Above all, crack pilots like Gina knew that their Great Leader prized such aggressive and adroit combatants, and that the fighter pilots were the crème de la crème of all Patrollers. The Leader frequently rewarded them with elevated standing in the ranks and with personal wealth.

  Gina had arrived at Earth in time to be a squadron commander during the Great Purge of 1999. Her talents as a fighter pilot inspired those under her command to attempt astonishing, sometimes foolhardy, maneuvers. Seven had been killed while trying to emulate her or merely to keep up with her. She had not been disciplined nor even castigated for leading them into precarious situations, because her superiors knew she was such a valuable and efficient killing machine.

  Shortly before her departure for Earth Jeremy had become intrigued by the possibility of bedding her. Her initial, very definite resistance only whetted his appetite all the more. In a desire to enjoy at least her presence on a regular basis, Jeremy made her his advisor on all matters concerning flight operations. While his other aides were often cautious and hesitant around Jeremy, not wishing to ever offend the Commandant in any way, Gina, in stark contrast, was outspoken in offering her frank opinions. Because she understood her value to Team Visitor, she knew that with or without Jeremy's support she would rise, perhaps even into the Leader's inner circle.

  The other aides were naturally put off by her brash attitude, and even Jeremy was sometimes ruffled by her abrasiveness. He recognized, however, the great value of having someone around him who was not only clearheaded and fearless in the extreme, but never a sycophant.

  All of those qualities made her even more attractive to him. The value of her smart, unblinking counsel, added to the burning appeal of forbidden fruit, finally prompted him to recommend and secure for her an elevation in rank.

  For her part, Gina had recognized in Jeremy the likelihood of his becoming even more powerful than he already was. She had watched his nimble play in palace intrigues and seen him constantly benefit from those skillful maneuvers. She also saw the simpering quality of his other aides and realized that she could be much more helpful to him than any of them if her approach was more forthright. She was quick to point out weaknesses in his plans and strategies. And she was generally right. She also enjoyed Jeremy's icy, scathingly dark sense of humor, feeling it was a match for her own. And she was not unmindful of his sexual possibilities.

  A short time after her elevation in rank, Gina one day dropped a tiny hint that she might consider sampling him as a lover. Jeremy was very pleased at the possibility, but decided to reverse roles with her, temporarily putting her off in order to further whet her appetite. She was sharp enough to know exactly what he was doing and they fell into a tantalizing game of sexual cat and mouse with each other for several months. It amused and greatly frustrated each of them in turn, but it only ramped up their mutual desire.

  Finally came a moment of synchronicity that took them both by surprise and swept them into their first sexual encounter. It was a carnal firestorm.

  Neither had ever before experienced anything remotely similar. They were equally matched in both strength and libido, but Jeremy was particularly aroused by her aggressive nature. Gina had a no-holds-barred approach that was a direct parallel to her skills as a fighter pilot. She was able to make him fly sexually with the same heated passion she brought to her airborne combat adventures. Her subtlety in the handling of his control surfaces would excite him to the very razor edge of quaking consummation, then she would back off a mere hair's breadth to hold him trembling at that preclimactic level for astonishingly long hedonistic moments.

  In spite of her tightly disciplined nature Gina allowed herself to enjoy him equally. Gina had sometimes taken her fighter up two hundred thousand feet into the stratosphere. There, looking out into the star-filled, black sky at the very edge of space she would cut the engines. The craft would begin to fall, spinning downward at increasing velocity, totally out of control. She allowed Jeremy to do the same with her. Both experiences were characterized by an extreme wildness. The ingenuity of Jeremy's stimulation was as unexpected as the unpredictable twisting and turning of her fighter as it plummeted and swerved dangerously downward. Jeremy was very experimental and sometimes momentarily painful, but always stimulating and invigorating.

  Their sexuality was thrilling to both of them. But neither Gina nor Jeremy associated it with anything remotely like love or affection. It was strictly, intensely, and deliciously carnal, an intoxicating end in itself.

  Gina was leaning against the hatch of Jeremy's quarters aboard the Flagship as they slowly took pleasure in a final, luxuriant kiss. Both of them were still fevered with the afterglow of their passions. Gina's dark Asian eyes focused sharply onto his as she said with a touch of her edgy humor, "I'll come again tonight."

  Then she touched the hatch control, removing its privacy notice. It slid open behind her. She gave him a final saucy salute and exited. Jeremy turned back toward the desk at his workstation as the hatch began to close. But just before sealing shut it paused and reopened. Jeremy glanced around at it and saw wily Shawn lean his head in, subserviently, "Commandant? . . . May I?"

  "Of course," Jeremy said as he began to look at the latest dispatches hovering in the air over his visualizer. Shawn stood waiting until Jeremy looked up again, "Well? What is it?"

  Shawn seemed slightly distressed. He closed the hatch behind him and chose his words with even more care than usual. "I need some advice, sir." Then he hesitated again for a long moment.

  Jeremy finally turned his chair fully to face Shawn. "All right, go on."

  "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

  Jeremy flicked his hand impatiently in the supervisor's direction. "Yes, yes, Shawn. Out with it."

  "Well, sir, I'm very concerned about finding myself in an awkward position. As you may know there are certain, how shall I say"—he selected the word cautiously—"certain rumors about your personal relations with our Leader."

  Jeremy's brow lowered slightly as he looked at his subordinate. "Go on."

  "Well, sir, if our Leader ever questioned me directly about what I knew of your involvement with a certain Wing Commander and statements you might have made to her"—Shawn let the implication hang—"well, sir, I would naturally have to be truthful about—"

  "And exactly what knowledge do you have?"

  Shawn shifted uncomfortably, implying that he was very sorry about the situation. "Considerable, sir, I'm afraid." Then he added quickly, "Not that I've sought it, sir, but neither can I deny it."

  Jeremy's voice became low as a serpentine smile grew. "Shawn, by any chance did Diana put you up to this?"

  Shawn was startled and apparently taken very much aback. "Oh, no, sir! Quite to the contrary, sir . . . my desire is to serve at your pleasure."

  Jeremy's antennae were up. He probed warily, "Is it really?"

  "Indeed, sir. That's why I've come to you. Oh, my years with Diana have certainly been very fruitful and instructive." But t
hen he added with a tilt of his head that indicated he was taking Jeremy into strictest confidence. "I haven't always agreed with her decisions, not unlike yourself, sir. But of course I was required to implement even those commands I disagreed with to the best of my limited ability."

  Jeremy studied him, "Yet you wish to serve at my pleasure?"

  "I can see the future clearly, sir," Shawn said admiringly of the Commandant, "and I'm certain that I could be a great asset to you."

  "And perhaps be given responsibilities greater than those Diana affords you," Jeremy surmised.

  "Well, sir"—Shawn bowed his narrow head slightly in a humble gesture of respect—"although that is obviously within your gift, it would certainly not be for me to presume nor to request."

  Jeremy scrutinized Shawn with admiration for the supervisor's skillful and devious shrewdness even while he recognized the blackmail that it represented.

  STREET-C WAS CHEWING NERVOUSLY ON A MATCHSTICK AS HE SAT ON the bench in the Civic Center Park on Grove Street. His keen eyes darted one way and then another, on the alert for trouble and for something else. He glanced at his watch. "Shit, man. Didn't Emma say ten?"

  Nathan was next to him, still in his Teammate uniform. He was looking as casually as possible toward Larkin Street on the east perimeter of City Hall's park. "That's what she said."

  "Well, the suckers are late, man."

  "I'll be sure to speak to them about that."

  Street-C twiddled his matchstick between his teeth and clenched his hands closed and open. "My palms are sweaty. Yours?"

  "No." Then Nathan admitted the truth, "Yes." He glanced at Street-C. "This could definitely be a biggie."

  "Got that right," Street-C said, twisting the knotted end of one of his cornrows.

  Nathan gestured off toward something. "But have you checked out the ladybug?"

  Street-C looked over to where Bryke was sitting in the sun on the nearby lawn. Her long black fingers were delicately touching the petals of a daisy.