by Wesley Chu
Jill looked down at Marco, who was now halfway up the house. It felt almost cruel to do that to him again. Marco looked up and tried to shoot her in the face. She pulled back at the last second and narrowly avoided eating a dust pellet. The feelings of guilt disappeared.
Jill gave the gutter pipe a solid kick, snapping off the links holding it in place and sending it careening onto the lawn. She watched with satisfaction as Marco, flailing, fell into the pool.
“At least he fell into the water.”
He will have a more difficult time chasing while wet.
Apparently, his gun still worked underwater because a second later, his head broke the surface of the pool, and he shot three more times at her. By now, the ruckus had woken up a bunch of dogs in the neighborhood.
Time to go.
Jill took off, speeding north along the houses. She reached the end of the block and looked over the edge. Across the street, there was a small open field and then the Potomac River. Very little cover in either case. To her left was another block of connected buildings, taller than the ones she was on. A small alley separated them.
Two meters across. Jump it.
Two meters might as well be two miles to Jill.
“Uh... I can break my neck here.”
She turned and saw Marco halfway down the block. He would catch up to her in seconds. She looked back at the chasm between the two houses.
Jump or surrender.
The thought of surrendering to Marco made her queasy. Jill scrunched her face, took a deep breath, and sprinted toward the alley. Just as she was about to hurdle the chasm, she balked and almost tripped over the edge.
“Should have made the jump,” he singsonged from behind her.
Voice coming from your back left. Duck right to the skylight. Grab the satellite dish. Fight!
Well, if she was going to get shot anyway, she might as well go down swinging. Jill dove behind the skylight, rolled to her feet, and yanked the satellite out of its base. She turned just in time to hear two patters strike the round dish.
Lean left and find cover behind the chimney. Get to open space to retreat back the way you came.
“It’s not fair. I should have a gun as well.”
Disarm him and take it, then.
Jill reached the chimney just as Marco fired another half dozen rounds.
“I can’t believe your aim is that bad,” she called out.
“It isn’t,” he replied cheerfully.
Then she heard the click of an empty chamber. This was her chance, else she’d just be target practice when he reloaded. She charged, wielding the satellite dish as a weapon and crashed into him. The exchange was short and brutal. She knocked the gun out of his hand and gave him a sharp rap on the knee with the dish. In doing so, however, he caught her in a choke hold from behind and squeezed tight. They spun in circles as she squirmed.
“You smell nice,” he said.
That cheerfulness again. Well, she’d show him! Right as they spun next to the chimney, Jill pushed off it. Marco lost his balance and fell backward. They both fell on top of the skylight and crashed through into the house below. Thankfully, Marco’s body cushioned her fall as they both lay gasping among the wreckage of broken glass.
Empty room. Door to your three. Get out!
Jill rolled off of him and checked for injuries. “Are you alright?” she asked.
“Now you care,” he groaned. “Well, that escalated quickly.”
They were in a guest bedroom by the looks of it. Thankfully, they had landed on the bed. The two stood up and brushed the glass off of each other.
Then the lights turned on and a terrified elderly man brandished a golf club at them. “Get out of here you thieves! I’ve called the police!”
There is our exit cue.
Marco reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money. “Sorry about your window, mate. I hope this covers it.” He tossed it to the old man who bungled the catch. And in that moment of lost concentration, Marco grabbed Jill by the hand and pulled her past the old man. They scampered down the stairs and out the front door, laughing like teenagers.
“Well, that was a jolly good time,” Marco said, slowing to a walk only after they were five blocks away from the scene of the crime.
“Did you give him enough money?” Jill asked, feeling a bit guilty. “We did break into his house after all.”
Marco sniffed. “With the amount of money I gave him, he could build a new roof. Come on, let’s get a drink. We deserve it.”
“So who won?” she asked.
Marco flashed her a smile, a sincere one this time. “We’ll call it a draw.”
THIRTY-THREE
THE TRANSPORT
For the next thousand years, I, along with the rest of my kind, followed the Conflict Doctrine and expanded wherever the humans could thrive. Like a swarm of locusts, we occupied every crevice of this earth, sowing dissension and innovation everywhere we went.
In our defense, and I will argue that we did not feel we needed any defense, we pushed humanity to greater heights. Krys had a hand in the development of the chariot. The wheel was the work of Galen. Chiyva’s genius in warfare created the tactics of the Roman Legions. Haewon, being one of the few like me who explored the lands to the east, later trumped us all with the creation and advent of the black substance now known as gunpowder.
Tao
Two days after Roen found Dylan, the team was ready to infiltrate the Punai grounds of Kaohsiung harbor and wrap things up in Taiwan. Dylan already had a plan in the works, so it just needed to be retooled for the eight member team. The plan was surprisingly elegant, one that even Tao admired.
Much like the Trojan horse.
“Head out to sea, hide in a container, and get shipped right in. That man is smarter than he looks.”
Probably Yen’s idea.
They had originally planned to leave at dawn, but after deciding to have one last breakfast, they ended up departing closer to nine. Hutch had convinced Roen to leave the entire security deposit for their landlord, much to his disappointment. The way he saw it, whatever of Lin’s money was left after this mission was his to keep. But after doing a final walk through of the apartment, he realized it was the right thing to do. After all, eight guys sleeping in a tiny place for any length of time tended to leave the place somewhat of a disaster, especially if it was eight live-by-the-seat-of-your-pants killers with lax hygiene. All except for Hutch, though. He was the motherly and cleanly type everyone else took advantage of.
They traveled by subway back down to Kaohsiung International Airport, stopping by FedEx to ship any personal items back to wherever each person was from. They dumped anything unnecessary, expendable, or incriminating into a local landfill, and then chartered a private helicopter southwest.
“So is this captain is reliable?” Roen asked. “The entire plan hinges on buying passage on the ship.”
Dylan grinned. “Of course. Manny and I used to run arms for the Philippine civil war. Now he runs routes up and down the coast. Stops by Taiwan every two or so weeks. I’ve used him dozens of times to sneak around. If you operate a trade ship in this region, you can’t help but work for the Genjix one way or another.”
“Doesn’t sound trustworthy,” Roen frowned.
“Money rules Manny’s world,” Dylan chuckled. “I wouldn’t trust him otherwise.”
A few hours later, Dylan pointed at a massive freighter, designation RPS Imelda’s Song, with the P and the S half flaked off by the rust covering the hull. It was easily one of the largest ships Roen had ever seen, and he had watched Titanic four times. Though not possessing a nautical eye, he had enough experience aboard ships to know they were about to hitch a ride aboard an antique.
“This rusty behemoth is older than some Ming vases I’ve broken,” he grumbled.
The sad part is, I think that statement is true.
“Really? When?”
Remember that French socialist? The arms dealer?
Gaudy yes, tacky no. You have poor taste. When you ran through there, I recognized some of the pieces.
“I was being chased by half a dozen guys at the time. Didn’t have time to stop and admire the craftsmanship. There was a Ming vase there?”
I believe so. You smashed it over someone’s head, picked up a shard, and stabbed another in the chest with it.
“Ah, good times.”
The helicopter landed in front of a group of not-so-friendly-looking sailors. Dylan jumped off and made a grand gesture at their welcome party. Roen watched as the helicopter took off a minute later, stranding them on the ship.
“Talk about painting ourselves into a corner.”
At least we outnumber them.
Ten more sailors appeared on the deck.
I stand corrected.
Roen leaned in to Dylan. “Are you sure about this? Our ride just left.”
Dylan shrugged off his concerns. “Captain Manny is an old pal of mine. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind us hitching a ride.”
The eight of them walked across the fore deck toward the dilapidated bridge. When Dylan had first told them about the plan, Roen had imagined a tugboat flying into the harbor by night. This monstrosity was ridiculous. There must have been a hundred cargo containers here.
The price of passage will be steep.
“There goes my retirement.”
Roen counted at least a dozen more not-so-friendly pairs of eyes staring as they walked on deck. A ship this size must carry a good size crew. Roen didn’t exactly hate those odds, but who was going to steer the ship if it came to that? Still, he kept his hand near his pistol and hatched a quick plan to take over if things got rough. He moved a little closer to Faust and signaled for him to be alert, though he doubted Faust needed much warning.
“I don’t see guns. I think I can take half of these guys on my own. Dylan can take the other half. Faust and the rest of the guys can man the ship and cook.”
Roen must have grossly underestimated their numbers because shortly after, the count swelled to at least forty, with more showing up by the minute. To top it off, he saw at least four rifles and at least two spear guns. For some reason, being shot by a spear sounded much more unpleasant than being shot by a bullet.
Dylan acted as if he didn’t notice any of the animosity, grinning and calling out to people he recognized. None seemed to return his greetings as they bunched closer and closer together. Finally, he leaned in to Roen and whispered. “Funny, they were so nice last time. I wonder what I did to piss them off. Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with Manny’s sister.”
Roen’s face turned white, and his hand reflexively reached for his pistol.
Dylan chuckled and pulled Roen’s hand away. “Just kidding. But seriously, don’t reach for your gun. They might be small, but it’s a rough life out on the seas. These critters can fight like Tasmanian devils. Oh, wait, there’s Manny now. Just you watch.” Dylan broke out into the widest smile his burnt face would allow and waved at a crusty old sailor. “Ho, Manny, it’s good to see you, mate! How’s old Imelda treating you? She looks as fresh and clean as the day you took her out of the sack.”
Roen studied Manny’s facial expression, and if this man was what stood between them and a lynching, they were in trouble. Manny was shorter than most of his crew, which frankly was a feat in itself. He was a scrawny but wiry dark Filipino with a face so weathered that he looked like he was carved from tree bark. If Roen hadn’t known better, he’d guess Manny was the grumpy cook or the old bilge cleaner. Only a torn-up captain’s hat gave away his rank.
Manny held up two fingers and spoke in surprisingly clear English, though with a Singaporean accent. Roen knew immediately then that there was more to Manny than it seemed. Not intimidated by Dylan’s size, the tiny Manny walked up to him and poked Dylan twice very hard in the chest. “That’s four times now I offered you my services as a friend, and four times you bring trouble with you. You cost me and my men money. And every time you promise to pay what’s owed, you scurry away just beyond trouble’s reach, leaving us with trouble and no money.”
“Well, Manny,” Dylan’s chuckle had a little hint of desperation in it. “Come now, you know it’s just circumstances, mate.”
“Don’t ‘mate’ me!” Manny spat. “You owe my men a lot of money. So pay up now, or I have my boys throw you off!”
As if on cue, the sailors of Imelda’s Song crowded toward Dylan, growling with outstretched hands as if a tide of zombies reaching to rend his flesh.
Dylan backpedaled and leaned into Roen. “I actually think he’s serious. And I thought we were friends, that bastard.”
“How much do you owe him?” Roen whispered.
Dylan shrugged. “I dunno. There was never any set amount. Just one of those bags-of-doubloons-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow sort of gentlemen deals. If I had to guess, maybe ten, fifteen thousand?”
Roen buried his head in both hands as the wave of sailors began to corral his men back toward the walkway. “Please tell me it’s in Philippine pesos,” he moaned.
Dylan laughed. “Not even the Filipinos trade in their own currency.”
These sailors meant business, and no amount of talking would get them out of this mess short of flashing some money.
“Tao, you know how far out we are at sea? Maybe we can swim to shore.”
You have the money. Stop being cheap and spend it.
“I hate you, Tao.”
Roen raised both hands and yelled out. “Captain, if I were to take care of Dylan’s debts, could we work something out?”
The wave of angry zombie sailors momentarily stopped. The ones who understood English began to chatter excitedly. They told the rest of the crew who didn’t and another wave of chatter and jeers erupted. Manny looked him up and down, studying him as if he were estimating how much money Roen actually had to his name.
“Dylan’s debt is no small matter,” he began. “Last I recall, adding the troubles and fees I’ve incurred from him, the amount lies at thirty thousand Australian dollars.”
Correction. You may have enough money. It depends on what Manny’s going exchange rate is for the Taiwanese dollar.
Roen didn’t bother masking his gasp and jerking his hand back as if he just saw a poisonous snake. He shot Dylan a look of death.
“Come now, Manny,” Roen used his be-reasonable sounding voice. “I want to do you right, but you have to level with me. Look, how about we square up a fair number for Dylan, and we move on to taking my men where we need to go.”
Captain Manny’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe we should discuss this in private.” He gestured at the closest door, and the sea of Filipino sailors parted ways.
That was an error. You just told him you have at least thirty thousand Australian and can offer more if needed.
“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to do?”
Now he will not even let you leave the ship until the amount that Dylan owes is paid, regardless whether you book passage or not.
“Watch them,” Manny said as he followed Roen through the doors.
An hour and mostly broke later, Roen emerged from negotiations with Captain Manny to find the team lounging around a burning oil drum. Dylan was already drinking with a dozen of the sailors. He had made it a point to stop by the market on the way to the ship and purchase several cases of beer, which he was now using to buy the crew’s affection.
“Ho, Roen, how did it go?” Dylan asked, tossing him a can.
“I thought you said you were friends!” Roen snarled. “He took the shirt off my back! Hell, I’m negative. I have to pay him more when I get home.”
Master negotiator you are not.
“But we’re square, right?” Dylan said.
“Square and broke,” Roen grumbled. “First we’re heading to Manila then to Macau before we detour back to Kaohsiung Harbor. Our good Captain Manny said it would appear suspicious to v
enture off the ship’s manifest.”
“Alright then,” Dylan grinned. “We got a few days of R&R, let’s take advantage of it.”
THIRTY-FOUR
DEFEAT
The end game has begun for the Prophus. But like any dying and cornered animal, they are still dangerous. The Genjix’s purity of purpose is what continues to drive us forward.
With the success of ProGenesis so close, we aim to play gods once more, but this time, to our own kind. After millions of years of slow extinction, it is the Genjix who will save all Quasing. And as it has always been, we will choose who is worthy to procreate. After all, we are the future and this will be our world.
Zoras
It took Enzo two days after the disastrous ambush to get back into their camp. He and Palos carried a barely alive bodyguard with them. All three of them were half dead on their feet. Abhinav, the bodyguard, had lost a lot of blood from a leg wound and had to be carried the entire trip back. Enzo had initially had wanted to leave the man for dead, but Palos wouldn’t have it. He had lost enough men as it was, he said. Enzo reluctantly agreed. It would reflect well on him back at camp once news spread of his magnanimous nature.
Enzo helped Palos carry the semi-conscious man all the way back to the camp through the treacherous and unforgiving landscape. The first glimmer of light from the camp was such a welcome sight that his knees nearly buckled. If it wasn’t for his pride, he would have fallen mere steps away from the front gate. Support personnel ran out and took the three of them to the infirmary, where for the next hour, Enzo was poked and prodded like a specimen on a table.
Inside, Enzo seethed with anger and felt such intense shame that he could barely keep himself from attacking the doctors. This was his first defeat as commander, and he was not taking it well. Before, with the Scimitar, he did what had to be done. With the first few weeks in the camp, defending and surviving was itself a victory. And now, with the upper hand, better supplies, and superior numbers, he was soundly defeated and mocked by this Prophus Field Marshal.