Birthright: Book I of the Temujin Saga

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  The Cajun turned to take his place at the table and said, “Anyone get the license number of the thing that hit us yesterday?”

  “Yeah,” Lamont groaned. “Mongolian vanity plates, ‘KHAGHAN1’.”

  Rene grimaced as he poured milk generously over his cereal, his head pounding from the high quantity of Phaedojian moonshine he’d consumed at the party.

  Moe downed his third glass of water. “I’ve never been this thirsty in my life, and that’s saying something.”

  “That’s nothing,” Rene mumbled, milk dribbling down his unshaven chin as he took his first bite. “I’m feeling scars I forgot I had.”

  Quintin caught Rene’s eye and ran his middle finger down the length of the fresh scar on his cheek.

  Rene pointed his spoon at the teen. “You’re not too old for me to take you over my knee, boy.”

  “Simmer down, you two.” Robert stood to refill his coffee cup.

  There were two coffee makers on the counter; the carafe on the right bore a piece of masking tape that read “REPLODIANS!!!” The coffee inside the decanter bubbled in a rolling boil. Robert reached for this one before stopping himself and grabbing the other carafe.

  Lamont set down his own coffee and looked around the table. “Where’s Sam?”

  “Don’t know,” said Quintin, rubbing his temples with his thumbs. “Don’t care.”

  Robert pulled out a chair and sat. “I saw him leave the party early last night.”

  “Great!” Moe slammed his fist down onto the table, causing the dishes to rattle loudly. “Just great.”

  “Ow!” Quintin groaned. “Please don’t do that again.”

  “We need to go find that little weasel.” Moe shoved his chair out. “Or has everyone forgotten what happened the last time we turned our backs on him?”

  The kitchen door slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, and Sam walked into the room, his dirty Horde-issued coveralls replaced with khaki cargo shorts, white sneakers, a blue T-shirt, and a pair of dark sunglasses. He whistled as he poured himself a cup of boiling brew. Quintin plugged his ears with his index fingers to drown him out.

  “What’s the matter with you guys?” Sam said cheerfully, finally noticing the pained expressions on his teammates’ faces. “Didn’t everybody make it with a beautiful redhead last night?”

  Quintin turned and stared at the Replodian.

  “Oh, not you,” Sam said, patting the youth on the back. “No offense, kid, but you're not exactly my brand.”

  Rene’s spoon clattered on the table and fell onto the floor.

  “What’s the matter with you, Frenchy?” said Sam. “Somebody piss in your corn flakes?”

  The Cajun shoved away from the table and stalked toward the door, pausing only a moment to stare vehemently into Sam’s eyes before exiting the room. As the door sealed behind him, the muffled sound of his voice calling angrily through the corridors could be heard, “Cheryl!”

  “What was that about?” Sam leaned against the counter. “Was it something I said?”

  Robert leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Rene and Cherry used to be an item.”

  “Awk-ward,” Sam sipped his coffee.

  “You’ve just made an enemy for life,” said Robert.

  “Hey,” said Sam. “Don’t pin this on me, pal. She came on to me!”

  “Well, gee,” said Moe. “Who could possibly blame her, right?”

  Sam made a crude gesture at his brother, disguised not so subtly as a nose pick.

  “Well, Mr. Science Officer,” said Lamont as he stood and collected his jacket from the back of his chair, “you’d better figure out a way to make nice with Boudreaux.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Sam defiantly. “And why is that?”

  “Because he’s your mechanic,” Lamont said as the kitchen door closed behind him.

  Sam’s shoulders slumped. “Great.”

  Moe stood to follow Lamont and slapped his brother on the shoulder. “It’ll work out. Now saddle up, we’ve got to get to the hospital.”

  “What the hell for?” Sam called as Moe disappeared through the door.

  *****

  The steady beeping of the E.K.G. at his bedside slowly brought Sheriff Challis to a cloudy state of semi-consciousness. The morphine — though blessedly numbing the pain in his legs to a dull ache — had been giving him strange dreams. Ever since his admission, whenever he closed his eyes he would see strange people in gleaming suits of armor. And robots. Oh, God, those damned killer robots, especially the one that killed poor Tim Barker and would have killed him, too, if that blond man carrying the duffle bag hadn’t shown up when he did.

  The more he thought about it, nothing about the day before seemed to add up, but that was probably the drugs. Just thinking about the robots made his legs throb. He reached for the miracle button that would send more into his bloodstream.

  “Sheriff Challis,” said a voice from the corner of the room. “I’d appreciate it if you could remain alert while we speak with you.”

  Challis struggled to lift his head off the pillow. “Who’s there?”

  A black man wearing a leather jacket stepped up to the side of the bed. He held a syringe full of translucent blue liquid in his hand.

  “What’s that?” asked the sheriff, suddenly very worried.

  “Something for the pain.” The man added the blue liquid to the sheriff’s I.V. “But without the nasty side-effects of morphine, like addiction.”

  Slowly, the pain subsided and the sheriff’s vision came into focus as the mysterious drug took effect. The stranger’s hazy features resolved into a familiar face.

  “You,” he said. “I remember you. You were the one who… tried to save my legs.”

  “My name is Lamont,” the man said. “And I’m sorry there was nothing more I could do for you yesterday. Things got a little hectic. I had no choice but to leave you.”

  The sheriff shook his head. “You saved my life. The paramedics told me so. I owe you my life.”

  Lamont nodded. “Well, let’s talk about that, shall we?”

  Another voice laughed from the foot of the bed. The sheriff raised the bed for a better look. There, sitting in a chair underneath the television and reading an outdated issue of Popular Mechanics, was the very same blond man who had saved him from the robot the day before. The way he was laughing, one would assume he was reading the funny pages as opposed to a scientific journal.

  “I believe you’ve already met my brother Sam,” said Lamont.

  The sheriff nodded. “Yes, thank you. Thank you, both.”

  “Aww, shucks,” said Sam, tossing the magazine aside. “Twernt nuthin’, Shuruff.”

  “Sheriff Challis,” said Lamont, bringing the lawman’s attention away from his wisecracking brother. “We have a serious problem.”

  “Problem?”

  Lamont nodded. “I believe you saw something yesterday that could put our lives, as well as the safety of those close to us, in serious jeopardy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Sam placed a large canvas duffle bag on the bedside table. The Replodian unzipped the bag and pulled out a scuffed silver helmet.

  Lamont took the helmet and held it out where the lawman could clearly see it. “You recognize this, don’t you, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff’s mouth suddenly became very dry and he desperately tried to swallow.

  “If our identities were to get out, we’d have every three-lettered government agency in the world knocking down our doors,” Lamont said. “Do you understand our dilemma?”

  The sheriff nodded. “I won’t tell anybody. You have my word.”

  Lamont smiled. “I appreciate that, but you can stop being afraid of us now.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Please!” Sam rolled his eyes. “Fifty bucks says you’re messing your sheets right now.”

  “Shut up, Sam,” said Lamont. “Sheriff, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. We’re not here to scare you int
o keeping quiet.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “We’re here to buy your silence,” said Lamont.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Lamont pulled the clipboard bearing the sheriff’s chart off the hook at the foot of the bed and flipped through it. “It says here that you’re scheduled for amputation tomorrow at 10:30 AM. Mid-thigh.”

  Challis nodded. “The doctors say I’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of my life.”

  “There are no alternatives?”

  “Extensive reconstructive surgery,” Challis said. “Pins. Plates. Artificial knees. But the doctors doubt that even with physical therapy I’ll ever walk again. They said it’ll just be easier and cheaper to amputate.”

  “They’re probably right,” Lamont said. “Which brings me back to the reason why we’re here.”

  The sheriff looked into the Replodian’s eyes, searching for any indication of what could possibly come from this visit. What could they offer him? Money? What did that matter? He would rather have his career. He would rather have his damn legs. But then Lamont said something that stopped the sheriff’s thoughts cold.

  “How would you like to walk again?” asked Lamont.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Lamont looked over his shoulder at his brother. “Sam?”

  Sam reached into the bag and pulled out a gleaming, metallic skeletal leg and foot. He passed it to Lamont, exchanging it for the helmet.

  Lamont held up the leg. “Sheriff, with these cybernetic implants my brother has developed, and my medical knowledge, I promise that you will not only walk again, but run, jump, and kneel with absolutely no joint pain. You can keep your job. You can have your life back. All we ask in return is your silence, and your cooperation with our organization.”

  Challis reached for the leg, expecting it to disappear like a mirage. “How is this possible?”

  “You’ve seen our technology,” said Sam, “and you’ve seen our enemy's technology up close and personal. The piece you’re looking at is only a crude model I made in the car on the way here. With a little more time and better materials, I can build you a pair of legs better than the ones God gave you. This is only a fraction of what we’re capable of.”

  “And it’s a small price to pay for your silence,” Lamont said. “What’s more, this county gets to keep a public official who’s served the people bravely and honestly for over thirty years. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

  “But the operation—”

  “Cancel it,” Lamont said. “Do not give your consent. Tell them you want the reconstructive surgery and the physical therapy. Then, when a reasonable amount of time has passed, we will contact you and make arrangements to replace your organic leg bones with the cybernetic prosthetics. But you must do the therapy. It must appear that you are making progress in your recovery on your own or the ruse will never work. Do we have a deal, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff stared at the mechanical limb for a moment. “I don’t suppose you could make me a few inches taller?”

  “Don’t push it,” said Sam.

  Lamont smiled and shook his head. “People might notice.”

  Challis nodded. “Yes. We have a deal.”

  “Excellent.” Lamont passed him the limb for examination. “Care to have a closer look?”

  The sheriff took the prosthetic leg tentatively and looked at the door. “What if somebody comes in?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Lamont with a knowing smile. “One of our top agents is guarding the door, making sure we’re not disturbed.”

  *****

  “So tell me,” said Moe, smiling as he leaned against the doorframe. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a dirty mind like mine?”

  The nurse giggled and rolled her eyes, clutching her clipboard to her chest, “Seriously, sir—”

  “Moe.”

  “Moe,” said the nurse. “I really need to get back to my rounds and check on the sheriff.”

  Moe peered around the clipboard and read the I.D. badge clipped onto her scrub top, “Falkirk, D. So what does the ‘D’ stand for?”

  “Please, Moe.”

  “Denise?” guessed Moe. “Deborah? Dana? Am I close?”

  “No, but I’m close to getting written up if I don’t check on the sheriff.”

  “Danielle?” he continued. “Deidra? Delilah?”

  “Donna.” She sighed and brushed a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. “My name is Donna.”

  “Donna,” said Moe with an approving smile. “I like it.”

  “I’m glad,” said Donna, reaching past him for the doorknob. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

  Moe shifted his position, blocking the doorknob, “So tell me, Donna, what time do you get off work?”

  She took a step back, flabbergasted. “I, uh… I don’t think that’s—”

  “You have a boyfriend,” said Moe, looking dejected.

  Donna sighed. “I—”

  Moe grinned. “I could take him.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Could you now?”

  “Sure. I know ten different martial arts.”

  “Really?” asked Donna, feigning interest. “Which ones?”

  Moe ticked them off on his fingers. “Kung Fu, Tang Soo Do, Ninjutsu, Capoeira, Hapkido, Krav Maga, Goju Ryu, Silat, Kendo, and Kempo.”

  Donna nodded. “Not bad. But can you whistle?”

  Moe twirled his finger in the air. “Turn around for me.”

  Donna sighed and lowered her clipboard, making a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, giving him a good view of her entire body. Moe nodded slowly and wolf whistled approvingly, which sent her into loud fits of laughter until her face turned bright red.

  Moe waited until her laughter subsided and shrugged. “I guess I can.”

  She smiled and sighed. “If I give you my number, will you let me finish my rounds, Moe?”

  “That sounds fair.”

  She jotted her phone number down on a pink sticky note and stuck it to his shirt. “Now, I’m going to go check on my other patients, and if you’re still in front of that door when I come back in five minutes I’m going to rip that paper up. Are we clear, Moe?”

  “Clear.”

  “Promise?”

  Moe looked at the phone number and held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “All right. I’m off at four,” she said. “Call me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As she walked down the hall, he began to whistle “Donna” by Ritchie Valens. She turned to glare at him, her eyes narrowed and her lips curled into a wry smile. He grinned back at her and waved.

  “What are you doing?” said a voice behind him.

  Moe shouted and almost fell back into the open doorway.

  Sam stepped past him into the hall. “Some sentry you are. I tell you to guard the door and I come out to find you humping some nurse’s leg.”

  “Hey! I kept her out of the room, didn’t I?”

  “He did,” said Lamont, stepping into the hallway and slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder. “You’ve got to give him that.”

  “And…” Moe snapped the pink sticky note between his hands. “I got her number.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow and peered down the hall, taking a long appraising look at Donna’s backside. “Hell-o, nurse! Not bad, little sister. I’m actually impressed. And here I thought I was going to have to build you a girlfriend.”

  “Come on, you two,” said Lamont. “We still have a lot to do today.”

  As they stepped out into the cool morning air and walked across the parking lot toward Mrs. Walker’s car, they were nearly run over by an ambulance screaming into the parking lot toward the emergency room entrance with its lights flashing and siren blaring. The back doors of the ambulance opened, and the paramedics removed the gurney. Strapped to the cart was a national guardsman, his combat fatigues and face covered in blood.

  A nurse met the paramedics halfway to the door. “What happened?”


  “Gunshot wound to the head,” said one of the medics. “Self-inflicted.”

  “He was investigating the crash site with two others in his unit,” the other medic chimed in breathlessly. “The others heard three shots. When they got there, the other two were dead, but somehow this guy was still alive and talking. He keeps saying the same thing over and over.”

  The nurse slammed her fist into the door control and let the gurney through. “They all shot themselves?”

  “Yes!” the soldier on the cart cried out. “To serve my Khan! To serve my Khan! Anything to serve my Kha—”

  The doors slid shut, sealing off the soldier’s ravings. Moe looked at Sam, and the brothers shuddered in unison.

  Lamont broke into a sprint, heading toward Mrs. Walker’s car. “We have to report back to HQ immediately. Alex has to know what’s happened.”

  “What does this mean?” asked Moe.

  “Two things, little sister,” said Sam. “One: you’re going to have to cancel your house call with the nurse—”

  “Great,” Moe muttered under his breath.

  “And two,” Sam continued, jerking the passenger side door open. “Temujin didn’t die in that crash like we thought.”

  “How could anybody survive that?” asked Moe.

  Lamont started the car and put it into gear. “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Temple of the Golden Horde

  Gobi Desert, Mongolia

  October 28th

  Captain Sukh stood on the loading dock of the temple’s train house and waited anxiously, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword and the other with a thumb hooked over his belt. The message had come in the previous evening that his scouts had located the master and General Chuluun hiding in an abandoned farmhouse a few miles west of the Ragnarok crash site, and they were being transported back to the temple. This news was bittersweet for the captain; he feared the Khan’s wrath for his failure to destroy the alien and allowing him to escape.

  The train whistle brought his thoughts back to the present, and he stood at attention as the train slowed to a stop in front of him. He swallowed hard as a boxcar door slid open and there, standing in the doorway with a bearskin cloak draped over his body and the injured General Chuluun leaning against him for support, stood Lord Temujin. A bloody bandage covered the left side of Chuluun’s face.