"That's not our concern," said the RSA Special Prosecutor.
"Isn't it, Ms. Lincoln?" Georgia arched one eyebrow.
Sally Lincoln's eyes shifted away from Georgia's pointed gaze. No one spoke for several moments.
"My client," said Malcolm Coldwell broke the silence with a slight cough, "would like to confer for a moment in private with Mr. Stevens and his contingent. Would that be possible?"
The two prosecuting attorneys traded puzzled frowns.
"I'm okay with that," said Sally Lincoln. Teresa Winston shrugged. They both rose and left the room.
I had a very bad feeling as my former lawyer opened his laptop and tapped his mouse a few times with a ponderous air, as if beating out a funeral march. He turned his computer around for us to see.
A video of what appeared to be my mom and I locked in some bizarre dance was playing. But it wasn't a dance. And I wasn't wearing any clothes. She was shoving me backwards, toward a big bed, tearing open her blouse.
My bedroom at the Ellsworth Retreat. Waves of curvy red lines obscured my vision. My cheeks burned as if someone was holding a butane flame to them. But still...it wasn't so bad, was it? Embarrassing, sure, but nothing too bad –
But then it did get bad. Serious, hardcore pornography bad. My mom was draped all over me in the bathroom, not parts of either of us left to the imagination. And hardwood was involved. Not the kind of subdued hardwood that shined throughout the cabin. This was the unprocessed tree in all its natural glory rising toward the heavens. A regular sequoia. Under normal circumstances, I might've been almost proud. These were not those circumstances.
I clapped a hand over my eyes in the same instant my mom shrieked like an enraged banshee and leaped over the table for the two men, fingers clawing at their faces.
Melanie reacted faster than I did. Crying "holy fuck!" under her breath, she seized our mom by the waist, pinning her to the table while Max and my former lawyer rocked back in their chairs and hit the floor. My mom whirled on Mel, teeth bared like a rabid panther, and I finally sprang into action, pulling my sister off her and taking the brunt of her attack myself. I caught her wrists but her momentum carried her into me. I braced myself for her teeth sinking into my shoulder – déjà vu of Chrissie – but instead she tore free and ran, sobbing, from the room.
I straightened up, my body shaking. Melanie looked poisoned daggers at the two men and freaked-out bafflement to me.
"What's wrong with her? Mom doesn't attack people!"
"I think the stress has just been too much," I said.
I, complete coward that I was, still hadn't told her about the condition I believed she now had. For all I knew, it could be gone or reduced in the next week or two, though I'd seen no change in the two weeks since we'd left Ellsworth Retreat.
Mel fled after our mom. Georgia, who'd hardly stirred, pushed a dislodged strand of blond hair back in place, her cool expression unruffled except for a tense line of muscle along her jaw. Max Emanuel and Malcolm Coldwell climbed back into their chairs, brushing off their suits.
"That video is poisoned fruit," Georgia said in a flat voice. "Obtained by illegal surveillance. It won't be admissible."
"That's what my lawyer tells me," said Max Emanuel with a thin smile. "But consider the effects on Aiden and his family if those images were released to the internet."
"No," I whispered, hating how child-like and whiney my voice sounded. "You can't do that."
"Not a problem, Aiden," said Max. "Just plea bargain the charges and not go to trial."
"What would that plea bargain look like?" Georgia asked.
Max glanced at his attorney who was steadfastly refusing to meet my gaze. Benedict Arnold. "How would I know?" he said with a shrug. "I'm not the D.A. or the RSA prosecutor."
"But I think you have a pretty good idea, don't you, Mr. Emanuel?"
Max smiled as if he appreciated Georgia Selby's faith in him. Part of me wanted to jump over the table myself and claw off his smile. He knew he had me, the hypocritical bastard. He turned to his lawyer.
"What's your opinion, Malcolm?"
"Pure speculation, but I'm guessing they might be okay with time served until your client's eighteenth birthday in a juvenile detention center," said his mustachioed attorney. "As opposed to the maximum allowable five-year sentence in a federal penitentiary for a second offense."
"I agree," I said as Georgia opened her mouth to speak. "I'll agree to that."
Georgia closed her mouth, but not before a quiet sigh escaped.
"What do you think, Ms. Selby?" Max asked.
"I think I'm going to need to talk to my client in private," she said. "And then we'll see."
IT WASN’T much of a send-off at the Woodvale Juvenile Detention Facility, but I really didn't want one. Checking into my old alma mater wasn't something I wanted to commemorate. My mother was there – I could only hope that no guy in the waiting room was in heat – and Melanie, along with Ragnar, Meredith, Jim, and Kayla. Gertie and Keith had wanted to come, but I'd put them off. They weren't part of my new life, it seemed, and I wasn't sure I wanted them to be. Maybe they'd come visit me in jail or maybe not. I knew Ragnar would be there for me, along with my family. Probably Meredith and Jim, too. But a year and two months was enough time for things and people's attitudes to change.
The warden was standing by with one of the guards to usher me in to my brick by brick suite, but no one seemed in a rush to interrupt our goodbyes. They and everyone else in the room watched Ragnar raptly, as if memorizing his every expression and move. I guessed Warden Kent wouldn't have made an appearance absent Ragnar.
Ragnar and I slapped hands and hugged. He smiled and chuckled that he'd save me a spot on the Kings when I got out. Jim shook hands and joked about saving me a spot at Chico State College ("Party capital of California colleges, dude"!). I wasn't even sure I'd qualify for a state college when I got out.
Melanie and Meredith were tearful, but my mom wore a set scowl as if she was planning someone's death. And maybe she was. We hugged stiffly. She kept her distance as though recognizing the danger. Melanie clung to me as if she never wanted to let go. I'd asked her not to cry days ago, and she'd told me to go fuck myself, that she could live without me just fine – in fact, she had plans to set up a music studio or something in my bedroom – but despite that she started sniffling and squeezing out tears, which had me fighting back my own waterworks.
Luckily, Ragnar broke the mood by snapping a photo of us and saying "Just in case I need to blackmail you like Cell Fucking Evolve in the future." He said it loud enough for everyone in the lobby to hear him. I was torn between being pissed and worried about what people would make of the comment. I settled on cracking up. Only Ragnar could get away with saying something like that, and I guessed I just might love him for it.
The guard led me away into WDJF's inner sanctum. I raised a hand in farewell. I'd intended a power-fist salute to show my resolve and defiant spirit, but couldn't make my fingers close, so a limp-wristed wave was all they got.
I'd told them all that I was okay with my sentence – both the RSA and DA prosecutors quickly agreed to the fourteen months in Woodvale – that it could've been a lot worse and that the time would go quickly. I reassured everyone that I knew the ropes and would be fine inside. I couldn't count on making a friend like Jim this time around, but being 3 inches and twenty-five pounds bigger – and surviving a pummeling by security goons – gave me some confidence I could probably handle myself all right without his help. And who knew – maybe I'd make another good friend or two again?
What I didn't tell anyone was that I felt a strange sense of relief about leaving it all behind for a while. No more guilt or confusion over doing the right thing. No more agonizing decisions or temptations. No more women, either, but that was a relief, too. I'd take a little Melatin like before, lift weights, play basketball, take some classes, and try to stay out of trouble. Life was simple in here.
I expected it would als
o be a bit slow and boring a lot of the time. But that was okay. I had some serious thinking to do – about my future, about who I wanted to be and what I planned to do. Through everything during my last two weeks of freedom CellEvolve and Max Emanuel were never far from my thoughts. The autopsy report on Jenny had come back without any clear signs of foul play. A clog had apparently lodged in one of her major heart vessels, causing a heart attack. Regardless of that, there was a balance of justice that needed to be restored, an accounting that had to be made. I didn't feel any furious urgency. My anger was a low, continuous simmer. My enemy might be impossibly powerful and the steps to defeat it impossibly numerous, but I didn't panic. Rome wasn't built in a day. They kept telling me how brilliant I was. Well, maybe it was time to see just what I could do if I set my alleged big brain to the task.
I had plenty of time to think it through.
Thank you for reading Male Hypersexual Syndrome! If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review here. I've also enclosed the first chapter of my novel, ANIMUS INTECEPT, which you can read in the following pages.
Chapter 1
ZANE CAMERON JOGGED UP the trail to his father's house, his ex-wife's scowling face fresh in his mind. He'd cautioned her from the beginning that he worked for a largely unknown Air Force department called Air Force Special Projects Division that prohibited discussing his work with anyone lacking the requisite security clearance under the severest penalty of law. Yet Valerie apparently believed that when they were married – when she was pregnant with their child – that he would whisper his secrets to her on some dark, stormy evening or on a long walk beyond hypothetical surveillance range.
Zane had been tempted on a few occasions, but had reined himself in at the last moment. Sharing what he knew would be a great unburdening for him, but would place an unhealthy weight on her shoulders. He bore the weight because he got something incredible in return. He got to visit the stars. His wife would get to visit her therapist. And if she ever breathed a word about Zane's true employer and his true mission that would almost certainly be her last breath on this world.
Valerie had miscarried their son. And then their marriage itself had miscarried. After a two-year "trial separation," they'd been formally divorced two months ago.
Zane's father, Hank Cameron, sat on the back porch overlooking an alpine vista, watching Zane jog up the trail to the back of his house. Two frost-covered cans of Old Milwaukee Light rested on the table next to him, between two lounge chairs.
Zane settled down in the chair beside his father. The view that stretched before them was one he never tired of. Zane accepted a beer from his father and cracked it open. The icy drink soothed his dry palate. This had become a tradition during his two weeks here in Tahoe. He'd need to buy a place of his own soon – Valerie had kept their house in Spring Valley – but for now he was okay calling the Base home. This was just a much-need respite. He'd accumulated more weeks of vacation over the last ten years than he knew what to do with.
"How did the run go?" Hank asked.
"Good."
"How are you doing, son?"
"Hanging in there, I guess." Zane hesitated, then decided his dad deserved more honesty than that. "I keep wondering if I could've handled it better."
"I figured you would be."
"I keep thinking if I'd found the right words, I could've made her understand."
His dad nodded and sipped from his can. Zane traced his gaze upward, to a hawk circling overhead.
"Some people just can't deal with it," Hank said, squinting up at the hawk. "Doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them. Some people just can't stand not being part of everything their mate does."
"Yeah, I guess that describes Val."
"Now Marilee was fine with it." Hank gave him a dry smile. "She had no interest in things that go bump in the night. Especially when the night and the things are on another world."
Zane chuckled with him. "I doubt Val gave a shit about that. She heard me mumble something once about how strange the universe is and never let it go."
They drank for a while in silence before his dad made a clearing-throat noise.
"You got a call."
"My lawyer? Valerie?"
"No. That other person you're married to. Colonel Hurtle."
Only an ironic god could've named his immediate superior, Zane thought. He felt the familiar buzz. Colonel Tom Hurtle didn't do "casual." If he called, it wasn't about how Zane's vacation was going. Something was up.
"He say anything?"
"Nope. Just to contact him. And he suggested you should carry your cell with you at all times."
"Right. You never know when I'll be called in to save the world."
"In his defense, it's not as if he has a long list of world-savers."
Zane made a point of finishing his beer slowly. Let the colonel stew in his own juices for a while. Everything was always a dire emergency for Tom Hurtle. One thing Zane had learned in his ten year-plus stint with United States Space Command: in terms of military might, the U.S. and international space forces were, despite being decades ahead of the mainstream technology, mere minuscule minnows in an unfathomably huge cosmic pond. There were untold numbers of alien civilizations, about which little was known – other than that many of them were considerably more advanced than Earth.
Extraterrestrials had for the most part thus far proven standoffish. They had no evidence that Zane knew of that any aliens posed a threat. War or hostilities were, according to the three species they had made contact with, exceedingly rare. Space, contrary to popular science fiction, did not appear to teem with malevolent forces bent on universal domination. Projects like Solar Warden and Safeguard were more about mundane matters such as possible deadly solar flares or approaching asteroids than about an invading alien fleet.
An overriding interest of U.S. Space Command and the Government was making certain that the balance of power and advanced technology remained tilted firmly in favor of the United States Military.
"You better call him back," said his father. "Before he sends a TR-3D here to pick you up."
"In a minute."
The older man studied him for a while before smiling. "You wouldn't happen to be holding Command a little responsible for what happened with your marriage, Zane?"
A dismissive chuckle started and died on Zane's lips. It would be silly and childish to hold anyone responsible but himself. No one had forced him to sign his life away. Still, he had to admit that Colonel Hurtle and Command's assumption that they always came first pissed him off sometimes.
"Not really," he said. "Though we wouldn't need to keep secrets if they just decided to finally tell people the truth."
"People aren't ready for that truth, son."
"It's going to come out someday."
"True. When the cows come home – and learn calculus." Hank gave his son a dark smile. "Look, when I say people aren't ready for the truth, I don't mean star drives or aliens. I mean they aren't prepared to know just how deep the deception from their leaders – their so-called elected government – goes."
Zane regarded him with sudden curiosity. His dad had hinted about his dissatisfaction with the secrecy status quo but never gone into any details.
"They could've gone the other way," Hank continued his thought. "There was a fork in the road in 1947. We took one step down the path of transparency. A few more steps would've changed everything. But they, in their infinite wisdom, called it back. We took the other road. And once you start burying a secret, it just takes more and more dirt to keep it covered, and more and more shovels to dig it up."
"Yeah," said Zane cautiously.
His father laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's the way of the world, son. That's the bottom line, and you and I ain't gonna change it."
Zane's gaze drifted up to the sky, to the sliver of the moon in the pellucid mountain sky, imagining their bases on the dark side. Zane had been to the moon twenty-seven times and served two
three-month stints there. He turned back to his father, who was watching him with one cocked eyebrow, as if waiting for his verdict.
"Was it worth it, Dad?"
Surprise flickered across his father's face before he smiled. "I've walked on the ice plains of Europa, led excavations on Mars, broke bread with the Zetis on their home world for three years. I saw the rings of Saturn up close and personal. Do I have regrets about the time I spent away from you and your mom? You're damn right I do. Would I do it all over again? You're damn right I would."
Zane gazed into his father's pale grey- green eyes, shining coolly above his hard grin. The eyes of a warrior and a scientist and an inveterate explorer. Major Ezekiel James Cameron.
"Good to know," Zane said.
THE GANG was all here. Five levels down in the Nellis Air Force Base sector of the National Underground Complex.
Zane's six-person crew looked every bit as puzzled as he was about their sudden summoning. For much of the last decade, their missions had been scheduled months if not years in advance. Rarely, something unexpected came up. From the expression on Colonel Tom Hurtle's aide, standing stiffly with a sheaf of files tucked under one arm at the front of the room awaiting their superior – this looked to be one of those rare occasions.
"So what's the big emergency?" Lieutenant David Mallory asked him. Lieutenant Mallory, a Space Reconnaissance Marine, had joined the United States Space Command the same week Zane, a former Army Ranger, had. Attending a year of training classes together had cemented their friendship. "The Cardassians acting up again?"
"Colonel Hurtle will be in to brief you all soon enough."
Zane doubted it had to do with the "Cardassians." So-named because of their uncanny resemblance to the Star Trek creatures, the Cardassians were a primitive semi-sentient Martian subterranean species that occupied a vast labyrinth of underground caverns, caves, and artificial chambers – leftovers from the previous and now-extinct civilization – the Cardassians hadn't given them trouble for decades.
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