Hour 0700, Day 008, Year 2122

Eighteenth anniversary of the Frontera Colony Massacre. Twenty-seven thousand, eight hundred, sixty-three human colonists and border patrol soldiers were killed by a surprise Culler attack. There were nine survivors.

Malak handed his second MRE bar over to Ondrea and let his mind wander while he watched her eat. It was test day. Figuratively speaking, it was always test day for research subjects like him. He and the rest of his pack had been watched by cameras, scientists, guards, and untold number of medical devices since before their birth. Decanting, he dryly reminded himself. That was what some of the less respectful technicians called it. Dr. Gillian referred to it as ‘birth’, even though it wasn’t really, when she spoke to the subjects. When she wrote in her notes it was ‘extraction’. Bee, in the growling language that came easiest to him, called it ‘waking’. As strange as most of the natural humans found Bee’s ideas, Malak had to admit that his Basics instructor – the only test subject to hold that status – came up with the best name.

Since his Wakingday, which he shared with the rest of his pack – except Taisto, who always seemed to be late – he had gone through twenty-five test days. That I can remember, he clarified to himself. Malak always tried to be precise, even in his own mind. This day was number twenty-six, and it had the most pressure riding on it. Or perhaps he was simply old enough to understand how important the tests were to the future of his pack. A test meant changes, depending on how individuals and the group did. Sometimes it was different MREs – more protein, less protein, more fats, less iron. Sometimes it was colder quarters, or hotter classrooms, or longer training sessions. Once they had received an art instructor, who stayed for over a year, then was inexplicably removed. Wojciech still drew, sometimes, on their study tablets, before erasing his work.

Ondrea finished the meal bar and grinned her thanks before walking back to the table she shared with Taisto and Wojciech. The three laughed and jostled each other while they finished their water. Malak would have been welcome to join them, he knew. Welcome to join any of the other four tables where his pack was finishing their breakfast, but he didn’t. There was too much on his mind. Test Day.

They weren’t supposed to know the parameters or objectives prior to tests, not unless Dr. Gillian or one of the other senior scientists explicitly told them. But there were a few individuals in Malak’s group that were very, very good at keeping their ears and eyes open. On this day, Malak’s pack, Series 27-2, were going to be introduced to the rest of the twenty-sevens. Groups one, three, and four were going to join them for a day-long training exercise. Ostensibly, it was a group training exercise based around cooperative learning. Which was true, Malak knew. He also knew that it had a much more important purpose. Malak had shared his suspicions with Bee, who agreed that it was likely. Dr. Gillian wanted to find the Alpha.

Not an alpha, lower case a, Malak thought. The Alpha. Malak was the leader in his group. His pack had followed his orders since before he could remember – although there had been a brief week where the twins tried to take control. The whole pack went without test rewards for three days before the two females stepped down and submitted to Malak. It had all been fairly painless, although mildly humiliating for the twins.  It wasn’t always that way, though. Bee had told him how the twenty-sixes selected their alphas. Three of the four groups had bloody fights. No one died, but it had been a near thing in one case. Malak wasn’t sure how the other alphas would react to taking commands from him – but it wouldn’t matter.

The outcome would be the same. Malak was going to be the Alpha, because he didn’t know those other twenty-sevens. He couldn’t guarantee that they would watch out for his pack like he did. It would be more responsibility, three times more. Instead of twenty-five he would be in charge of one hundred. One hundred research subjects that frightened their scientists as often as they pleased them. One hundred soldiers, Malak reminded himself.

That was the point, really. They had been grown – decanted – to be soldiers for the natural humans. He understood. In the six years since his Wakingday, he had learned a great deal about natural humans and the war they were fighting. The Cullers were his enemy, and his purpose in life was to protect the natural humans from them. To kill Cullers. Malak knew he could do that. He was stronger than anyone else in his group except Jiral. He was quicker than everyone except Smierc. He was just as smart as Parshav and Rhadamanthus, although Taisto was better than everyone at puzzles. Four more years and he would go on live training missions. Four years after that, he would go up against the Cullers in real missions. That was what he was made for, and Malek knew he would be good at it. He also had another purpose, though, one which was more than just a lesson learned or something bred into him. He needed to protect his pack. To do that, he had to be the Alpha.

Smierc smoothly slid onto the bench opposite him, her water cup in hand but empty. She held it up to her mouth – a proven method for making certain the cameras couldn’t track the movements of her lips. “Parshav just gave the signal. Lupe is on the way with Gillian.”

“Hn.” Malak turned his cup between his palms. His stomach felt unsettled, like he hadn’t eaten, or maybe like what he had eaten hadn’t been quite dead.

Smierc ran her fingers through her shoulder-length red hair and pulled an elastic from around her wrist. “You good?” She asked while she made a quick ponytail.

“Hn,” he nodded, despite the itchy feeling growing in his legs and hands. Smierc snorted, rolling her eyes, clearly not believing him. Malak breathed deeply and tried to find a calm spot in his mind. That is what he needed – to be in control of himself. Then he could control others. He could smell the familiar scent of his beta, a mellow sort of orange in his nose that mixed with the standard issue soap they all used. The mess hall smelled like disinfectant and the dry, nutty-oat flavor of the MRE bars. Jiral smelled like rotten leaves and sweat – which was probably because he had been last in the night before so had early morning duty cleaning one of the training arenas. It was all familiar.

Smierc picked up her cup again. “You’ll be fine,” she assured him. “We all will. And if those others don’t submit-” Smierc set down her cup and bared her teeth at Malak. The expression made his adrenaline begin to flow. “We’ll make ‘em.”

“Hn.” He offered her a nod and a small smile. Smierc was second, behind him, for a reason. She was absolutely loyal, positive, and quick to protect the pack. He hoped the other groups would have some like her.

The doors to the mess hall slid open with a whisper of air pressure. “Good morning, everyone,” called Dr. Gillian. Half of her face was wrinkled with age. The other half was scarred smooth from an old accident and subsequent surgeries. She had once told the pack it was her good side. “I hope you have all finished breakfast.”

Lupe grinned and waggled her eyebrows. The younger scientist was always joking with the pack. “It’s the most important meal of the day,” she sing-songed to several smiles and chuckles.

Test day, Malak thought again and rose to lead his group out.

***

“That’s the last of them,” Lupe announced, selecting a video feed from her tablet and throwing it onto the wall with four others. “27-2 is in position. One, Three, and Four are ready to go whenever you want to start, Dr. Gillian.”

Gillian stood a little straighter, ignoring the chair that some well-meaning and unintentionally condescending research assistant had placed behind her. She had banked a great deal on the results of today’s exercises. Almost seven years ago, she had assured Representative Avani Sudarshan that the twenty-seven series would be the answer to Department of Defense’s problems. She had lied through her teeth and promised that they would have no trouble commanding the twenty-sixes and going into battle at age fourteen. Fourteen, for god’s sake, she chastised herself, not for the first or last time. It was a brutal schedule, a brutal childhood. But they aren’t really children, are they? Not technically. Although the Sol Constitution had been amended in 2120 to give citizenship rights to Genetically Modified Humans, it was debatable whether the subjects of the Hellhound project would meet the rather vague interpretation of ‘human’. In addition, they had been created far outside of the Sol system and the legal reach of Congress.

Equal rights aside, the twenty-sevens hardly looked like average children. At six, they appeared eleven or twelve. By the time they would be ready to march off to war, they would be physically and mentally in their early twenties even though chronologically they should only be in junior high school. Gillian glanced at the video wall and picked out the alphas for each group. Skoll led 27-1, his gangly arms and legs causing him to tower over those around him. He was strong, and bigger than the others, and quick to make decisions. Malak stood quietly with Smierc at his side. She barked orders at the others in 27-2, while he nodded and spoke in a low voice. Malak was serious, highly intelligent. He was smaller than Skoll or even Smierc, but he hadn’t hit the age six growth spurt yet.  Giltine stood at the front of an organized formation of 27-3. Her brown hair was braided tightly and her body purposefully relaxed. She was the only female alpha, and her group followed her commands like a well-oiled machine. Gillian was aware that she was the first choice of the military advisor that had been assigned to the Hellhound Project. She was the perfect example of a soldier, following orders to the letter and keeping her subordinates toeing the line. In group four, Almaut knelt in the center of a tight knot of bodies.  His pale hair and skin stood out sharply among the more common reds and browns of the subjects.  He was clever, sometimes to the dismay of those in charge of his group, and imaginative in his solutions to test situations. Any of the four would be excellent Alphas for the series.

If they are capable of it, she thought worriedly. Gillian didn’t allow her concern to show on her face. But the capacity of her research subjects – these children – was the crux of the matter. The twenty-six series had been saved from destruction because Dr. Wendy Gillian had promised the Oversight Committee that the next series would be able to control them. If one of the four alphas on the screen couldn’t lead their own series, there was little hope the twenty-sixes would listen. If that couldn’t be accomplished, then they would be of no use to the military. Trillions of credits spent on a project that did not produce results made for some very angry Congressional Representatives. It made for a whole lot of unemployed scientists.

It makes for several hundred dead test subjects.

Gillian forced those thoughts aside and glanced at the center screen. A flag was placed in the middle of an open field. The subjects need to get the flag, but it would take all four groups, working together, to get past the obstacles in their way. They would need one leader.

“Give me the mic,” she said calmly, holding out her hand to Lupe. Her former research assistant handed over the slender mic and reached forward to press the transmit command. “Good morning, twenty-sevens,” Gillian spoke and heads on the screens stopped and listened to the receivers they each wore just behind their ears. “Today, you must capture the flag…”

***

“That was a good catch,” Almaut said admiringly. “I didn’t see the looping patrol, without your advice we would have walked right into it.”  Malak nodded in acceptance and tried not to shift his weight. Fidgeting was a sign of weakness, and in his case it would reveal actual weakness. He had twisted his knee during the exercise, and the joint was already starting to swell. He flexed his jaw and ignored the pain.

“Not so impressive,” the female alpha, from group three, narrowed her eyes at him. Malak had immediately pegged her as his biggest competition for Alpha. “My scout saw it, we could have gotten through easily.”

“Yes, yes,” Almaut chuckled, “and then what would you have done if the Ones weren’t ready to back you up? An odd number in your group makes it difficult to do a tandem crossing, right? You’d still be on the other side of the ravine.”

“I’m sure Giltine would have figured it out,” said Skoll. The taller male was attempting to fold his shirt back together, with no luck. The garment had been completely shredded when he pushed one of his own pack members out of the path of a drone. Malak had been impressed. Skoll was willing to take serious injury to protect another. He was a good leader. And a bit of a peacemaker. “No need to dwell on it. We won, with no serious injuries, and everybody gets rewards tonight, so good day, right?”

“Good day?” Giltine bit off. “You won’t be saying that when they don’t pick you. I for one won’t follow-” Malak rubbed the back of his head, and from across the gathering space Smierc, ever watchful, gave a signal. Parshav suddenly tumbled into the female alpha’s back, cutting her off.

“What? Oh, so sorry!” He stood and tried to help her out, brushing at her clothes and loudly apologizing. Giltine backed away from him, irritated, and ran into Malak. He quickly leaned forward, letting the disarray of her braid hide his mouth.

“There are two cameras watching us right now. They’ll know whatever you say, so cover your mouth when you talk.”  The others heard him, and both Almaut and Skoll stared wide-eyed as Giltine spun around and faced him. She looked mad enough to spit nails, but instead of speaking, she pulled the elastic out of her hair and bent to shake out what was left of her braid.

“How did you know,” she muttered, her face towards the ground.

Malak considered how to answer as the other three alphas watched him. He could say that he had mapped every camera in the research station, and had his pack report to him if anything was added or moved. He could say that although he didn’t believe that Dr. Gillian wanted to hurt them in any way, he didn’t trust her to look out for the pack’s best interests either. He could say that he wasn’t an animal, or an experiment, but a person – the natural human government had said so, which he knew without any law to confirm it – and he deserved to have at least some of his thoughts remain private. He could say that he was a soldier, and a soldier looked for and took every advantage he could get, even in peacetime.  It turned out he didn’t have to say anything, because Smierc choose that moment to come retrieve Parshav.  She slapped the back of her pack-mate’s head and pulled him down into a headlock, concealing their faces.

“He’s the Alpha,” Smierc stated plainly. Malak could hear it in her voice, in the rumbling command behind it. Alpha with a capital A. The Alpha. Three pairs of eyes turned toward him. One considering, one accepting, and one assessing.

“Hn.”

“Prove it.” That came not from Giltine, but from Almaut, and the female was quick to agree.

Malak had thought about that eventuality, he had discussed it some with Bee. He didn’t want to force submission. He didn’t want to become Alpha by tasting blood – but he would if he had to. There were other ways that he would try first, though. Malak let his arms fall to his side and took in a deep breath before opening his mouth. The roar felt good. It filled his chest with sound and rustled the leaves above him. It was a declaration, a warning, one that his ancestors – the barghest, not the humans – had used to intimidate enemies and claim territory.  When he was done, he looked out over the small field where all of the twenty-sevens had gathered. To a one, they were looking at him. Some jaws hung open. Some heads tilted to the side in displays of submission. Some had fallen to one or both knees.

My pack. My territory. Obey.

Bee was the Basics instructor for all of the twenty-sevens, he had taught them the simple language and they all understood Malak’s claim. He stood, waiting, hands loose and prepared for a fight, his eyes on the other alphas. Almaut tipped his head slightly, bearing his neck with a slight smile. Skoll nodded deeply, stepping back and splaying his arms out to his sides. Giltine flared her nostrils, scenting him, he was sure. Whatever she smelled, it made up her mind.

“I guess that’s okay,” she said slowly.  She reached up to scratch at her nose, covering her mouth. “The pack comes first, or I’ll take your place.”

Malak nodded, “Agreed.”

Barghest: Chapter 9

Second Alliance is finished.

I just needed to take a moment. I am proud of all that I accomplished with that work, even if it is based on a universe not my own. I am also overwhelmingly gratified by the support and praise offered by the online community. You have made writing a joy. Thank you. To express how much that means to me, I am finishing up something that has been requested – an epilogue. I won’t guarantee that it will be published with any kind of regularity, as I am working on original ideas right now, but please know that the dedication of readers like you keeps me writing.

 

***

Epilogue: Choices Design Fate

 

“It’s sealed,” Kagome said quietly.

Sesshomaru pulled her back to lean against his chest, breathing in her scent. She smelled of sadness. The camphor stung his nose but the salt of her tears was light. She was not in danger of sobbing. More vibrant was the scent of freshly cut cherry wood and magnolia blossoms, barely open and heavy with dew. She sighed and allowed her weight to sag against him.

The breeze was slight and cool, the weather unseasonably warm. Spring would come early this year – so Bokuseno had told him. The sap was stirring, the world ready to breath deep and begin to repair the wound left by Ryukostokken. Nearly a month had passed since the battle, and Sesshomaru was tired of the endless meetings and ceremonies. They were worth his time, however. Each night since they had returned to the Western Palace, he excused himself when the sun set. Regardless of the state of the discussion or the importance of his guests, he returned to his private quarters before the last glow of orange had left the sky.

There Kagome was always waiting for him. The pups would be finishing supper, and implore him to eat with them. And she would smile and offer to fill his bowl. Or they would be preparing for bed, and Kagome would watch as he patted heads and left the mark of his youki upon them. Or, as the days grew a bit longer, she would be reading quietly, and set down her scroll or book when he came in, offering tea. And then, he took her to their rooms, and showed her how much he cared for her. Never had Sesshomaru felt so at peace.

Their mating, the official ceremony, was to take place on the next full moon. Sesshomaru knew she was missing her family, thinking of the human ceremony that would have been theirs if time was not an obstacle. He had nearly had to force her to come to the well, on the first new moon after the battle. She insisted that she wouldn’t try it, even if the magic was still active, but he wanted her to have the opportunity. He thought she should go see her family, even if the well would not accept him, and let them know that she was safe, and that he would protect her. Until they could be together again.

“That’s it then?” Inuyasha asked abruptly. He perched on the edge of the well, his dark hair falling over the ancient wood. His pose was not encumbered by the loss of a limb, which he refused to allow Kagome to heal. The hanyou bluffed that she would burn him, which was most likely untrue, but Sesshomaru was thankful for the reprieve. His miko had been pushing herself hard since the war to deal with injuries and youkai seeking assistance to conceive.

“Is that it? Idiot! Try to be a little more sensitive!” Kagome slapped at his half-brother’s arm, and the hanyou scowled.

“Ow, hey that hurts when I’m human!” He rubbed his arm, but his face softened. Sesshomaru had begun to notice that Inuyasha was far more open and emotional when his youki was suppressed. “Sorry, Kagome. Me and my big mouth. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay,” she sighed. “I’ll just miss them. I should feel grateful.” She turned her head up to stare at him, and he was lost for a moment in the sparkle of stars in her blue eyes, “and I am, so much.” Her voice was soft and her scent full of the sweet smell of carnations and warm gardenias. She turned back to Inuyasha, “But knowing that I might live to see them again doesn’t make the distance any easier.”

“I miss ‘em too,” Inuyasha said gruffly. “’Specially your mom. And her cooking.”

“Inuyasha!” Kagome began to laugh, and Sesshomaru relaxed. She would be all right, and she would meet her family again, he swore that to himself.

I have failed you. At least, I feel that way. Two readers, Anabel and Daisie, reviewed North Sea Dawn and expected chapters 59 and 60 to be posted. Unfortunately, I just can’t do that.

I was ready to, I really was, but I am just not satisfied. These are the last two chapters of Second Alliance, and although I have them both written, they just aren’t what they should be. You deserve the best I can offer. The readers of Second Alliance who have stuck with me for such a long time, and those like Anabel and Daisie that have offered me such generous praise and encouragement, deserve this story to end beautifully. Magnificently. I want you to tear up and laugh and yell and cheer. I promised you that when we started this journey. I promised that we would finish this together. And we will.

But not quite yet. Not until I am certain that Second Alliance is everything it can be. Soon, very soon, this will be over, and that will be bittersweet for me. Until then, I can only offer my apologies, a sneak peek, and an offer to Anabel and Daisie: one question, each. Any single question you would like answered about Second Alliance that does not spoil the ending and I will answer it. Anything you want to know about the expanded Inuyasha universe in Second Alliance, the characters, subplots that you might not have felt were explored thoroughly – anything. Comment here, and I’ll respond.

 

Chapter 59 Sneak Peek

Kimi cocked her head slightly. Although she could see the physical appeal, even under his loose robes, she was more intrigued by the spark of intelligence in his eyes. The monk was often the diplomat for the Shikon group during the hunt for the shards, and an accomplished spiritual force as well. Kimi realized, as she observed him interacting with the wolf prince and several wilder youkai, that his easy, pleasure-seeking persona was a mask for a sharp mind. Cunning. Devious. Kimi smiled widely. She would enjoy working alongside that one.

She stepped silently from the sparse undergrowth and shadows of twisted pine trees. A ripple of stillness moved across the camp; Kimi waited until all eyes were on her, cautious, admiring, and fearful. Then she spoke, “You are honored by the presence of This One.” Her gaze narrowed in on Kouga, then the monk. Where the young youkai had quickly covered his shock with a stern countenance, the human Do impress.”

I wanted to delve a bit more into the culture that is present in the future society I have envisioned for Barghest. The interaction in this chapter dips into that, describing how medical and genetic research has impacted individuals and shaped the world that the Sol Coalition is operating in. Please leave me your thoughts – and I hope you enjoy!

***

Hour 0900, Day 073, Year 2148

Ninety-second anniversary of the Rajasthan Reactor Catastrophe. Death toll estimated at 600,000.

 

Two days of light duty and an equal number of hours of mandatory counseling – required after a live weapons fire exchange, and Maker had herself under control again. She wasn’t better. She didn’t feel less guilty – although the psychologist had worked hard to try to get her to admit to the emotion. But she had pushed it down far enough that she could function, and possibly make something better of the time she had left to serve on the Pershing.

Kerry was waiting for her when she got off her shift on Thursday. It wasn’t too surprising, he often went with her to the mess or a rec hall if their schedules lined up. It was illegal to discriminate towards Genetically Modified Humans, had been for years, and the SC enforced the letter of the law. But it did not stop anyone from thinking less of people like Kerry. Can’t outlaw assholes, Maker thought as they walked together.

“Workout?” He asked quietly. “Today is Thursday, you are cleared for cardio, right?”

“Yeah, I- Thursday?” Maker paused, recalling her ride in the lift with Bretavic. “Actually, I was invited to a card game, but-”

“Bretavic,” Kerry nodded, “he asked me too.”

“Really? I – I mean, that’s great but -”

“Surprised he asked a tuber like me?” Maker flushed at Kerry’s casual use of the derogatory term, but her friend’s quick smile forgave her assumption. “I was too.” They walked in silence for an entire section. “So,” he said casually, “do you want to go?”

“I’ll lose,” she said seriously. “I am terrible at cards, you know that.”

“You have money?” Kerry’s thick, dark eyebrows lifted in question.

“Some.” She hesitated, “I could spare a few hundred credits, I guess.”

He snorted, “That’ll ensure they invite you back, if you lose that amount.”

“If I’m going, so are you,” she hit him lightly in the ribs with her elbow. “Today everyone has to get out there make a new friend. Even if it hurts.”

Kerry stopped them at the lift and hit the controls. “It almost always does. Except without the friend. And getting out there usually consists of a bar fight.”

“Yeah,” Maker smothered a laugh, “but the hurt is usually on the other guy.”

“Of course.” Kerry fell back into his customary silence after that, and they made their way to Maintenance Bay  6. Maker punched in the door code, and Kerry frowned.

“It’s ironic,” she informed him with a smile.

“I do not think you know what irony means,” he replied seriously.

It took them a few minutes to find the cluster of soldiers in a far corner, behind a stack of crated repair parts. Two tables had been set up and the men and women were using storage containers for chairs. Several field canteens, presumably of alcohol, were being passed around to fill a variety of cups. As Maker and Kerry approached, talk slowed. Most of the faces were carefully blank, but a few looked hostile. Maker was about to suggest that they turn around when Bretavic stood and offered them each a cup.

“You’ll play at my table,” he announced loudly. There was some place shuffling and resettling, but the release of tension was palatable. Hands were dealt and Maker relaxed for the first time since she had arrived on that mining station. An hour later – seventy-two credits in the hole – Maker folded early, sitting back to drink contraband moonshine that had the kick of rocket fuel and listen to the conversation around her.

“Sounds like a lot of talk to me,” a soldier stated flatly. She took a swing of her cup that left Maker wincing, but the woman didn’t even flinch. “Election campaigns will start in a couple  of months – the liberals that want to run for office always throw out the idea of pulling back the military to get the voters stirred up.”

“Right,” the man next to her snorted, “and then nobody ever says anything concrete about plans, and next thing you know mandatory service levels are increased or recruitment quotas go up. Anyone that believes Congress wants to downsize the fleet should have their genes examined. Idiots,” he added and increased his bet.

“I’ll see it,” the woman responded. She continued, “A politician saying they want to bring home soldiers is like an officer saying tubers are valued team players,” her voice dripped with condescension. “A whole load of shit that looks nice on a poster.” She glanced up at Maker, then her eyes slid to Kerry. “No offense.” She shrugged.

“None taken,” Kerrysaid evenly. “I’ll see and raise you five.”

“Little bit taken,” Maker said dryly. She was the only officer at the table. The woman laughed.

“I’ll see your five and call.” Bretavic swore loudly as he lost the hand to Merrick. He poured himself another drink while the younger man cleaned up the markers on the table. “Suck it up, Maker. You’re an officer, get used to being hated.”

“Not hated,” the veteran corrected, “just don’t expect friends.”

“And here I thought maybe later we would braid each other’s hair and trade diaries,” Maker deadpanned. She spoke in a monotone, “Now my feelings are hurt. Ouch.” They all laughed and drank and played another hand, which Maker quickly folded out of so she lost only the ante.

“Point is,” the female soldier said as though the conversation had never stopped, “it doesn’t matter if the Cullers stay outside Far Sol Space for another five years. As long as there are reports of the slimy little fuckers anywhere in this arm of the galaxy, no one is going to want to reduce Earth’s defenses.” She took the hand with a crow of triumph and counted her markers.

“Lucky for us,” Bretavic said sourly.

“You’re damn right,” the veteran agreed, either ignoring or not noticing the large soldier’s sarcasm. “That’s job security. As long as there are Cullers – they’ll need somebody to blow them straight to hell. I get paid to make greasy smears out of space lobsters. That’s easy money.”

“You should really needlepoint that on something,” Maker said. Blank looks met her archaic reference.

Kerry noted, “Recruitment poster.”

“Ha!” The woman laughed, and punched the veteran in the arm, “that would get training numbers up.” She spread her finger out and outlined an imaginary advertisement in the air over the table, “Come, re-enlist with the Sol Coalition. Make greasy smears out of space lobsters.”

“Don’t forget the easy money,” Bretavic pointed out, frowning as a new hand was dealt. “I think that sums up this whole war nicely.”

“Easy money,” the veteran and woman repeated in sync, then laughed. Their chuckles were only lightly scented with alcohol, but Maker couldn’t help the shiver that danced along her spine. She might have agreed with the sentiment a few weeks ago, but after the mining station, she didn’t see a lot of humor in the idea. Thankfully, conversation soon turned to a recent training test that had been completed by one of the many platoons aboard the Pershing. Maker picked up her cards. She had a pair of twos and an ace. With my luck, she thought, I’ll end with just the twos.  She threw in her marker with a sigh of resignation. Her contemplation of what to keep in her hand was interrupted by an argument between the veteran and Bretavic.

“-the hell! No way you scored that high!”

“Jealous, Bretavic?” He smirked, “Try getting onto the mats every once in awhile, instead of using bar fights to polish your martial skills.”

“I call bullshit,” the woman said, tossing her cards and folding. “If you scored that high, you’d have already been flagged for special ops. You’re a liar and ugly – it’s not a good combination.”

“You weren’t saying that last night, Tremaine,” the older soldier grinned. She flipped him off.

“The score isn’t the only requirement for special forces,” Kerry said quietly. All eyes turned to him in surprise, he hadn’t spoken much since the game had begun. The heavy muscles in his shoulders shifted under his uniform as he shrugged. “Genes.” Maker saw the flash of pity in Bretavic’s eyes, while the other two soldiers remained silent. Kerry gradually stiffened, as he realized he had drawn attention to himself. They couldn’t know for certain, although Maker did, but they could easily guess how well a Genetically Modified Human would do in training tests. Kerry had been specifically bred to be a soldier, which was fairly obvious from his build and reflexes. Maker had tested out with him at every step of their training and could attest to his near perfect scores in anything related to strength, agility, or motor skills. Her table companions had been right when they made the comparison to politicians’ promises. No tuber, no matter what was said about equality, was treated fairly in the Sol Coalition. It was a load of shit.

“That explains it,” Bretavic broke the silence, pointedly looking over the veteran. “Too much Neanderthal DNA, right?”

The table was silent for a long minute, and Maker held her breath, wondering if Bretavic had stepped over a line. Finally, the woman barked out a laugh and slapped the man next to her on the shoulder. “He caught you out, idiot! I always suspected – what with the back hair!”

The veteran leaned back in his chair and grinned, “It’s a sign of virility – back hair.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Bretavic mumbled, disgusted.

Maker let out a silent exhale, grateful that the attention was off of Kerry. Her friend had a difficult enough time as his appearance was so obviously caused by now-illegal mutation; he didn’t need the first social time he had taken part in on the Pershing to single him out from other soldiers. The nickname, tubers, already spoke volumes about how most people felt about the technology that created him – and thousands more like him. It took a tremendous amount of science to combine human sperm and egg with DNA from non-human sources. Whether the result was a live birth or not, the individuals were labeled by their start in a test tube. Even before the Sol Coalition had banned the practice on Earth, it had been a procedure that was frowned upon. Only those who were truly desperate to set their offspring on a different path chose Genetic Modification.

It had been particularly popular with debtors and parolees that owed years of service to the government. When the ban on the procedure was extended in 2124 from Earth to all Sol-controlled systems, black market operations sprang up on independent mining stations and colonies. Those couples that paid for a GMH pregnancy in the years following gave everything they had – and oftentimes the promise of years of future income – to scientists that promised the world but rarely had the credentials or equipment to deliver on those guarantees.  Many of those born from such procedures developed chronic issues that actually barred them from successful entry into the military and specialized service fields that their parents had envisioned for them. A high percentage ended up serving in the same mining and terraforming camps where their parents were bound. Having genetics that were labeled superior or desirable did not mandate an easier life.

Although GMHs were given full access to citizenship rights almost ten years before either she or Kerry were born, equality was still a long way off. Legally, Kerry couldn’t be denied the rights or privileges available to any human. In reality, his file – like that of every soldier – noted his genetic profile and his assignments reflected how his superior officers felt about it. Luck hadn’t been in his favor when his profile was compiled either. His mental capabilities were above average for a soldier. His physical abilities were well above minimums even for special forces troops. Aesthetically, however, Merrick was not an ideal soldier. His musculature was over developed, giving him a hulking appearance which was not lessened at all by his shorter than ideal height. His jaw was wide and his nose almost flat. Combined with his thin lips and extremely dark skin the heavy bone structure made him stand out sharply against the tall, athletic stereotype of a soldier. Eighty-five percent of Sol-born humans received embryonic gene therapy to maximize their DNA. The process didn’t allow for additives like those that Kerry had received, but it did allow parents to select the best possible combination of traits for their children. It resulted in a nearly homogeneous army. Symmetrical facial features, skin tones ranging from honey and caramel tones to a deeper mocha, and two generations of selecting for height meant Kerry was an anomaly in almost any crowd.

Of course, Maker had the same problem, to a certain extent. Although she wasn’t as obviously different as Kerry, her father’s choice to restrict her gene therapy to only medical needs and leaving her appearance up to nature had a visible impact. Her mother’s family was from Japan, and she had inherited her short stature from them, rather than her tall, blonde American father. Her skin was as pale as genetics allowed without abnormality; the combination of milky almond Japanese skin with scorchingly pale Scandinavian heritage made her a sharp contrast at the opposite end of the spectrum to Kerry. Two new recruits, one the result of desperation and hope, the other of hippie rebellion against the system, found each other the first day of training and had quickly formed a friendship. Maker often felt she didn’t deserve the sort of dedicated loyalty Kerry gave her, but she did her best to offer him the same.

She pick up her cards without really looking at them a determined that the hand would be her last. She was almost out of money, and Merrick seemed comfortable enough to stay without her – if that is what he wanted. She had a  new duty shift the next day, and wasn’t looking forward to slogging through training on a few hours of sleep.

“The bet is to you, Maker,” Bretavic leaned around Merrick’s bulk to catch her eye. “Just fold already so I can collect my winnings.” He grinned.

“What the hell,” she smiled back and tossed in a marker. “This is my last hand anyway. Call.”

“Past your bedtime, little girl?” The veteran grinned. “Probably for the best, as you won’t beat my straight.” He laid out his cards and sat back, crossing his arms smugly as the woman next to him groaned. Both she and Merrick had folded early.

“Fuck all,” Bretavic swore, tossing down his hand. “Two pair, you lucky bastard.” The veteran was actually reaching toward the pile of winnings in the center when Maker put down her cards. She blinked in surprise, not having paid much attention to the last game. Bretavic barked out a laugh, “A Full House, Aces over twos! Get your hands off the credits, Uesegi!”

“You been setting me up for the long con this whole game, Maker?” The veteran, Uesegi, frowned, but he didn’t sound upset.

Maker shrugged, smiling. No one could be angry about what was clearly a lucky hand. She had lost more than she won over the course of the night, so no one could say she came out ahead. “Yeah, that’s it. You caught me. A few more weeks of losing my paycheck and I would have had you just where I wanted you.”

“Now you’ve done it, Sargent,” the woman laughed as Maker picked up the markers, “You’ll have to come back and lose next time just to prove Bretavic didn’t bring in a ringer.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Kerry deadpanned. Maker elbowed him while everyone else grinned and chuckled. More drinks were poured as she tucked her winnings into her uniform jacket.  She didn’t admit it, even to herself, didn’t even let her thoughts go there, but as she walked back to her shared quarters, she felt a little less guilty. A little more at peace.

Barghest: Chapter 8

Previous Chapter

***

Hour 1325, Day 104, Year 2119

 

Fortieth anniversary of the passage of the first legislation restricting the rights of Genetically Modified Humans. These Lynas Laws defined GMH as incorporating non-human DNA, legally demoting them to less than human.

“This morning I was on the Senate floor, a wet Paris spring outside the windows, listening to debates on the war and reading a live transcript of a strategic planning session on Kuiper Station, and now here I am having lunch in Omaha with you. The marvels of the modern age can still surprise me sometimes, Avani.”

Sudarshan nodded politely, but she did not drop her guard, despite the casual surroundings. The noodle shop was far too small to be expected to offer indoor dining, but an April snowstorm had covered the sidewalk tables in a layer of wet, cold snow. The owner had squeezed a tiny table and two chairs in a corner between the counter and the front window to accommodate the Prime Minister, leader of the Sol Coalition Senate, for a luncheon meeting. Most of the business seemed to be in deliveries made out the back entrance, so their meal was undisturbed except for the polite service of cups of delicate tea and steaming bowls of fragrant noodles.

“I find it especially striking when I come home. To think, my grandfather used to bring me here when he came back from Washington. That was just after the Repulsion, and he was overseeing the reverse engineering of the Culler ships that landed on American soil. Oh,” the older woman reminisced with a smile, “the base here in Omaha was such a small place then – barely equipped to deal with the soldiers and scientists that all flooded in, doing everything they could for the war effort – to ensure the survival of humanity.” The Senator smiled and took a bite of her noodles, “Mm, delicious as always. You can’t get Vietnamese anywhere that is better than this. Not since the Red War.”

Sudarshan, despite her tension over being summoned by the Prime Minister more than seven thousand miles from the Sol Coalition Congressional Hall, relaxed somewhat as she also began to eat. The highest member of the Senate, the Prime Minister, was an unassuming American woman. Her hair was thick and white; unlike most women her age she had forgone pigment treatments. It contrasted nicely with deeply tanned skin and bright blue eyes. The woman was quite fit, which was appropriate given her campaign persona of a hard worker and no-nonsense legislator. Sudarshan had only met her a few times before, and never in a personal meeting, but she found the relaxed, friendly manner of senior Senator to be at odds with the whispered rumors that she was a tenacious political shark.

The Prime Minister set down her spoon and took a sip of tea before continuing, “He would not recognize the city now, my grandfather. Tripled in size and home of the Sol Coalition’s largest research facility on Earth. I imagine he would be quite proud of some of our accomplishments.”

“Due, in no small part, to your efforts, Prime Minister,” Sudarshan ventured tentatively.

“Oh, no, I cannot take responsibility for that. North America pooled its resources to establish this base, the location is entirely a logistical issue. Besides that, to claim, even privately, that my efforts as a servant to our government are in any way personal would be rather disgusting, don’t you think?”The Prime Minister smiled as coolly and charmingly as on any of her campaign ads

Sudarshan hesitated, sure that there was a verbal trap ahead of her, but not able to see it. . “We are all only working towards the greater good,” she responded slowly. The senior politician’s smile remained, but her gaze hardened into something that sent a shiver down Sudarshan’s spine.

“Sam,” the Prime Minister called out. The owner popped out of the kitchen, a damp towel in hand. “Give me a few moments, please, would you?” He nodded and immediately disappeared into the back. The sounds of water being shut off and muffled conversations abruptly stopped as a door slammed shut. Sudarshan was suddenly very aware that the only person who would witness the remainder of the lunch was the Prime Minister’s personal security guard.

“The greater good,” she said the words slowly, as though testing their flavor like a Vietnamese noodle. The shiver froze around her spine, and Sudarshan felt a tightness in her chest. “It is interesting that you would use such a phrase, Avani. Exactly what greater good were you working toward this morning when you voted against the Emancipation and Suffrage bill?”

“The party has always held conservative views toward the GMH population,” Sudarshan quickly responded. “I was only-”

“And who, exactly, told you that a publicly promoted conservative view translated into a vote against the E&S? Or did you deduce that little nugget on your own.”

Sudarshan bristled. She had been prepared to be chastised for something, but she wasn’t about to put up with personal insults, not even from the Prime Minister. “I know what the party supports, ma’am, perhaps even better than you, given your tone. The future of Genetically Modified Humans is not one of Emancipation and Suffrage, and least not yet, and if you do not understand the gravity of this matter, of what it means to us all, to the war, then-”

“You twit.” The Prime Minister’s expression did not change. She still smiled and held her cup of tea with an easy gesture, but her voice dripped with anger. “You want to play at shaping the future, at determining the fate of a species? I should take you over my knee for that kind of ignorance. You want to use your former position in Congress, your knowledge of Project Hellhound to justify your actions. If you think that one operation is enough to support such a conclusion, that the party wishes to see GMH individuals held as property indefinitely, you are far more stupid than even my most pessimistic assessments.”

“I have the support of-” Sudarshan began hotly, but she was cut off.

“You have the support I allow you to have,” the older woman said sharply.

“If we want to win the battle in Near Sol space, we need-” again she was overridden.

“Battle, you think this is about a battle?” She set down her cup with a definitive clink. “I am shaping the future of our species, and you want to throw away our best defense, your career, the power of our party in the Senate, the security of our solar system – for one war? Do not be so shortsighted,” she spat. One bluntly manicured nail pressed into the cheap table as she made her point. Blue eyes glittered like ice. “You have seen a fraction of the intelligence, the scouting reports, the research assumptions. Cullers,” she dismissed the species that had come close to destroying the Earth with a hard breath, “what are they but cannon fodder – a prelude to something more? Humanity is on a galactic stage now, one battle, one war, is nothing in contrast. Our plans must be designed to carry us forward, to ensure survival, physically, culturally – morally – beyond species that have not yet even crawled out of the oceans on planets that spin hundreds of light years away.  I am smoothing the way for humanity to endure, to thrive, to expand and seize our future – to command our future, and you whine about one battle?”

The Prime Minister sat back in her chair, lips pursed and breath coming hard through her nose. Sudarshan did not move. Every rumor, every whisper she had heard ran screaming through her brain. They were all a shadow in comparison to the woman before her. There was no denying that the Prime Minister was the power behind her party – and her party was the power behind the Sol Coalition Congress. It ate at Sudarshan to humble herself, to admit to wrongs she still didn’t believe she had committed, but the Prime Minister was capable of decimating her career without even getting out of her chair.

“Ma’am,” she began, but one creased palm made her swallow her words.

“I am not finished.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them slowly. “Gillian has requested a new chair person for the Oversight Committee. Tomorrow, the Chair will tender his resignation from Congress and you will recommend Representative Soledad Venegas as a replacement. When the session closes next week, you will go visit your family home in Renukoot. When session resumes, you will change your views on the GMH issue. You will admit that you have reconsidered and you were wrong. When the Emancipation and Suffrage bill is reintroduced, you will support it.”

“The voting equilibrium will be disturbed, there will be members of the party that will be unhappy,” Sudarshan warned. She chafed at having her vote determined for her, chafed at the prospect of admitting publicly that she had made a mistake – when she truly felt she was acting in the best interests of humanity. “Members of the opposition will try to take advantage of any discord in the upcoming elections.”

The Prime Minister frowned, “At least you recognize that much. Perhaps you are not a complete loss.” The insult was stated with the same tone that would have been used to asses overripe fruit. Blue eyes relaxed, and she sat back, considering Sudarshan with a calculating gleam that made her skin crawl. “Reparations will be made, do not concern yourself. In the meantime, you are going to become a moderate candidate, Avani. I am going to save your career, but do not ever think to assume such grand plans without consulting me first.”

“I can take care of my own career,” she said tightly.

The Prime Minister arched one dark eyebrow.  “It was never yours to take care of.” Quietly, she listed the names and amounts of every contributor to the first campaign that had gotten Sudarshan into a state office position. “Did you really think your supporters saw your social media outpouring and handed over their credits?” Sudarshan could feel the blood draining from her face as the realization sank in that her life had been so carefully manipulated without her knowledge. “You succeeded because there was something in you that could be useful to us, to me. There still is, if you can follow orders. You want the war with the Cullers to end? It will happen, but there are those of us who know better how, and when, and in what way it might benefit the greater good.”

“Ma’am,” the security detail held out a phone, the screen indicating it was on hold, “An urgent call from the Secretary of Defense, ma’am.”

“We’re done,” she dismissed Sudarshan and took the phone with the same hand. With a knot of humility, anger, and fear in her stomach, Sudarshan rose and stepped toward the door. Behind her, the Prime Minister answered in her practised, cool voice, “Helen Maker, here.”

***

Barghest: Chapter 7

I posted the fifty-second chapter of Second Alliance to this site today. That is 569 pages. For three years, including a nine month sabbatical while I switched jobs and dealt with other, uninteresting life issues, I have been working on this piece of fiction. It was a writing exercise that turned into an epic tale that I am incredibly proud of; at the same time I wish I had put this kind of creativity and energy into an original work. Regardless of the effort, this needed to be finished. I needed to finish it, and I am close.

Just prior to today’s post, I finished fleshing out the framework for the rest of Second Alliance. It isn’t fully written, but I can practically taste the Fin and I am excited to share it. I write a few chapters ahead of when I post, so I have an estimated 6-8 chapters remaining left to write. That is about 75 pages, depending on how wordy I get. Which, as you know, is pretty wordy. We are nearly there. Thank you for going on this journey with me.

And now, for the shameless self-promotion:

I write every week, and I haven’t held any chapters hostage for comments or reviews. They are posted as soon as I have written a new chapter and edited the next to go up. However, I want to get to the end and hear your thoughts on it  almost as badly as I don’t ever want this story to be over. So, I am willing to offer us both, reader and writer, an incentive. For every review that is posted to my original book, North Sea Dawn, on Amazon, I’ll post another chapter of Second Alliance – with a maximum of one chapter per day. That could mean ten new pages a day. Don’t worry, I’ll still finish and post approximately every 2 weeks if no one is willing to buy or borrow North Sea Dawn in the Kindle Lending Library and review it. If you do review, send me a link to it with your screen name so I can thank you.  When Second Alliance is done, I would like to put something new out on Amazon. Maybe Barghest, which I am currently posting to my blog (space, genetic engineering, and political intrigue – oh my). Maybe Nordic Diner (ah, NaNoWriMo, sorry I failed you – again). Maybe that steampunk idea that is still churning around in my brain like a pushy salesman (hey, this is a nice watch, this is the watch for you, just try it on). I can’t move on though, until the massive, massive cast of characters in Second Alliance all get their planned ever after and the future of demons is determined.

Let’s do this, together. Give this story the culmination that has been so long in coming. Let’s all gasp and cry and laugh and cheer and shout for the characters that we love – and the ones we love to hate. And then, after a respectful period of reflection (and by that I mean raving about the things that you would have done differently and lamenting that it is over), let’s find a new journey.

I know it is going to be good.

A/N: It has come to my attention that some readers may not realize that the chapters in Barghest are skipping around in the timeline. I have listed the date in which action is taking place at the top of each chapter, along with some historical information about the universe in which Barghest is set. However, I understand that given the delay between postings, it is harder to keep track of a fictitious timeline than it might be if this was being consumed in a single reading. So, for the sake of simplicity, chapters featuring the character Maker are taking place in the present. (That’s the simple past tense for those grammatically inclined.) Other chapters are generally taking place prior to Maker’s personal timeline, but I have written those sequentially. I am aware of five past tense forms in English – if you know of more please share – and I try to use them all in combination with as many hyphens, italics, semi-colons, and commas as I can get away with. See previous sentence for reference. I do love emphasis.

If you are having any issues with following the story line, let me know why or how and I’ll see what I can do to correct the issue. Thank you for reading!

***

Previous Chapter

***

Hour 0830, Day 001, Year 2115

35th Anniversary of the assassination of President Aiden Murphy during his inauguration speech as he declared the commitment of America to a united earth confederation. Vice President Haifa Ahmed Al-Sindi was sworn into office minutes after her running mate was declared dead.

“Five series, Dr. Gillian. Five.” Representative Sudarshan punctuated the number by pressing her palms flat against the table on either side of her tablet. Her manicured nails clicked against the steel. “I have provided everything you have insisted is necessary for the success of Project Hellhound. The Oversight Committee for Defense Research has spent more on funding your facility than on cleanup of the Michigan-Pennslyvania and Showa crash sites combined. And yet, I have here your most recent quarterly report.” Gillian opened her mouth to respond, and Sudarshan glared to let her know she wasn’t finished.

“And yet,” she continued, “as I was on my way to a session hearing, sipping my coffee and listening to my daily calendar, I read this: …twenty-six series is not viable for field deployment…” Sudarshan flicked one finger across the surface of her tablet, “…inability to assume effective leadership…” She looked up, brushing a non-existent stray hair back into her chignon. “I understood you corrected that defect in the twenty-twos. So why is it, then, Doctor, that despite trillions of dollars, years of research, the brilliant minds recruited to this staff, that you still have not produced results?”

Gillian remained silent for a long moment, her jaw clenched in obvious anger. The white scar tissue that covered nearly half of her face remained smooth, while her undamaged skin was showing the inevitable signs of aging. It only reminded Sudarshan of how much time had been lost. If her election went well, in less than a year she would be moving into a Senate office and handing the leadership of the committee and Project Hellhound over to a junior Representative. She needed progress, concrete proof of success. Her entire career had been dedicated to finding a solution to the loss of life against Culler forces – and all of her bets were placed on Hellhound and Gillian.

“If I may, Representative?” Gillian motioned toward the door. Surprised, Sudarshan nodded. She stood only a beat behind the doctor, picking up the tablet, and followed the white-coated woman through a security door – not the one by which she had entered the office and began walking through several corridors. “Series 26 does display some undeniable indicators that they will not perform in the field as the project requires. However,” she cut her eyes to Sudarshan and the representative bit back a tart comment. “However, that does not mean they are incapable of ever being utilized as soldiers.” The two women entered an observation area, not unlike the one Sudarshan remembered vividly from her first visit to the facility. On the opposite side of the glass was not a small sterile room, but rather a large space not unlike a public school gymnasium.

Two rows of pre-teens, mostly boys, faced each other. A bearded man in generic exercise clothes walked between them, calling out commands for a set of exercises. Each child performed perfectly in sync with the others. Each increasingly complicated task was done without hesitation. The leader reached the end of the row, nearest the glass and turned. Sudarshan could not help but make a small noise of surprise when a short-haired brown tail flicked into view – attached to the man’s backside.

“That is 22-B, and this series follows his commands easily – far better than any of our staff. I believe it to be instinctual.”

Sudarshan studied the man more closely, but could not quite believe he was the same individual she remembered from the many reports on him and his series. “The ageing flaw,” she said uncertainly, remembering the primary reason for the discontinuation of the twenty-two series.”

“Correct. From the outset, one of our objectives has always been to reduce maturation time of the subjects – reducing the total cost of ownership and the investment period in each individual. With the 22s we managed to achieve maturation at the chronological age of eleven years, but the cellular degeneration in most subject could not be prevented from continuing at that rate. Bee is one of the few that responded positively to treatments to slow his progression, but still his aging makes him unsuitable for the field.”

“Yes. And while it may be considered efficient of you to have found a use for outdated models, I did not come here for a history lesson, Doctor. If these subjects can take orders, something which you vehemently stated was not possible, then in what way are they unsuited to their purpose?” One of the young men in line muttered something out of the corner of his mouth, startling a laugh out of the boy next to him. Their instructor, tail whipping angrily, was in their faces in an instant. Although no sound was being piped into the observation room, it was still clear that the youths were put into their place as they dropped to the ground and began push-ups with twin grimaces of shame.

“The twenty-two series had cellular degeneration issues. The twenty-threes were too empathetic. The twenty-fours were incapable of the spacial learning required for modern weapons training. The twenty-fives had hormonal imbalances that made them emotionally unstable. We have corrected all of those problems with the twenty-six series, and-”

“But,” Sudarshan interrupted, “You have brought back an old one. I would think you, of all people Gillian, would know the inherent danger of a hybrid killing machine that refuses to recognize authority.” She had intended the comment to give the doctor a reminder in humility – and warn her to stop wasting time. It resulted in an unexpected smile. The rough skin of Gillian’s cheek pulled down on the corner of her mouth, making the toothy grin nearly grotesque.

“Indeed – but that is not what we have here. What we have are killing machines – exactly as you requested. Intelligent. Strong. Agile. Capable of ending life but with an understanding of the value of the same. Physically, mentally, and emotionally mature at approximately fourteen years from extraction. They only need one change in your deployment parameters to make them effective.”

“Are you suggesting,” Sudarshan narrowed her eyes and gestured with a disgusted motion toward the fanged, tail-sporting male on the other side of the glass, “that I recommend to the SC High Command that they send a dog into battle to command their elite forces?”

“Bee is not a dog,” Gillian bit off. Silence fell for another moment while both women tried to rein in their tempers. “And I would not recommend he enter the field, even if he does live long enough for these subjects to be deployed. She turned tightly on a low-heeled shoe and opened another security door. “I am recommending,” she said in a calmer tone, “that the twenty-sixes receive additional training and classification as general support forces while the twenty-seven series matures. Once ready, the twenty-sevens will be capable of commanding their predecessors as well as receiving additional training for special forces missions and highly independent decision-making.” They passed through two security doors, the second guarded by another individual with a tail.

The female, wearing a modified version of fatigues, greeted the doctor with a dipped head and a smile that bared pointed teeth. She sniffed overtly at Sudarshan.

“She is with me, Ae,” Gillian stated calmly. The guard was female, and clearly dedicated to her duty. She took their security cards and carefully compared the photo on Sudarshan’s to her face and the information terminal on the wall before scanning them in and stepping aside. Sudarshan did her best to keep her expression from not reflecting the morbid curiosity that swirled in her mind as a brown tail flicked at the button to open the door. She followed Gillian inside and the door shut behind them, leaving them alone in a five by five room.

“Decontamination will take a moment, breathe normally,” Gillian instructed. Sudarshan had toured research and medical facilities before, so she was prepared for the cool hiss of gas and the glow of UV lighting against her closed lids. After ninety seconds, a chime sounded and another door opened. The room she stepped into was another observation space, but this one was manned with several technicians at computer stations and lab tables. The quiet activity would have been commonplace in almost any biotech facility, if not for the wall of glass that dominated the room. On the other side were four bays of artificial wombs, clustered in groups of twenty-five per bay. The mass of technology that was supporting the lives of one hundred genetically designed beings was phenomenal.

The costs of it all was staggering. Sudarshan had never seen the gestation lab, but she was aware that no hospital on Earth, or anywhere in the Sol Coalition, could boast the level of care that in the Hellhound facility. WIth good reason. Artificial wombs had been declared restricted technology, usable only to save viable pregnancies if the parents did not have any other children. Even if they had not been so carefully controlled, the expense of a single device, even for the few months to mature a regular human infant, was far beyond the means of all but a tiny percentage of the population. Before her were enough machines to grow an army from nothing but artificially constructed DNA, nutrient packs, and energy.

“These are the twenty-sevens. They are the culmination of my work, Representative, and hundreds of other scientists.” The quiet pride in Gillian’s voice was obvious.

“When will they be ready?”

“Extraction is typically around forty-six weeks, since we corrected the aging issue.”

“When will they be ready for deployment,” Sudarshan clarified. She could not take her eyes off of the small bodies, visible as shadows in the pearly liquid of the wombs. So much potential. So much expectation.

“Like the twenty-sixes, they will be mature at fourteen years.” Dislike hardened her next words, “But I strongly recommend that they spend at least an additional year in field training exercises.”
“Noted,” Sudarshan turned to face the doctor. Tearing her eyes away from the tiny soldiers growing at her direction. Tearing her mind away from the possibilities of the future. “Our losses pushing the Cullers out of Near Sol space are unsustainable. We need those soldiers, doctor.” She handed back the tablet loaded with reports and data on the project and turned to leave. “And for gods’ sake,” she tossed over her shoulder as she pressed her palm against the security lock, “stop naming them after the alphabet. It makes the field reports damn confusing.”

***

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

***

Hour 0900, Day 073, Year 2148

Ninety-second anniversary of the Rajasthan Reactor Catastrophe. Death toll estimated at 600,000.

Maker clenched her jaw and tried to ignore the hot ache in her shoulder joint. The surgeon in charge of the bone reconstruction had protested her discharge, claiming the artificial ligaments needed more time to fully attach to the new clavicle. Unfortunately, an official inquiry into her actions on the last mission superseded medical authority. The doctor had practically snarled when he tossed a sling at her, growling about barbarian recovery procedures. She had left the sling in her bag in the corridor before she was escorted into the hearing. Standing before a panel of officers, at least one of whom she knew had a personal dislike of her, was not a time to look pathetic. Lieutenant Commander Soon had made it clear during their time stationed aboard the Pershing that he felt it was his responsibility to make her life a living hell. Maker still wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t about to expose any weaknesses. Any more weakness, she snorted to herself.

Most of the bruising on her face had faded, but there was no doubt that she had been injured. The brace that kept her two new vertebrate properly aligned made her uniform coat bunch and strain. Unlike the sling, she couldn’t just remove it. Vertebrae were much more sensitive to misalignment than shoulder joints. Just thinking about it made her shoulder throb.

“This inquiry is called to order,” the Commander chairing the meeting stated. She dropped the gavel with enough force to echo in the mostly empty room. Lieutenant Commander Soon sat straight, nearly leaning forward in his chair in anticipation. To the Commander’s left sat an older officer who took no pains to hide his bored expression from the intimidating woman speaking. “Sargent Clara Maker, Service Number SC2144-E56-00861, you have been notified of Questions of Concern regarding the performance of your duties and the accuracy of your field report during the mission noted as,” she paused and consulted the tablet in front of her, “2148-RD-237.” Maker was vaguely surprised that there had been 237 Recon and Detain missions authorized so early in the year. Must be a real scramble for the paper pushers, she thought sourly. “Do you understand the Questions as they have been posed?”

Maker didn’t shift her gaze from the Commander, although she could feel the attention of the other two panel members on her. The Questions of Concern had been listed in the summons she received while she was in the hospital. Although a lot of statute and protocol was mixed into the language, the message was basic: they thought she fucked up. It wasn’t an unsurprising conclusion. Her sergeant’s stripes weren’t even broken in, and a simple bag-and-drag had resulted in the death of nearly half of her team, including the commanding officer. The killing of two Cullers and capture of another only added a layer of strange to the fucked-up. The blatant flaunting of the order to remain covert was a frosting of insubordination. A bitter sprinkling of incompetence from the damage inflicted on the mining station was the final touch on her shit sandwich.

Incompetence on insubordination on strange on fucked-up, she summarized internally. Yeah, I understand the questions.

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” she said aloud.

“Very good,” the Commander said, scrolling through her files. She flicked the one she wanted onto the wall display. “Let’s begin with a review of the field footage.” The lighting dimmed.

Maker tried not to fidget or relax her posture as they forwarded through hours of pre-incident footage from the multiple angles offered by each soldier’s personal recording device. The playback was paused only a few times to highlight the lieutenant as he gave orders to switch shifts or stay focused. Her back ached and her shoulder burned; her arm felt like a lead weight pulling down on the socket. She was unsuccessful at controlling her blush when they slowed the images down in time to catch her exchange with Rodriguez. The older panelist chuckled. The Commander remained impassive. Lt. Commander Soon sent her a glare.  After that, the film became uncomfortable to watch. She flinched when her own video feed was enlarged to show her clumsy attempt to back away from the Nick she had thrown alcohol on. The muscles in her back twitched in remembered and real pain as she watched her fall from the pipe to hit the floor. The tech displays were overlaid on the recording of her vision, and Maker stood still while she watched her team’s lights go dark all over again.

Kerry’s transmission seemed louder and more frantic as it played in the meeting room than it had on the mining station:

“Transport down! Cullers! Two in the bay, one in the weeds! Request immediate assistance! Respond!”

“Retreat! Cargo is expendable, if necessary! Go, Go, Go!”

Her video shook as she had run down the alley, and then the Culler was on her. Maker broke out in a sweat, just watching the attack. Then the video feed went dead. Sound had continued to record, and the room sat in silence, listening to her heavy breathing, her grunts and screams of pain, the grating words of the Culler. Video flicked in and out a few times. Once it showed the blood-soaked face veil as she ripped it off and vomited on the ground. Her arms had been shiny-wet with blood welling out of her body armor and making her gloves slick. The second time lasted longer, and captured Bretavic on the edge of the hole in the floor, his gesture to the corridor, and the first charge of the Cullers. Her shot had gone wide, ripping through the wall of a shop.

Then there was the noise and confusion of the fight, the explosion. Maker watched while a cold sweat made her skin clammy. The increasing desperation in her recorded voice as she tried to raise someone on the comms made her nauseous:

“This is Command, respond.”

“Command calling, over.”

“Command here, call back.”

“This is Command, please respond.”

Then there were her threats to the miners, and her discussion with Kerry and Rodriguez on the transport. The feed ended, and the lights slowly brightened.

“Sargent Maker, is the evidence shown here, incomplete as it is, accurate?”

“Ma’am,” Maker had to pause to gather enough spit in her mouth to speak. A trickle of sweat slid under the collar of her uniform. Her stomach was twisting again, with fear or guilt she wasn’t sure. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you expect us to believe that you took out three Cullers on your own, Sargent?” Soon leaned forward in his chair, his forearms braced on the table. “What really happened while your video was out?”

“Sir, I could never have terminated those targets on my own, sir.” Maker swallowed again. In another time and place she would have savored the smug look on Soon’s face, knowing she had the power to wipe it away. Reliving the disaster of her first command obliterated the petty impulse. “The first target, Species Cancri 8 -”

“Nicks, I believe you called them.” The older officer who had laughed at her exchange with Rodriguez smiled.

Maker nodded stiffly, and continued, “That was dumb luck. As you could see, my aim was off and I nearly broke a leg trying to get to higher ground. The second one was as much Rodriguez’s success as mine. Likely more.”

The Commander glanced down at her tablet. “That would be Private First Class, Rodriguez?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Maker agreed. “The Culler in the alley-”

“The one who killed your commanding officer,” Soon interrupted. Maker nodded jerkily. “But you had no trouble with it.” His contempt was obvious.

“No, sir. Bretavic’s team had already wounded it, and it still dislocated my shoulder, snagged an artery, and destroyed my tech.”

“Thing probably died more from the ceiling crashing down than the girl’s shot,” murmured the old man in amusement.

Maker didn’t wait for Soon to interject again, she was desperate to get the inquiry over with. Her body hurt, and she didn’t want to think about what had happened on the station for a moment longer than she had to. She spoke quickly, “The other kill and the capture were similar. They were already injured, and I took wounds, from the enemy and my own actions, and destroyed a significant amount of personal and corporate property, in order to survive. The mission objectives, as stated by my commanding officer prior to his death, were achieved. The subsequent loss of life and breaches in protocol are solely my responsibility. I am prepared for whatever decision this body hands down.”

The room was quiet for a moment, then the Commander spoke reproachfully, “This is an inquiry, not a court marshal, Sergeant. No executions will be held today.”

“I have heard enough,” the oldest member stated, rolling his shoulders. “This evidence and testimony, combined with what we reviewed earlier, confirm for me that Sergeant Maker acted to the best of her ability within the confines of her orders and the situation.” The official statement was spoken with a practiced tongue, and the officer casually slapped his palm onto his tablet to sign his decision.

“I object,” Soon said flatly. His eyes sparkled with malice. “I am not satisfied, nor do I feel that Sergeant Maker has conducted herself in a manner befitting a member of these forces, much less an officer. I recommend that this case be forwarded onto the Justice unit for an expedited court marshal.” He, too, pressed his palm down, but with a barely suppressed smile. The bottom fell out of Maker’s stomach. She had wanted it to be over, but she hadn’t honestly expected that result. Her eyes turned to the Commander.

“The circumstances presented here are unusual in the extreme, as are the actions taken by Sergeant Maker,” she said slowly. Soon’s white teeth flashed in a savage smile. His satisfaction was premature, “The veracity of her statements is not in dispute, and has been confirmed by other accounts. However, given the preparation and intelligence provided for the mission, and the challenges posed, as well as Maker’s own inexperience, I believe that she displayed quick-thinking, courage, and grace under pressure. These are the basis for a fine soldier, and a fine officer.”

“Provided she doesn’t blow herself up first,” muttered the third member.

“Indeed.” Maker might have imagined it, but she swore she saw a crinkling at the corners of the Commander’s eyes. “This body has a majority. All Questions of Concern have been addressed, and no further action is indicated.” The Commander sealed her palm print to her tablet and then banged the gavel again. “The meeting is concluded. Sergeant Maker, you are dismissed.”  Soon stormed out of the room; the Commander followed more sedately. Maker simply stood, blinking, for a few moments wondering what exactly had happened. She slowly pulled her injured arm to her chest, cradling her fist against the opposite shoulder.

A voice at her side startled her, “That was quite a thriller you treated us to,” said the older officer. Maker was surprised to note the bars on his cuffs. His badge read, Sullivan.

“Captain, sir,” she said weakly.

He chuckled, “In my day we would have pinned a medal on you for killing those Culler bastards. Still, try not to end up here again, eh?” She turned to follow him out, and they parted at the doorway. He threw a wink and a parting comment over his shoulder, “And tell your mother, next time you see her, not to worry about the favor. I don’t like serving on these things, but reading this mission report was the highlight of my week.” Her mouth fell open, she was sure, and she stared at his back as he walked away.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, trying to process that she wasn’t going to be disciplined – and why. It was Bretavic that finally caught her attention as he limped around the corner, a cane gripped uselessly in his hand and a brace on his leg. “Hey,” he called out, drawing the attention of several administrative staff in the hallway. He ignored them. “Shouldn’t you be in the infirmary?”

“I could say the same for you,” she answered automatically. Then she shook her head to clear it. “Inquiry,” she said shortly. Her shock at Captain Sullivan’s comment was wearing off, to be replaced with anger.

“I take it everything went okay?” At her nod, he continued, “I tried to tell them, but that Soon was a real jackass.” She began a slow walk back toward the lift, her ire continuing to build. Favors, it always come down to favors, she thought. She needed a painkiller, and a soft bunk, and some method of reaching through subspace and misguided, unwanted maternal protection to slap someone. Her shoulder throbbed. “Rodriguez asked me to wait around for you after he got done with them, but I had to report for a physical.”

“Everybody okay?” Concern for her team pushed aside the irritation for a moment.

 He listed out the other soldiers, two of whom were still in the infirmary listed as critical. ““Kerry and Rodriguez are clean. They had duty this shift. So…” His voice trailed off, and Maker shot him a glance. The big man looked uncomfortable. He was substantially cleaner and healthier than the last time she had seen him. She hadn’t known him well before the mission so she couldn’t determine if uncomfortable was usual for him. His jaw was showing a five o’clock shadow, strange since it was barely 1200 hours, and his uniform had a few creases. Not enough to take a penalty from an officer, but enough to be noticeable. She might have stripes on her sleeve, but Bretavic had seniority over her. Between that and flying her out of the FUBAR mission on the station, she wasn’t inclined to mention anything about regulation dress.

He shifted a few times and an awkward silence grew between them. “What?” she finally asked. She pushed the button for the lift and stepped in when it almost immediately opened. They were alone in the car, and Bretavic let out a pent-up sigh as the doors closed.

“I have a card game on Thursdays.” He said it with an air of challenge, as if Maker cared that he engaged in gambling. It was prohibited, but not enforced, and it wasn’t like she was going to get into trouble. “Stop by, if you want.”

Oh. Maker blinked. Despite coming completely out of the blue, she recognized an offer of friendship when she saw it. Maybe I will get into trouble. She reflected on the meeting she had just be subjected to. Screw it. “Yeah, thanks. Where at?”

“Maintenance Bay Six. Security code 1234.” He grinned, showing off straight, even white teeth that almost made him handsome. He was at least a decade older than her, but still a private. Maker could guess what had held back promotions. As if it was just one thing. “It’s ironic.”

“I get it,” she responded dryly. A tone sounded and the doors opened.

She heard him call after her quietly as she walked away, “And find a fucking sling, Sarge.”

Her surgeon was fairly upset to find out she had let the weight of her arm hang from his “perfectly good capsular ligament”, resulting in dislocation. He had a nurse hold her while he reinserted it – sans anesthetic. When she woke up, she found that she had been restricted to bed rest in the infirmary for a further two days. It wouldn’t have particularly hurt her feelings, if she hadn’t been itching to make a call.  Rodriguez visited once, although he spent most of his hour flirting with a resident. Kerry came as well, and, in the true vein of the friendship they had forged years before during basic training, he mostly sat quietly and listened while she talked. Although he surprised her by sending a few new novels to her net account as well. It gave her something to do besides practice the lecture she was waiting to give.

Within twenty minutes of being released, she was back in her own quarters. She shared with another non-commissioned officer, but her bunk mate was luckily on duty. Maker flipped on her display and opened her net account. She had to look up the code, but the call was picked up right away.

“Perry, here, state your business.” The voice was clipped and professional. Maker expected nothing less from a member of that crew.

“Sergeant Clara Maker, Service Number SC2144-E56-00861,” she responded. She didn’t bother sitting up straight, although she knew the communications officer on the other end could see her. As was protocol for an active-duty ship, the camera on that end remained dark until permission was granted by a senior officer. “Requesting to speak with Captain Yamamoto, immediately.”

“Sergeant,” the officer’s voice dropped about ten degrees. “That is not in your pay grade. Submit a formal request.”

“Is Commander…” she wracked her brain for the man’s name. It had been years since they met. “Alarcon available?”  There was a long pause, and Maker vacillated between anger and hope. Anger for the Captain. Hope that the Commander remembered her.

“Go.” The single command came from a new voice, just as concise as she recalled.

“Commander Alarcon, this is Sergeant Clara Maker. I need to speak with Captain Yamamoto as soon as possible, sir.”

“Sergeant,” he hesitated, and then the display activated. A middle-aged man, his skin dark and silky looking, stood with the communications officer behind him. “The Captain is off duty. Can this wait?” His face was calm, but not unkind.

“No,” she said, just as evenly, “it cannot.” The display went dark again and a protest by the communications officer was abruptly silenced. There was a minute of nothing while the indicator lights at the bottom of the screen blinked to show the communication was being held in the system.Then they flashed green.

“Yamamoto, here.” Her voice was a little rough, she had obviously just woken up.

“Lin,” Maker said flatly. The camera on the Perry immediately switched on. Yamamoto looked the same as when Maker had last seen her, almost two years prior. Her skin was a flawless almond. Her hair, despite the mess of sheets and dented pillow on the bed where she sat, lay in a smooth black curtain just past her jawline. The blue pajama set was not standard issue sleepwear, but they displayed to advantage a body that had been well-taken care of for the last four and a half decades.

“Clara,” she didn’t raise her volume, but her eyes widened in surprise. “Is something wrong? I thought you would be in the infirmary for another few days, at least.”

Maker tried to keep her anger behind a cold voice, “Why would you think that? In fact,” she could feel her blood pounding in her ears and had to grip the edge of her desk to keep from pointing an accusing finger at the screen, “How did you know anything about my injury?”

“That,” Yamamoto frowned and waved a hand as if it wasn’t worth mentioning. “I would never know anything about you if I waited for you or your father to inform me. The Chief Medical Officer on the Pershing is an old friend. He notified me as soon as you were admitted.” Maker ground her teeth together with fury, but her mother continued as though she couldn’t clearly understand the expression on her daughter’s face. “Your surgical report showed several coral grafts and some artificial bone. Are you rejecting them?”

“Why ask?” Maker spit out, furious. “Why not just ring my doctor and ask him?”

“Clara, that would put him in an awkward position, don’t you think?” Her gentle chiding sent Maker’s blood boiling. “Now, if you would simply add me to your information release form, we wouldn’t need to go through this. I barely had enough time to call up your grandfather’s old classmate to help smooth out the inquiry.”

“Captain Sullivan-” she began, but was cut off.

“Yes. I hoped you were sufficiently respectful during the inquiry. You will never get a decent posting once you are commissioned if you don’t-”

“I will say this once more.” Maker leaned in close to the screen, focusing on her mother’s face. She kept her voice low, knowing that the walls in her quarters were not thick enough to keep her neighbors from overhearing if she shouted. “I have no intention of being commissioned. I will not re-sign once my obligatory two years’ service is up. I do not want your help. I do not want to use the Yamamoto name or connections. I. Do. Not. Want to speak with you. Stay out of my life, Lin.”

She ended the transmission and logged out of her account, locking the station. As soon as she had her breathing under control, she grabbed her dopp kit, towel, and a change of clothes and went to wash.

It was a short walk to the showers in her section, and they were nearly deserted. When she finished, Maker wiped the steam from the mirror. Her wet hair looked nearly black, the unruly waves slicked down against the back of her neck. The white of her skin looked deathly against the bruises under her eyes. Freckles, cultivated during a childhood spent under the Earth’s atmosphere, had faded to nearly nothing; they took on a green cast under the harsh lighting. Her new scars were minimal, courtesy of laser stitching and low-impact techniques. Only slightly shiny patches on her pale skin denoted where a talon had pierced her calf and the bullet trail across the top of her thigh. A silvery line, barely wider than thread, traced down her arm to end in a faint starburst where her damaged tech had burned her. With the mirror, she could see the still healing pink tissue on each shoulder; her left was surrounded by fading bruises from the recent dislocation.

It didn’t seem like enough. Four soldiers were dead but she had to search for a visible sign of her injuries..

It was too much. She hadn’t wanted to be a soldier, would never have joined if it weren’t compulsory. Nineteen years old. Four months left to serve and she wanted nothing so badly as to just go home.

She could feel hot tears pricking at the backs of her eyes, which made her angry. She shouldn’t be crying. She wasn’t hurt anymore; she didn’t have the ashes of a loved one on their way home in a jar. She didn’t have any reason to cry. Still. Maker yanked on standard issue loose grey shorts and tank – the contrast to Yamamoto’s attire was satisfying. On the way back to her quarters she kept up a pace that was uncomfortable for her healing body and fell into her bunk before any moisture leaked out onto her face.

***

Next Chapter

 

Previous Chapter

***

Hour 1630, Day 87, Year 2109

Forty-seventh anniversary of announcement of the first successful Genetically Modified Human (GMH). Revelation that human DNA had been augmented with that of a cuttlefish spurred public outcry, protests, riots, and unprecedented funding.

Bee lifted his head slowly above the vegetation where he had been hiding. He could smell the animal ahead of him, and his mouth watered, but he swallowed it down and waited. The white coats called the game Group-Dynamics-Planning-Exercise-One, but Bee and the others called it what it was: surround-wait-pack-pounce. There were lots of things that had two names. There was the name the white coats spoke, and the name Bee and his pack spoke.  He was Bee, or sometimes 22-B when they were talking about him instead of to him, but his real name was long-crouch. His favorite game was sniff-listen-follow-find, but the white coats called it Sensory-Perception-Assessment-and-Expansion-Exercise-Three. The white coats had funny, long names for most things – even themselves. Some of them were Doctor-word-word, others were Mister-word, and there were at least ten more that Bee heard every day.  Sometimes the white coats spoke too short. Today the first meal was called Protein-Supplement-MRE-Six, but the pack knew it was hot-meat-ran-fast-ate-green-good-death and oily-smooth-salty-swimmers. The white coats were smart, and they knew where the food was and how to open the doors, but they weren’t very good at naming things.

Second meal had been smaller than normal, so Bee and the others had known there would be a food game. Gee had complained and pouted, but Bee and the others were excited. Food games were fun, and the food was tastier and more…more… Bee struggled with a description. Game food was bright and big in his mouth and sometimes crunched or squirted when he bit down. It was wet and hot sometimes, and it made his nose feel full and tingling with scent. It was just more.

It had been nearly time for third meal, and his stomach felt empty, when the white coats came. Soft-rough-mother was with them, and that made the whole pack even more excited. The white coats called her Doctor-Gillian or Wendy or sometimes Boss, but when she watched a game, at least one of the pack was always picked to do something special afterward.  It was hard to always tell how to get picked. Sometimes she wanted the fastest, sometimes the most patient, sometimes she picked the one that made all the rest of the pack listen.

Bee thought he had it figured out, though. The white-coat that was sweet-flower-bitter-herbs always sat by the window after second meal to watch them. She used a stick and wrote on her light pad and if Bee came to the window, she would watch him. He knew she was writing about him, because sometimes she drew pictures too. He recognized himself from the mirrors in the enclosure. She made his fur dark and his mane streaky. And she wrote his name next to those drawings: 22-B. That was him. He had watched sweet-flower-bitter-herbs long enough that he knew some other words too. Like Positive. Pat. Training. Good. Obedient. Alpha.

That was what soft-rough-mother wanted, he was sure. The white-coats said that word ‘alpha’ a lot, and although none of the rest of the pack seemed to recognize it, Bee knew what it really meant. First-kill-hot-blood-protector-front-walk-listen. Sometimes Ae was that. Once or twice it had been Jay, but usually they worked together, mostly, and if there was a problem with their plan, each of them tried to win on their own. But soft-rough-mother wanted one of them to be in charge. She wanted one of the pack to make the others listen, even if something went wrong with a plan. Soft-rough-mother was going to give special treats and attention to the one who could make the others listen. The way the white-coats listed to soft-rough-mother.

Bee wanted special treats. He wanted attention from soft-rough-mother. He wanted her to put her hand on his head and use her good-boy-good-girl voice and tell him he did well. He wanted to be allowed to sit on the ground next to sweet-flowers-bitter-herbs and watch her draw him, to lean against her warm leg. Bee wanted to be the alpha.

He tried to explain it to the others after second meal, but only Ae had understood at all. The words were hard – hard to make sounds that meant what he was thinking. When third meal was late, he had finally given up trying to convince them.

Follow, he had growled. Listen. My plan. My kill. Pack bite hot meat hot meat hot meat. Obey. Hot meat hot meat hot meat.

Then soft-rough-mother had come in and the game began. “Group Dynamics Planning Exercise Number One, attempt 34, series 22 primary group.” She held up her clicker and pinched it three times, click-a-click-a-click-a, and that meant listen. “Covert. Team. Hunt. Ready.” She held her hand flat in the air, and brought it down as she said, “Go.”

Bee and the rest of the pack were good at that part. Before her hand could reach her side they had scattered into the plants that were thick around the walls of the enclosure. Bee was as quiet as he could be, climbing up a rock and laying on his belly in the deep shadow of a tree. He watched the clearing below and the game box that was lowered to the center. He could smell his pack, waiting, watching. He could smell the white-coats – more than usual, and not just soft-rough-mother in the enclosure with them, but also the trace of sweet-flowers-bitter-herbs that filtered through the vent under the glass and others too. One in the enclosure and many in the corridor and behind the glass.

Bee flicked his ears, and his hairs told him that the air was changing direction. The scent of the game animal blew toward him, and then the game box opened. He tensed, alert, and his surprise was only overcome by the spike of ready-smell that Jay and Ee were giving off. Bee screwed up his throat and moaned as low as he could. They had all been practicing making the sound. The white coats couldn’t hear it, but they could feel it or see it move in Bee’s chest if they were close enough.

The ready-smell died off, and Bee knew they were waiting for another signal. That was good. They listened. Listening meant alpha. He turned his full attention back to the game food. It wasn’t hairy, but had ridges on its back that looked hard to chew. It moved, slowly, and that surprised Bee. Game food had never moved before. It also excited him. He wanted to chase. To pounce. Bee dug his claws into the rock to help himself stay put and moaned again. If he wanted to chase, the others would too. They couldn’t, not yet. He had to wait first to see what the game was.

The game animal crawled off of the metal box that held the prize. It moved cautiously, curled up and taking tiny steps that made its ridges stick out. Bee waited, the hot smell of blood and the sound of it pumping through the game food making his mouth water even more. It seemed like forever, longer than forever, longer than the pack had ever waited for game animals. Then the animal relaxed. It picked up a broken leaf from the ground and rolled over onto its back to hold the green thing while it ate. The game animal had a soft, soft belly.

Bee dug in his blunt toe claws and leaped, without making a sound. He landed a little further from where he had wanted to be, but he still got one hand buried into the game animal’s belly. It made a shrieking sound and thrashed, but the rest of the pack was there. Jay stepped on its tail, even though it had little spike that made his foot bleed. Aa dug her claws under its chin, and Dee rammed his face under one flailing leg to bite at the joint. Bee roared. It sounded loud to him, and all the pack but Aa and Jay backed away and circled the game animal. Bee looked to Aa, just to make certain she knew he was first-kill-hot-blood-protector-front-walk-listen and then he snapped his mouth around the underarm where he could hear and smell the blood pumping hard. It sprayed on his face, and the game animal stopped moving.

There was a click, and the prize box opened. The pack smelled excited, ready. A few even let out whimpers and whines. But they waited. They were listening. Bee stepped away from the game animal and walked carefully to the box. Spit was starting to leak out of the side of his mouth, but he ignored the feeling in his stomach that said he should take all the food. He reached in one hand and pulled out the largest piece of food. He took one bite, one big bite of hot-meat-ran-fast-ate-green-good-death and then he used his claws to cut it into two halves. He gave one to Aa, and one to Jay.

Aa waited, although her lips were shiny with spit too. Jay bit into his, then stopped when Bee growled. Jay sat down and waited too. Bee was still hungry. His stomach felt even emptier, but he was sure that he knew what soft-rough-mother wanted. He couldn’t help but sneak a glance at her. Her face was flat, but she smelled happy. Bee felt a rush of happiness too. He would be alpha. He would be good-boy-good-girl head-pat-pat. Bee stepped away from the prize box and called to the others.

My plan. My kill. Good pack. Eat. Eat. Eat.

And they did. The pack yipped excitedly and bunched around the prize box. Since Bee hadn’t taken a full share, there was a little more for everyone. Bee knew that was important. He promised the pack if they listened, they would get more. That made trust. The white coats liked trust. The pack liked trust too.  Bee made sure everyone ate equally, although he had to snap at Ach to keep him from sneaking a second piece. Then he walked over to soft-rough-mother. He sat down at her feet and waited. When she didn’t immediately praise him, he began to worry that her happy smell wasn’t for him. Then she slipped her clicker into her pocket. She bent a little at the waist, she was tall for a white coat, and smoothed her palm down his head to rest her fingers against the back of his ear.

“Good boy, 22-B. Good job.”

Bee closed his eyes and leaned into her warmth.

ooo

“It isn’t conclusive, not at this age.”

Dr. Wendy Gillian acknowledged her fellow researcher with a nod, but continued to watch through the one-way mirror. After the resounding success of the Group Dynamics exercise, she had let 22-B choose his own reward. That too, was a test of sorts. She knew he had to be hungry, but when presented with a choice between a double-portion of protein, fatty acid, and simple sugars or a single portion of protein and physical contact with her assistant, he had chosen Lupe.

It made sense. All of the primary group had an extra twist to their genetic structure, a marker that made them want to please. But B had always shown an extra willingness, desire even, to seek praise. Gillian was surprised, however, that he had been the one to finally leap into a dominate role. There were others that occasional showed capacity for it; J in particular was more aggressive than the rest of the pack. Aggression, as exhibited by many species on Earth and Keres 6b-3, was not always an indicator of leadership skills.

Dr. Bantan was going on about personality fix milestones and cognition development. Gillian ignored most of it. She had heard it all before, even published some of it herself. It was an old argument. She interrupted him instead, “Have you noticed he watches her stylus?” Gillian toggled the camera zoom in on B’s eyes. He was following Lupe’s progress with her drawing and accompanying notes carefully. The male was sitting on the ground at her feet, leaning into the side of her thigh to peer over her arm. His food had been finished long ago, but Gillian was content to let the special treat last at least until Lupe was finished with her current assignment.

“Hm.” Bantan moved to stand next to her, and then pulled up the feed on his tablet. He replayed it several times, drawing a few lines over the image to highlight B’s gaze. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said quietly.

“What?” Gillian pulled her eyes away from the subject and research on the other side of the mirror and glanced down.

“I think he is reading.” Bantan shook his head. Gillian was just as disbelieving. The 22 series had been genetically dialed back, as the specialist termed it. They were less human and more animal than many previous series. The return to something closer to the original subject species was an attempt to better understand where the sequencing and accompanying training had gone wrong. From a strictly genetic standpoint, they were animals with some human DNA. Not the other way around. Reading, and other high-level intelligence tasks, had been hypothesized to be years down the road in their development – if not completely impossible.

“Send Lupe a text,” she decided suddenly. Bantan typed while Gillian dictated. They could both see the moment the message went through. B stiffened and his eyes snapped to the tablet in Lupe’s lap. She tapped on the screen to pull it up, and the watched B’s eyes scan over the text.

Count to five, then read aloud:  22-B is a good boy.

Lupe frowned, but they could see B nearly vibrating with excitement before Lupe spoke. All of the subjects had been conditioned to the phrase ‘good boy/girl’ and the praise of a head pat. Gillian’s heart picked up pace, but she tried to keep her excitement in check. She dictated another message, and B leaned so far over the tablet when the chime sounded that Lupe couldn’t see the screen.

Pat 22-B.

The subject turned and faced Lupe so fast he almost knocked the stylus out of her hand. It took her a moment to realize that he was waiting, head lowered and hovering under her free hand.

“Son of a bitch,” Bantan whispered.
Gillian stared at him with wide eyes. This was it, she was sure. Nearly two decades of her life, full use of her left arm, and half of her face had been given to the project. The tall, furry six year-old on the other side of the glass was the breakthrough she had been hoping for – had though was years and another two or three attempts at sequencing away. Her theories could be proven. Here. Now. Nurture conquers nature. Gillian had to breath deeply to keep the sheer exhilaration, the joy, from exploding. “Design the test – I want to start tomorrow. For all of them, this group and secondary. Keep the team small – Eyes Only. We need to get this figured out before Congress decides to send the twenty-twos to war.”

***

Next Chapter

Another year, and November rolls around again. Lo, and behold, I still haven’t finished last year’s novel project. I do, however, still have a few devoted readers who ask for updates. In thanks, I brought this one out and polished it up. At my current rate of publishing four posts per year, this story might be finished before I am old enough to retire. On the bright side, I’ll have plenty of time then to write the sequel.

 

Chapter 4

 

When Elsa woke, it was early afternoon and her alarm clock was buzzing in increasingly loud bursts that kept an off tempo to the headache simmering at the back of her skull. She stood on wobbly legs and grimaced as a thousand little aches and pains – only some from sleeping on the floor – made themselves known. She sank onto the edge of her full-sized bed and shut off the alarm, debating briefly the merit of calling in sick before giving in to the inevitable. “Somebody’s got to pay the bills,” she said to herself. She gently peeled the towels from her forearms, sticky clumps of scabs came away with the cloth. Kurt had obviously cleaned her arms before he wrapped them, but now new blood and thin yellow pus oozed sluggishly from the wounds. She undressed carefully and brushed her teeth while the shower warmed up.

Glancing into the mirror, she let out a gasp. Her reflection stared back at her. Limp black hair had escaped her thick braid and hung around her face, emphasizing her wan complexion. Dark circles, a blue that nearly matched her eyes, radiated out almost to her cheeks. Her lips were chapped and cracked, and tear tracks streaked her face. She leaned closer, the salty residue was tinged with blood. “Holy hell,” she breathed, staring until steam fogged up the glass. It was enough to make her wish she had more than a cracked, nearly empty powder compact and clumpy mascara in her medicine cabinet. However, she doubted that any amount of makeup would be enough to make her look like she hadn’t been hit by a truck.

After a short shower, she carefully taped cotton balls coated with antibiotic ointment to her arms and covered them with layers of ace bandages. She made a mental note to use the first aid kit at work and dressed in loose khaki pants, a white polo and tennis shoes. She gave up trying to braid her hair, her arms had started to burn, and left it hanging halfway down her back. She picked up her backpack and locked up before walking down three flights of stairs and out to the bus stop. Elsa nearly fell asleep on the bench, barely keeping her head from falling onto the shoulder of the woman next to her.

By the time she got to the library where she worked from three to ten, the throb in her head had grown into a three piece band, with a lot of percussion. She clocked in and re-shelved books for nearly two hours without thinking about the diner or the toothpaste twins. Reaching up to put The Wonders of Yellowstone next to The National Parks: America’s Best Idea she overheard another clerk talking a few rows over.

“A brunette helped you last time? Well, you probably mean Elsa, she knows everything about everything in the library,” the clerk said, and Elsa froze – the heavy book poised above her head. “But if we can’t find her, I’m sure I can help you.” There was a low rumble, a man’s voice talking too quietly for her to make out, and then the clerk laughed. “Oh, I’m so not a bookworm, you’re right! My mom said if I wanted to join the sorority, I had to pay for it myself.” The rumble sounded again, closer this time. They were moving her way. Elsa took a quiet, deep breath. She knew she was overreacting; she helped people at the library all the time. She even had a few regulars, retired people and struggling students, who asked for her. This was probably nothing; Kurt had scared her into seeing the boogeyman around every corner.

“You know, I get off at seven, if you’d like to talk more.” Elsa let out a little sigh she hadn’t known she was holding. Lana the Greek had a discriminating eye, she wouldn’t hit on some whack job with fork marks on his neck. She tuned them out and tried to concentrate on the Dewey decimal system. Yellowstone went back on the shelf, but the strain of holding the heavy book for so long must have broken open a scab, because blood was seeping through the bandages. A girlish laugh erupted in the next row, startling her. “Good-looking and funny! You probably have girls lined up – I love a guy with a great smile, it’s something…”

Pulse pounding in her ears, Elsa stepped slowly off the ladder. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t listen to what they were saying over the sound of her own blood. She crouched behind her book cart, watching between the shelves as two people moved down the row. It’s nothing, you’re overreacting, she told herself; but panic was rising in her chest again. The pain in her head and arms faded to the background, the irrational urge to run, run as fast and as far as she could taking hold of her. They were almost two thirds of the way down now, and would be turning up her aisle in minutes. Elsa had to physically hold onto the cart to keep herself from sprinting away. Her knuckles turned white and her breathing sped up to keep pace with the fear that was flooding her.

“Elsa!” She nearly fell over, she spun around so quickly. One shoe caught her other leg and she landed on all fours, hair streaming around her face. Scott was standing next to the ladder, a concerned look on his face. They had been friends for years, since he had first come into the branch library needed help with a term paper. “Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to startle you.” He bent over to help her to her feet and sucked in his breath when he saw her bandages. “Oh,” he put his left hand in hers and slid his right under her elbow. “You weren’t at the study carousels today when I came in. I thought you had forgotten you were going to help me over your break with that German exam I have coming up.” He turned her towards him, away from Lana and her friend. “It’s a good thing I came to find you. You’re practically dead on your feet.” He frowned, his eyes running over her tired face and loose hair.

“It’s not a big deal,” she struggled to sound nonchalant, but it came out as a whisper. She could feel her muscles shaking with the effort not to turn and look behind her. Lana and whomever was looking for Elsa had to have been two-thirds of the way down the aisle by now. In another minute they would reach the end and turn up her row.

“You look like shit,” he pointed out bluntly. “And you’re bleeding!” He walked her to the toward the elevator that led up out of the stacks to the main floor. “You need to take off early. I can drive you home, and we can stop by urgent care on the way.” The elevator doors shut behind them, and Elsa sighed in relief as she leaned against the wall.

“Thanks for the concern, Scott, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Besides, we’re short a clerk already, and someone else called in sick.” Away from the stranger, Elsa felt a little foolish. It might not have been the guy from the diner. Of course it wasn’t, she told herself. That guy was dead in an alley somewhere or drugged up in a hospital – people who were thrown through plate glass windows did not stroll around libraries less than 24 hours later. Not without drawing a lot of attention. Her panic subsided, and it was replaced with exhaustion. The pain in her head and arms returned with a vengeance.

“Take the rest of the day off, you’re gonna scare away the story hour kids.” His face softened and he put one hand on her shoulder. “I know you need the money Elsa, but if you exhaust yourself you’ll be out for more than just half a shift.” Elsa pushed aside surprise and twinge of shame at knowing Scott was aware of her financial situation and instead reflected on the whispers of fear still coursing through her, and the pain knocking on her brain.

“Maybe you’re right,” she conceded. “But I’ll take the bus home, no need for you to drive me.” Scott hrumphed, and tried to convince her, but eventually conceded. He helped her gather her backpack and clock out, and managed to get her shuffled to the bus stop in just over five minutes. She listened in silence, trying to quash her remaining fear, to his admonitions to take better care of herself, and demands that she call in sick to the diner, while they waited. She was more than ready to wave good-bye and close her eyes once she got on the bus and it pulled into traffic.

She had almost fallen asleep when the driver announced the stop right before hers. The bus pulled up to a well-maintained shelter across the street from a pharmacy. Elsa stumbled out the door, regretting not raiding the first-aid kit at the library when she had arrived at work. Her purchases nearly cleaned her out of cash, but she knew it was a hell of a lot cheaper than a visit to a clinic. And the young, disinterested, crayon-red haired cashier didn’t even raise an eyebrow at her appearance.

She didn’t want to wait for the next bus, opting instead to walk the quarter mile to her building. The sun was hot, the air sticky, and sweat was dripping down under her waistband by the time she reached her neighborhood. She was too tired to notice the new layer of graffiti in the alley or bother acknowledging the silent stares of the young Latino men holding up the lamppost on the corner. If she had been in a better mood, she would have found them funny. They usually whistled and called ‘sup, chica’ to every woman between the ages of twelve and fifty that walked down the street – even her despite her baggy, nondescript clothes and complete disinterest in attracting males. It had always made her uncomfortable. Apparently it only took an assault and lack of sleep to turn them off.

Her feet dragged up the third flight of stars and she barely managed a nod to her neighbor as he came into the hallway. A baby’s wail followed him, not entirely muted by the closing of the door. He grimaced by way of apology and she returned it with a smile that must have looked about as genuine as it felt. He glanced at her arms and opened his mouth but she slipped into the apartment and closed the door before he could say anything. Scott had been enough, she didn’t need a second person who was concerned for her wellbeing. With a sigh, she leaned against the door, trying to tune out the muffled sound of the colicky baby coming through the wall. “Just let me get through this week,” she quietly begged the universe. “No more flatware in necks or broken chairs or homeless men in my apartment. Just work and sleep and hot showers.” Elsa stumbled over to the bed and pulled her plain red comforter over her before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The insistent buzz of her alarm clock sent fresh spikes of pain from the base of her skull straight to her eyelids. She dragged herself into her diner uniform, which was just her khakis with a red t-shirt and useless little kerchief headband that barely met the requirements of the health code. Elsa managed to snag a bottle of water and eat most of a breakfast bar on the way down the stairs. Inky blackness filled the night; the stars obscured by low, heavy clouds. Rolling brown-outs due to the heat had resulted in few streetlights and little sky glow. Or maybe, she reflected, the lack of working streetlights was a result of the Latino men on the corner. They had been joined by several cars and had a stereo turned up while they talked. She passed by two teenage girls on her way up the street; they stared with interest at the muscles and tattoos on display.

The ache in her head was replaced with increasing anxiety over the state of the diner as she drew closer. Even if she was arrested, she wanted to help pay for the damages. It would make it that much harder to meet her monthly bill payments, but she could scrimp a little more. She might as well unplug her tiny refrigerator and save the electricity – there wasn’t any food in it anyhow. And if she started getting up a half hour earlier she could save her bus fare and walk to the library. By the time she rounded the last block, she had decided that she would empty her savings account, all two hundred sixty-three dollars, to pay what she could on the windows.

Her feet slowed to a near standstill as the diner came into view and she could feel her mouth fall open, but wasn’t able to do anything about it. The front window had been repaired. A waitress stood behind the counter, cutting pies, while a new bus boy collected dirty dishes and wiped down tables. Five of the booths were full, most of the tables occupied and several customers sat at the counter. Two couples walked in as she drew closer. Their loud laughter and unsteady feet alerted her to their recent evening at the bars a few blocks into a nicer neighborhood. It was as if the incident with Kurt and the toothpaste twins had never happened.

Elsa ducked down the alley and came in through the employee entrance. She was torn between wanting to know what had happened to get everything cleaned up so quickly and dreading facing the consequences. She barely got her backpack shoved into her cubby, her apron was still bunched in her hand when the cook, Tom, poked his head around the corner.

“Elsa!” a string of profanities followed, “what happened last night? And why is your phone disconnected? Get in here and talk to me, I’ve got burgers on the grill.”

“Elsa’s here?” a voice called from the front. Elsa stepped into the kitchen, struggling to tie her apron on without opening any stitches. The second-shift waitress stuck her head in through the order window. “Oh, my gosh, you have to tell me what happened! Are you okay! Did someone break in? What happened to the window? Did you, like, have to hide from some serial killer or something!” Her eyes were opened so wide, Elsa was afraid one of them might pop out and land on the grill.

“Leave her alone, Miss Nosey! She’s talking to me,” Tom bit off. “You can give her the inquisition after you take care of those customers.” He pointed with his spatula.

“It’s like you aren’t even human,” the waitress said with narrowed eyes before flouncing off to take orders.

“The manager called me in at seven this morning,” Tom said in an undertone. “When the morning waitress told him you weren’t here when she showed up at six he almost had an apoplexy. She called the police, and then him. He called the night cook, who said you sent him home at three. The police were here taking blood samples and photos. Then that idiot they hired to cook for the morning shift showed up at seven-thirty, drunk, and it turns out he has a warrant out for domestic assault. That kept the cops too busy to ask who was minding the store when the break-in happened.” Tom slapped cheese on a burger and looked at her seriously. “So who was minding the store?”

“Nobody,” Elsa responded, managing not to blink or shift too much. She felt like her eyes were going to tear up in an effort to hold Tom’s gaze. “I dropped a coffee pot and got broken glass all over myself around three-thirty,” she showed off her bandages. “I locked up and walked home to take care of my arms.” Inspired, she raised her eyebrows, “Didn’t anybody see the note taped to the window?”

“The window got broken last night,” Tom crossed his arms over his chest. The spatula stuck out like a gavel, waiting to bang against the grill and declare her sentence for lying. “Apparently someone broke in, got into a fight, had pie and vanilla ice cream, left blueberries out to ooze juice all over my clean kitchen, cut apart a chair with hydraulic metal shears, and left. Not necessarily in that order.”

“No kidding?” Elsa tried to inject as much shock into her voice as possible.

“Pfft, you’re a crappy liar. When the cops question you, try not to look so unbelievably innocent.” He turned back to the grill, “And your phone?”

“Disconnected two months ago, turns out they want you to pay for it. Can you imagine?” She finally wrapped the ends of her apron around and tied it in the front, grabbing a fresh notepad and pencil before heading to the front.

Tom snorted in agreement, or maybe just understanding, “Capitalism, am I right?”

Elsa refilled coffee cups and soda glasses in relative normalcy for the next twenty minutes. She was in the middle of taking an order when Scott walked in, he nodded to her and took a seat at the counter with his laptop bag. Elsa was on her way to give him a soda when other waitress cornered her behind the counter. She was outraged that Elsa had missed the commotion.

 

“But you could have seen a real crime take place! There was a fight, and who knows what would have happened. If you had been here, they might have taken you hostage! There could have been a standoff with the cops!” The waitress looked excited at the prospect. Scott caught Elsa’s eye behind the other woman’s back and raised his brows, mouthing, hostage. Tom snorted in the kitchen behind her.

“Instead I had to go and slice my arms to ribbons. What was I thinking?” The dry tone was completely lost on the buxom brunette.

“I know right? I bet you would have been on the news.” She said ‘news’ with reverent, breathy emphasis – placing it in the same category as front row tickets to the Rolling Stones, a spiritual experience in Tibet, and multiple orgasms. She tossed her apron into a laundry basket in the locker room and went to change in the restroom. When she emerged, a ruffled blue skirt that barely touched the tops of her thighs was paired with a draped, backless top with sinless printed in gold letters across it.

“Hot date?” Elsa asked, interested in a train wreck kind of way. The outfit screamed available with a tenacity that bordered on desperation. She dropped off a new order for Tom. The waitress crouched in front of the chrome coffee maker and applied an additional layer of smoky eye shadow. Scott nearly spit soda on his fries. His eyes opened wide and white against the dark of his skin. Clearly he was not used to waitresses showing quite that much leg…and bottom.

“This is what it take to get the really good guys, Elsa. You should try it sometime, or, at least,” she paused, looking over Elsa’s standard braid and baggy pants with a frown of distaste, “try something. If you aren’t careful, the only guy you’ll get is someone like that bum over there.” She jerked her head towards Scott and stage whispered, “I don’t think he even has a job.” Elsa repressed a grin. Scott was the opposite of a bum. His family had money – serious, hospital wing named after them kind of money – but he was low key about it. The other waitress would have been fawning over him if she knew. Anyway,” her voice returned to normal, “if you had been here the manager wouldn’t have had to come in to talk to the police. Now he is super cranky about having contact information about everyone, he even said he wanted to install a time clock to keep track of when we come and go! It is so unfair!”

“Completely unreasonable,” Elsa agreed, tossing an ice cube down the Scott’s neck to get his attention. He jumped off his stool to shake out his shirt, but it took a few moments for the glazed look to leave his face. Apparently it was not a turn off to be discarded as dating material because of his status as an unemployed student. “Soon he’ll be doing background checks on employees.”

“Holy crap, you think so?” she breathed. Elsa shared a look with Tom, but managed to keep a straight face.

“Da, comrade,” Tom gave a stiff-armed salute.

“I don’t even speak Spanish,” she said with disdain, turning on one clear plastic wedge sandal and heading for the door. Tom took in her entire outfit as she moved into the room.

“Try not to walk by the church in that outfit!” The waitress gave him the finger on her way out. The drunk double-daters snickered loudly and a group of blue collar men whistled as the bell tinkled over the closed door.

The next few hours passed uneventfully. Tom served burgers and fries to the bar crowd. The busboy did dishes and mopped the floor before going home at two. Scott, without any barely dressed girls to ogle, moved to a booth near the back hallway and pulled out a laptop, clicking away while he sipped at a soda. Customers drifted in and out, and by three Elsa was dead on her feet. Her arms ached and although her headache had subsided, her eyes felt dry and gritty.

“Go on home, Tom. I’ll be fine until the morning shift comes in. You’ll need the sleep if you’re going to pull another double tomorrow.” She collected the salt and pepper shakers and sat down at the counter to refill them, trying to shake off the prickling sensation that someone was watching her. After all, the chances of another grinning sadist dropping by, the second night in a row, were slim. She tried to ignore Kurt’s voice echoing in her head, advising her to find a new job.

“Nah, you should be the one to go home. You look terrible,” he said, scraping down the grill and wiping his hands on his grease stained apron.

“Wow, you really know how to turn on the charm. Seriously, go home. I wasn’t even here for the action yesterday. I doubt I’ll have to do anything more strenuous than wrap napkins and pour refills.”

“Humph,” Tom grunted, but untied his apron. “The usual night cook is coming in at five to fill in on the morning shift.” He tossed the grimy apron in the laundry basket. “If you really think you’ll be okay?” He laid one beefy hand on her shoulder, his round belly taking up most of the space behind the counter.

“I think we’ve met our quota of crazy already, Tom,” she replied. He shrugged, but his eyes remained worried.

“I’ll pray to St. Michael to watch over you,” he said.

“Then I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She smiled reassuringly until he was out the back door, then slumped against the counter – barely moving to refill the pepper shakers with one hand. She shuffled around the diner, replacing full shakers and wiping tables, for once the quiet, steady hum of the diner at night not soothing her. She was grateful for the occasional click-clack of Scott’s laptop and the gentle swipt of turning pages. When she was finally left with nothing to do but make the pies for the next day, she leaned against the work table…and promptly fell on the floor when her weak and injured arms gave out.

“Elsa? Are you okay?” Scott was leaning over the Formica to see through the kitchen doorway. Elsa sat on her butt on the floor, letting the cool of the concrete seep into her skin. She hoped it would wake her up.

“Nothing hurt but my pride, thanks,” she called, but remained seated. A large, bony dark hand appeared in front of her. Elsa shrunk back in surprise. Her heart skipped a beat and she chided herself for being so easily frightened. It was just Scott. They had been friends for years. He came to the diner to study a couple of nights a week. He was just trying to help her. It was normal. Everything was normal.

“You look like you’re about to pass out, sweetheart. I don’t think your boss would mind if you took a little break.” She looked into his worried brown eyes and let out a little sigh of relief. Scott would not hurt her. He didn’t want anything from her. Well, except German declensions; he was barely passing German. She took his hand lightly and allowed him to lead her back to the counter. She balked however, at letting him get them something to drink.

“No, no,” she waved him off, “union rules.” She fixed herself a glass of ice water, briefly wondering what Kurt was drinking to beat the heat, and poured Scott another soda.

“There’s a waitress union?” He asked, motioning for her to join him at his booth.

“Not that I know of, but one can never be too sure.” She sipped her water and nodded towards his open books. “How is the studying coming?”

“Finals, ugh,” he said. “I don’t know what made me think taking German as a summer course was a good idea, but I regret it. I hate German. I hate bratwurst. And beer. And leiderhosen. I hate gravy on meat and verbs that have gender. I hate yodelers and sound national economic policies.”

“But Germany always had such nice things to say about you,” Elsa laughed. She turned his laptop around and corrected a few mistakes. “You know, this would have been easier if you hadn’t put it off so long. Aren’t summer courses always harder?”

“Yeah, but I kept thinking if I ignored it, my mother would agree that a foreign language is a dumb requirement for an engineer. I already know enough Spanish to order beer and find the bathroom, but no, she thinks German is essential. Barf.”

“Why German?” she asked absently, still correcting errors.

“Oh, you know,” he waved her off and took the laptop back. His voice became high-pitched and a little nasal, “One day you’ll be running the company, and the Germans contract blah, blah, blah.” He scanned her changes while she sipped her water. “That makes so much more sense,” his voice normal again, h smiled and typed a few more lines before saving the file. “I don’t know what I would do if I hadn’t found you in the library freshman year.”

“Probably your own homework,” Elsa responded dryly. Scott laughed in agreement and she shrugged, only wincing a little at the ache in her muscles. “Besides, what else was I going to do with German? I’ll never travel. What a waste. I should have taken something else in high school.” She scratched gently at her arm, trying not to open any scabs. She felt him watching her and tried not to squirm under the pitiful encouragement she knew was coming. It was the worst part about their friendship.

“You could always study it in college. I know somebody at the financial aid-”

“Nope,” she said more with forced cheerfulness, the same way she always did when he broached the subject. “You’re right. German is dumb, and I have work to do. So, tell me about your raid.”

“It was pretty epic,” he began, his eyes brightening with excitement as he turned to his favorite topic: computer games. For a short while she was able to forget about the last horrible 24-hours. Even her money problems seemed a little further away. Gradually she became aware that Scott, although engaged in the conversation, continually scanned the room. His eyes followed a pattern, going over each window and past the door and then flicking up to the security mirror to check the kitchen and rear hallway.

“If you have someplace you need to be, don’t let me hold you up,” she said, sliding out of the booth. His distraction hurt more than she thought it would, but she wasn’t going to beg him to hang out if he had better places to be. Unlike her, Scott had lots of friends. He had other people, people who owned computers and went to college, to talk to. She, on the other hand, had a growing sense of uneasiness that had nothing to do with Scott. The now-familiar prickling on the back of her neck urged her to the safety of the kitchen. She felt stupid, leaving him in his booth and hiding behind the swinging saloon doors, but she couldn’t help feeling paranoid.

“No place to be,” Scott said with a small smile, “But I didn’t mean to keep you so long; you probably have work to do. Do you mind if I hang out a while longer? I still have a few pages to go.”

“No problem, stay as long as you like.” Elsa backed behind the counter, forgetting about bruised feelings and concentrating on the increased tempo of her heart. She had one hand on the door frame when an uncomfortable cold settled in her chest. At the same time, a car backfired. Elsa stared out the front window, looking for the junkier that was no doubt making its way down the street and trying to ignore the way the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

“Elsa,” Another backfired sounded, and a hairline crack appeared in the newly replaced front window. “Get down!” Scott yelled, swept his laptop and books into a backpack and crouched next to the booth. His eyes were focused on the front door. Elsa backed into the kitchen, unsure where she should direct her attention. Logic told her there was no danger, but that would be the same logic that saw nothing wrong with giving Kurt discount pie. The sound came again, the front window cracked in a spider web pattern around a small hole. A container of oil burst in the kitchen behind her. “Elsa!” Scott called again, and dove behind the counter, pulling her legs out from under her.