by Greg Cox
“This is faster and more painless,” Sterling stated firmly, as though they hadn’t already hashed this out ad nauseam. “And any foreign substances in the bloodstream might interfere with the transference process.” He was disappointed by the two men’s squeamishness; they clearly hadn’t produced as many splatter films as he had. “Our comrades are to be commended for their steady nerves and resolve at this crucial juncture.”
Unlike certain other Marked I could name, he thought acidly. Had these two always been so weak or had the sentimental morality of this mawkish era gotten to them? He wondered if they would be able to do what was necessary when their own turns came, or if he would have to pull the trigger himself. I’d bet the gross receipts on my last two blockbusters that one of them wimps out at the last minute.
First, though, he had another vital task to perform. Retrieving a gleaming metallic syringe from a tray on the table, he came up behind Song Yu’s slumped body. Her glossy black hair was done up in a bun, providing easy access to the nape of her neck. As he bent over her, the empty syringe in hand, he glimpsed the Mark behind her left ear. As far as he was concerned, it was a badge of honor. He intended to do right by her—and ensure her imminent return.
He jabbed the needle into the base of her skull, right where it met the spinal cord. A clear plastic capsule was lodged behind the needle. He tapped a keypad along the side of the syringe and drew back the plunger, filling the syringe with a shimmering silver elixir. Molecular filters in the stylet excluded mere cerebrospinal fluid, which was clear and colorless, so that all that was harvested was a concentrated solution of nanites. The microscopic machines were individually encoded with Song Yu’s personality and memories, just waiting to be implanted in the brain of a new identity.
He already had the perfect host picked out for her: an obscure blond actress who had played a bit part in Don Incubus, Demon P.I. Alas, that particular picture, the final “masterpiece” in the dubious oeuvre of the late Curtis Peck, had gone straight to DVD, but Sterling had a much bigger role in store for the aspiring starlet. She had eagerly agreed to a private audition later this weekend, where he intended to make the casting final.
And the best part is, her acting can only improve once Song Yu takes over.
The capsule filled up quickly. Sterling withdrew the needle from the corpse and expertly extracted the vial from its metal casing. He placed it gently onto the tray, next to an identical capsule bearing nanites harvested from Nasir. They were intended for an unlucky African-American stuntman in prime physical condition. The handsome Arab playboy had been reluctant to give up his current physique. Sterling hoped he would find the stuntman an adequate replacement.
Both hosts were total nobodies, completely off Collier’s radar.
At least that was the plan …
Colored labels precluded any mix-ups down the road. Sterling loaded a new capsule into the syringe. “All right. Who’s next?”
“Me,” Kenpo volunteered, raising his hand like an eager schoolchild. His saffron robes rustled about him. “I feel like there’s a target painted on this worthless body. I want out of it now!”
“Of course,” Sterling said. “Just as we agreed.” After opposing the notion earlier, he had reluctantly come around to the idea that new bodies were a necessity for all of them. With Tyler on the loose again, and their covers thoroughly blown, there was no choice but to change faces one more time. A shame I’ll have to miss the Oscars, he lamented. That Fahrenheit 4400 has a real shot at Best Documentary.
But there were more important contests to be waged in the future.
“Let’s be clear about one thing,” he added emphatically. “This is merely a strategic maneuver, not a surrender. We’re not doing this just to hide from enemies. The war continues, albeit in new guises.” He addressed both the lama and the general sternly. “Can I count on you to continue the fight—and avenge our martyred comrades?”
“Yes, yes,” Kenpo muttered. “For the cause and all that.” Grimacing in distaste, he reached across the table and liberated the gun from Song Yu’s cooling fingers. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Go ahead,” Sterling said. He intended to kill himself later, after he had successfully transferred the essences of the others to their new hosts. This left him exposed and vulnerable longer, but he didn’t trust anyone else to carry out the final stage of the transfer. Not even Song Yu or Nasir. “We’re none of us getting any younger.”
Unlike Song Yu, the celebrated lama looked positively ill at the prospect of blowing his own brains out. Trembling hands lifted the Glock to his lips. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the fatal shot. Sweat glistened upon his hairless pate.
A minute passed.
And another.
“Well?” Sterling asked, disgusted by Kenpo’s obvious cowardice. The man was a disgrace to the glorious city that had birthed him. Sterling wondered if it was even worth implanting his feeble spirit in a new identity. “Is there a problem?”
The distraught lama extracted the Glock from his mouth. “Allow me a moment, will you? This isn’t easy.”
Roff snorted in contempt. “What’s the matter, monk? Don’t you believe in reincarnation?” He reached for the gun. “Gimme that. I’ll shoot you myself!”
“Don’t you dare!” Kenpo yanked the weapon away from the general’s grabby fingers. “I have the right to terminate my own host! And I won’t be badgered into doing it before I’m good and ready!”
I knew this was going to happen, Sterling thought, annoyed at having his worst expectations realized. Why couldn’t Burke have survived instead? Sighing, he was about to intervene when, unexpectedly, a sudden tremor rocked the parlor. The crystal chandelier swung wildly above the table. Dust rained down from the ceiling. A brace of Oscars and Emmys tumbled off the mantel over the fireplace, crashing down onto the floor. The bodies of Song Yu and Nasir slipped off their chairs to land with a thud beside the table legs. A priceless Ming vase toppled over, shattering into dozens of porcelain shards. Plastic tarps came loose from the walls. A Dolby-level grinding noise drowned out the startled yelps of the Marked. Roff grabbed on to the table for support, while Kenpo dived beneath it. Sterling lunged for the vials, rescuing them right before they bounced off the tray. He looked about in confusion as he fought to keep his balance.
I don’t understand, he thought. History didn’t record any major earthquakes on this date. The Big One is still years away …
Booming cracks of thunder penetrated the quaking walls of the parlor, adding to his bewilderment. An earthquake and a thunderstorm at the same time? The truth hit him with the force of a head-on collision.
This isn’t a natural phenomenon, he realized. This is enemy action!
Wyngate Castle was under siege.
Gunshots and shouts from outside the parlor confirmed his assessment. “Damn it all!” Roff hollered over the tumult. “We’re under attack!”
“Your military acumen never ceases to amaze me, General,” Sterling sniped. Moving quickly, he placed the precious vials into the padded interior of a leather valise and snapped the valise shut. He stumbled across the room to the wall by the door. A hand-carved wooden panel slid aside to reveal an intercom and miniature television monitor. He stabbed the controls with his free hand. “Sterling here! What in blazes is happening out there?”
The screen lit up, displaying the disheveled features of Conrad Yerkes, his head of security. He was a grizzled ex-Marine with a glass eye. His blocky head and shoulders filled the screen, blocking Sterling’s view of the high-tech command center behind him. The control room was located in the castle’s belfry four stories above the parlor. Yerkes looked crazed, overwhelmed by the chaos.
“Things are going crazy, sir!” the man blurted. “We’ve got lightning, earthquakes, even a friggin’ tornado tearing the place up. And intruders spotted on the perimeter. The men are doing the best they can, but it’s like Mother Nature is fighting against us!”
More like the 4
400, Sterling thought. Collier’s throwing everything he’s got at us.
A roaring wind could be heard over the intercom. “Oh my God!” Yerkes shouted, glancing back over his shoulder. Static and electronic snow wreaked havoc with the transmission, but Sterling glimpsed the shingled roof of the tower flying away behind Yerkes. A furious gale whipped the man’s gray hair around like waves on a stormy sea. White knuckles grabbed on to the console in front of him for dear life. Stone and mortar came apart as the very walls were dismantled by what looked like a rampaging tornado. Another man was yanked away into the spinning vortex. “We’re losing it!” Yerkes shrieked over the wind. “We don’t stand a chance …”
Sterling was unconcerned with the guards’ safety. From the vantage point of his own time, the teeming people of this era had already been dead for millennia. They were walking fossils. “Stand by your post!” he ordered harshly. “Hold off the intruders as long as you can!”
“But sir!” Yerkes began. “The tornado! It’s tearing us apart!”
So? Sterling thought. I just need you to buy me a little time.
“You heard me, Yerkes!”
Before the agitated security chief could raise another objection, a fountain of sparks erupted from the console. Static garbled his scream as a powerful jolt of electricity seared his body. Unable to tear his hands away from the sparking equipment, he convulsed violently. Smoke rose from his scalp. His mouth opened wide. Bright blue flashes arced between his fillings.
The screen went black.
So much for Yerkes, Sterling thought coldly. Stepping away from the intercom, he glanced over at the fireplace. Time to go.
Kenpo Norbo poked his head out from beneath the table. His famously serene visage was now completely ashen. He brandished the Glock above his head. His hand was shaking so hard Sterling feared death by friendly fire. He breathed a sigh of relief as Roff grabbed on to the gun and wrested it from the lama’s grip. “Give that thing to somebody who knows how to use it!”
Kenpo didn’t try to get the gun back. He fidgeted with his prayer beads instead. “This is your fault,” he yelled shrilly at Sterling. “We should have abandoned these bodies a week ago, right after Calabria was murdered! But you said we’d be safe!” He ripped the beads from his neck and flung them across the room. “I wish I’d never set foot in this wretched era! We should have stayed safe in the City!”
“Which won’t even exist if you don’t pull yourself together!” Sterling snapped. Holding on tightly to the valise containing his comrades’ personalities, he briskly made his way across the debris-strewn floor toward the immense stone fireplace on the other side of the room. Fallen awards and bodies waited to trip him, but he somehow managed to keep his balance nonetheless. “This way!” he shouted to the others. “We need to make a judicious exit.”
Roff gave him a befuddled look. “Where? Up the chimney?”
With his free hand, Sterling tore away the plastic sheets draped over the fireplace. A chiseled rosette adorned the edge of the mantel. Taking hold of the ornament, he twisted it clockwise.
A low rumbling emanated from the fireplace as concealed gears ground against one another. Dormant machinery awoke from slumber and the sooty brickwork at the rear of the hearth swung away to expose the mouth of a murky tunnel. A cold draft blew in from somewhere outside the castle.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Roff exclaimed.
The secret passage was a legacy of Edmund Wyngate, the whimsical silent film star who had overseen the castle’s rebuilding eighty years ago. Legend had it he had used the passageway to smuggle moonshine and mistresses in and out of his domicile back in the twenties. Sterling had always suspected that this architectural novelty would come in handy someday. The tunnel led to an underground garage, nestled at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, where a fully fueled Jaguar waited to carry them to safety … if only they moved swiftly enough.
Kenpo gasped in relief. He looked as though he had just found Nirvana. “I’m sorry, Sterling. I should have never doubted—”
The door to the upper balcony blew off its hinges. Richard Tyler, clad entirely in black commando gear, burst through the open doorway onto the landing. He glared down at them like an avenging angel, looking none the worse for his recent captivity. Clearly, Ryland had been too easy on him …
We should have taken care of him ourselves, Sterling thought spitefully. Not outsourced the job to Haspelcorp.
“You!” Roff blustered. He swung the gun up toward the balcony, only to have it wrenched from his hand by an invisible force. Finger bones snapped audibly. He swore profanely.
The heavy oak table flipped onto its side and slammed into the general like a battering ram, crushing him against the wall behind him. The chandelier tore itself from the ceiling and rocketed into Roff like a crystal meteor. Blood splattered the hanging plastic sheets.
Another seismic tremor shook the castle, throwing Richard off balance. He seized the railing to keep from falling off the balcony.
It’s now or never, Sterling realized.
Clutching the valise, he dived through the gap at the back of the hearth. He scrambled to his feet in the tunnel beyond and tugged on a lever behind the fireplace. The heavy brick door began to swing back into place.
“No!” Kenpo shouted as he realized the door was closing. He sprang for the vanishing exit, grabbing on to the side of the door with his bare hands. “Wait! You can’t leave me here! He’ll kill me!”
No great loss, Sterling thought. To his mind, the weak-willed monk was infinitely more expendable than either Song Yu or Nasir. He kicked at Kenpo’s face and hands. “Let go of the door, you idiot!”
A iron poker rose behind the frantic lama. It leaped forward like a thing alive, skewering Kenpo through the back. The scarlet point of the poker burst from his chest. Blood gurgled in his throat. A bloody froth spewed from his lips. Limp fingers lost their grip on the door. A final kick knocked his body out of the way.
The door swung shut at last.
Thank God for that poker! Sterling thought. The hysterical monk had nearly gotten them both killed. He bolted the secret door securely in place, then sprinted down the dimly lit tunnel. He didn’t know how long it would take Tyler’s telekinesis to reopen the passage, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around to find out. It was time to bid farewell to show biz forever.
Abandoning Wyngate Castle to the enemy, he scurried down a long spiral staircase to the garage below. This far below the castle, he could barely hear the tempestuous battle raging above. He was the last Marked standing, but not for long. He held on tightly to the grip of the valise. One way or another, Nasir and Song Yu would live again.
This isn’t finished, he vowed. Tyler and his 4400 allies may be riding high at the moment, but if Hollywood had taught him one thing, it was that the best stories didn’t end so easily.
There’s always a sequel …
TWENTY-ONE
“I’M DONE,” RICHARD told Jordan.
Sunlight shone through the lake house’s large picture windows. The temperature was turned up to seventy-five degrees, but Richard didn’t even think of taking off his sweater. Days had passed since he’d been rescued from that hellish prison in Philadelphia, but he was only just starting to feel warm again.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jordan said. He leaned back against the couch, while Richard stood facing him. Steaming cups of peppermint tea rested on the coffee table between them. Jordan’s guards were posted outside the room. This conversation was strictly between the two men. “As I understand it, one of the Marked is still on the loose. The film producer, George Sterling.”
This was true. By the time Richard had telekinetically pried open the doorway to the secret passage, Sterling had been long gone. His mysterious disappearance, following the “terrorist attack” on Wyngate Castle, had been all over the news for days now. No one, including the paparazzi, had laid eyes on him since.
“Someone else will have to find him for you,�
� Richard stated. “I’ve done my part.”
The massacre at the castle, on top of the bloodbath at the prison, had been the last straw. He didn’t like what his life had become. He didn’t like what he was becoming. This isn’t what Lily would have wanted, he realized now. She saw something better in me.
“What about Isabelle?” Jordan reminded him. “Have you forgotten who killed your daughter?”
“No,” he answered, “but killing more people isn’t going to bring her back. Too many people have paid the price for my vengeance. Sanchez, Evee, Yul, Garrity, that girl at the prison …” He shook his head. “The cost is too high.”
“What about the cost of leaving a Marked on the loose?” Collier persisted. He was not the sort of man who readily took no for an answer. “We need to eliminate them once and for all.”
“Do we?” Richard challenged him. “That’s another thing. That woman from NTAC, Meghan Doyle, she told me it was possible to cure the Marked instead of killing them.” He had not been happy to learn that. “You forgot to mention that to me before.”
Jordan scowled. “I had my reasons.”
“I’m sure you did. But I doubt that they’re good enough for me.”
Jordan sighed. “I see there’s no dissuading you. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. You always were a man of conscience.” He rose from the sofa. “Before you go, however, I have a gift for you.”
A gift? Richard felt a flicker of apprehension. Even at his most beneficent, Jordan usually had an ulterior motive. His blessings always had strings attached. “What kind of gift?”
“You’ll see.” Jordan strolled across the room and opened the door to an attached hall. “Please send Willard in.”
Richard braced himself for a double-cross. He hadn’t forgotten Ryland’s claim that Collier had secretly arranged for that beating in Virginia. He had considered asking Jordan about Ryland’s accusation up front, but what was the point? He had no way of knowing which man had told the truth. Both were far too ruthless to be trusted entirely.
