“Evolution 101,” Nick agreed. “They’re the dominant species in this ecosystem. It’s analogous to Homo sapiens versus Homo neanderthalensis. Except this time we’re on the losing end, the ones threatened with eventual extinction.”
An idea occurred to Bel, something she hadn’t considered. In light of her diminished capacity, she was surprised she could still process such cogent thoughts.
“Anything that might escalate the conflict between humans and Paratwa serves the Royal Caste’s needs, correct?”
The two men nodded.
“So, about their desire to bring on an apocalypse. I wonder if they somehow could have learned of my real feelings about them, what I just expressed here. Could that have something to do with the reason they wanted me to become the next E-Tech Director?”
“An interesting idea,” Nick said, after a few moments’ thought. “In theory, the more dedicated their enemies, the faster their desired apocalypse occurs. Still, I tend to doubt it. Besides, you said you’ve never revealed these feelings to anyone. Frankly, if you had, it would be plastered all over the net by now.”
“The purpose behind their manipulation lies elsewhere,” Doctor Emanuel said. “I’ve studied the Royals for many years. They constitute a level of behind-the-scenes social engineering that far surpasses history’s typical dictators. They’ve elevated such manipulation to an art.” He paused. “Think of them as painting a picture of how they want the world to be. However, the broad brush strokes are not where we should look for their rationales. Their true motivations lie in the subtlety of the colors.”
Bel was still mulling that over when the drudge returned to the table with coffee and dessert, a lemon-lime mousse. They interrupted their discussion long enough to sample the delicate pudding. Finishing first, she resisted the temptation to order a second cup.
Doctor Emanuel ended the interlude. “On the issue of Nick’s team of soldier-hunters, it appears the three of us are in agreement. It would be to humanity’s benefit to utterly destroy the Paratwa.”
Bel nodded, hiding her surprise at Doctor Emanuel’s strong opinion on the matter. Having admired him from a distance for so long and having always perceived him as a beacon for peaceful conflict resolution, it was strange hearing him talk this way. In truth, his views seemed to mirror Nick’s. Under the surface, the two of them were more alike than she had initially thought.
The older man continued, “However, the idea of eliminating the binaries is likely an impossible task. There are tens of thousands of them, with those trained as assassins estimated to comprise at least six or seven thousand of that total. One small team, no matter how successful, would not make a substantial dent in those numbers.”
“The benefit of the team would be primarily psychological,” Nick said.
“Exactly. Its successes would inspire hope among the populace, promote a sense of optimism that Paratwa assassins can be defeated by methods that don’t result in overwhelming losses of troops and civilians. A positive outcome for the team would spill over into other aspects of people’s lives. It could serve to instill a renewed sense of pride in our species.”
“Humans aren’t helpless,” Bel said. “We can fight back and win against an enemy perceived to be superior.”
Doctor Emanuel nodded. “Yet the very nature of this team carries with it a serious drawback. It would need to operate in total secrecy. In no way could it have any direct connection with E-Tech or any other public organization.”
“Absolutely not,” Bel said, mortified at the idea.
“Paratwa retribution against anyone openly sponsoring such a team would be immediate and devastating.”
“For a different reason, it also shouldn’t be linked to or run by any military units or intelligence agencies,” Nick added. “EPF, the CIA and others have the skills and savvy to run black ops, but they’d end up involving too many people. There’d be a heightened possibility of the missions being compromised by leaks.”
“A small operation,” Doctor Emanuel continued, “overseen solely by the three of us. Great care and effort will need to be taken in publicizing the team’s successes. Not only to protect the team from exposure but to endow it with a kind of superhero mythos.”
“Humanity’s Avenger,” Bel murmured, “striking from the shadows.”
“I like the metaphor,” Nick said. “And we could use the notion to publicize the team. Careful leaks to certain underground organizations, whispered rumors spread throughout sec and unsec regions. If we do it right, knowledge of the team’s successes will migrate up from the street and disseminate to all corners. People will vicariously adopt this Paratwa slayer as one of their own. They’ll share in the knowledge that Earth has a secret champion. Humanity’s Avenger.”
Doctor Emanuel turned to Bel. “Your media relations skills could come in handy in this regard.”
She nodded, aware of several avenues of exploitation that wouldn’t carry any risk of blowback on E-Tech. “But aren’t we all forgetting something?”
Nick gave a wry grin. “Yeah. A fly in the ointment, as they used to say.”
Doctor Emanuel raised an eyebrow. “Might you be referring to the fact that you do not yet have a fourth member to make your team viable?”
“Kind of a buzz kill, isn’t it, doc? But without someone skilled with the Cohe, all of my team simulations break down. The next best possible outcome, one that doesn’t require someone to be wielding a Cohe wand, is a sim that would require a minimum of twenty-seven soldiers.”
“Four versus twenty-seven?” Bel wondered. “Why such a big gap?”
“The formidable power of the Cohe. Plus, once you go above four, the soldiers start getting in one another’s way. They become a liability during combat instead of an asset. The sims become increasingly chaotic until you reach that higher number, at which point there’s an entropic crossover that reintroduces stability.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Twenty-seven does constitute somewhat better numbers than the current success rate enjoyed by traditional companies or battalions,” Doctor Emanuel offered.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “Still, not exactly the sort of odds to inspire hero worship.”
“Indeed.”
“So where do we go from here?” Bel asked, rubbing her temples. She was starting to get a headache. It was generally the final aspect of the inhalant’s inebriation effect.
Doctor Emanuel scooped the last of his mousse from the cup. He took a long sip of coffee before favoring them with a cryptic smile.
“I believe, my young friends, that I have a potential solution. Where we need to go from here is deep into the unknown, into uncharted realms.”
Twenty
Within days of the after-dinner conspiracy hatched by Bel, Nick and Doctor Emanuel, the first phase had been achieved.
Nick had tapped his own funds to offer another bribe to the Earth Patrol Forces. This time, the amount contributed to EPF’s ever needy treasury as well as enriching the personal accounts of the officers and hundreds of grunts who would take part in the assault.
Bel had done her part. With her director’s access to the highest level intel from E-Tech Intelligence, data that even Nick had trouble hacking, she’d forwarded the appropriate information to him. That had helped nail down the identity of a number of possibilities. Nick had combined Bel’s intel with some facts he’d dug up on his own to make the selection.
Doctor Emanuel naturally had final say. He approved Nick’s choice. The assassin in question was deemed a suitable candidate.
Although they hadn’t been able to identify the breed of their target, they had established its locality. This assassin lived and killed within a limited geographic region, a densely populated area of Upper Bavaria, Germany.
Most Paratwa, particularly those not under the sway of the Ash Ock, were territorial, doing their killing within relatively small areas generally encompassing no more than twenty-five thousand square kilometers. Nick had d
esigned a series of computer programs for tracking down the assassins based on probability analysis. His programs analyzed subtle movement patterns and assigned probabilities to a Paratwa’s whereabouts at any given moment.
The EPF battalion had been given the greenlight. Three hundred and fifty seasoned soldiers, including two Delta-A squads, had surrounded and stormed an auto parts store that the Paratwa owned and operated when it wasn’t earning its primary income murdering humans. The creature lived onsite, having converted a section of the store into a modest home complete with an impressive wine cellar. Within the stone walls of that cool and dank subterranean vault, it made its final stand.
The assault was successful – a single tway was terminated. As expected, the victory came at a severe cost. Seventy-nine soldiers died and scores of others were injured. The assassin’s lair had been heavily booby-trapped. Casualties not resulting from Cohe wand strikes and thruster blasts had been caused by frag grenades, heat-seeking firedarts and a dirt floor mined with acid twisters that had sprayed the assault team with skin-melting fluids.
The surviving troops, aware they would receive hefty bonuses should the mission be carried out to the letter, rose to the occasion. Encouraged by Slag, who had accompanied the attackers as Nick’s liaison, the soldiers restrained their lust to avenge their fallen comrades and succeeded in capturing the other tway alive. Slag had administered a powerful soporific to keep the creature in a deep state of unconsciousness lest it succumb to bisectional hemiosis, the technical term for the screaming madness of a Paratwa quite literally torn in half, and which if left unchecked quickly led to its suicide.
After the attack, the troops had vaporized the auto parts store with a micronuke to eliminate any evidence of a survivor. The tway had been placed in a stasis coffin and whisked off the continent aboard an EPF suborbital flight.
Slag and the colonel in charge of the assault had delivered the tway and its Cohe wand to Nick’s clandestine warehouse, where a first-class mobile surgical theater had been set up. The colonel hadn’t been told the reason they needed a living tway for surgery and remained furious about the loss of his troops. He’d expressed his profound hope that Nick would subject the tway to the most horrific of surgical procedures, all without benefit of anesthesia. Escorting the man out, Nick promised they’d do their best.
The EPF troops had garnered intel from the assassin’s lair before vaporizing it. They’d nailed down the slain Paratwa’s origins. It was a Fifteen-Forty, a moderately dangerous breed. Initially created and trained in the genetic labs of virulent, anti-Rome Jesuits, the priests had been forced to sell their entire operation in a bankruptcy proceeding to a Canadian intermodal transportation firm whose owners were eager to expand into more profitable arenas.
Fifteen-Forties, like many breeds, were sold as mercs. But once an assassin’s period of indentured servitude was fulfilled and its owner fully compensated, most were set free to pursue their own futures. A small percentage retired, but the majority, like this Fifteen-Forty, went into business for themselves as independent contract killers.
Although a Fifteen-Forty wasn’t considered as outright nasty as a Voshkof Rabbit or a Jeek Elemental, it possessed a midlevel skill set on par with breeds like the Du Pal. And as Nick could attest, Ektor Fang was no slouch when it came to wielding a Cohe wand.
“A perfect candidate, huh?” Nick said as he scrubbed for the operation beside Doctor Emanuel. The doc would perform the neurosurgery remotely using a tentacled med robot. Nick would be available in case any routine assistance was required.
“Far less than perfect,” Doctor Emanuel complained as they finished scrubbing and entered the OR. “The candidate suffered a moderate head injury prior to being subdued. That could negatively impact the implantation process.”
“Couldn’t be helped,” Slag said over the intercom speaker. He was observing with Basher and Stone Face from beyond a glass partition. “The prick needed some persuading to go down. A couple of the soldiers love-tapped him with their sandrams.”
“These aren’t love taps,” Doctor Emanuel replied.
Nick had to agree. The left side of the tway’s head was bloodstained and partially caved in from multiple blows with the hammerlike weapon. Still, none of the brain scans showed signs of permanent damage. Neurologically, this surviving half remained intact, or at least intact enough for the surgery to have an eighty percent survival rate according to standard World Health Organization guidelines, at least if it was performed on a normal person. However, considering that the procedure was never known to have been done on a tway, such percentages probably weren’t applicable. As the doc had stated at Bel’s dinner table that night, he was going to take them into uncharted realms.
Doctor Emanuel finished programming the med robot. It descended slowly from the ceiling on stiff cables, reminding Nick of the facehugger from a monster movie he’d seen as a kid. As he recalled, the movie had scared the crap out of him.
Three of the robot’s tentacled hands clamped the tway’s head to keep it stable. A fourth pierced the front of the skull with an interlocked set of microdrills. Hands five and six descended with the implants.
Doctor Emanuel monitored the procedure from his control panel, making slight programming corrections as the drills withdrew. He inserted the first set of tiny mnemonic cursors deep into the ancient reptilian part of the brain that controlled the body’s most vital functions, then added distribution connections to the later evolved limbic system and neocortex. Together, that trio of neurological components roughly corresponded to the physical, emotional and intellectual functions of consciousness.
It was a lengthy procedure. Judging by the doc’s frequent nods and occasional soft muttering, it seemed to Nick that things were going well.
“The seventh and final insertion,” Doctor Emanuel said at last.
Almost two hours had passed since the surgery had begun. Like the six earlier sets of mnemonic cursors, the final one sparked to life on one of the monitor screens. It had successfully begun the process of interfacing with a wealth of synaptic junctions throughout the tway’s triune consciousness.
“We good?” Nick asked.
“At this stage, yes.”
“Congrats, doc. Looks like you haven’t lost your touch.”
Doctor Emanuel unleashed an uncharacteristic grunt as he leaned back in his chair. “These days, touch for a neurosurgeon is quite the misnomer. The only thing I touch now is a control panel. Back when I was a young man and a neurosurgical intern, we were still doing a fair portion of such operations the old-fashioned way.”
“Sounds bloody,” Nick said, noting that the doc was gripping the chair’s armrests to stop the occasional trembling of his hands, an effect of old age that even the best meds couldn’t control.
“How long before he’s ready?” Basher asked over the speaker.
“Twenty-four hours for post-op recovery,” Doctor Emanuel replied. “Another day or two of submnemonic probing to ascertain whether full synaptic reconfiguration has taken place. If he’s doing well at that time, we’ll move forward into the final stages, hypnotic trancing followed by facial reconstruction.”
“And then he’ll be ready to pick up his Cohe?”
“If his spirit is willing.”
Nick knew the real test would come after those milestones were reached. Would synaptic reconfiguration, performed successfully on humans, work with a tway? Would the false memories they’d implanted by way of the mnemonic cursors be potent enough to overcome bisectional hemiosis?
When he awakened, would this remnant of a binary accept as normal the set of artificial thoughts and feelings that Nick and Bel had crafted for him, reinforced by the brand new face he’d be receiving? Would he be able to totally forget his real heritage? Would he believe he was actually a human named Jannik Mutter, a man whose beloved brother had been slain by a Paratwa assassin?
And, most critically of all, would Jannik Mutter possess the right combination of rage and will
power to motivate him to seek vengeance against the Paratwa assassins for the death of an imaginary sibling?
Twenty-One
Bishop Rikov was too stunned to fully process the news. For ten minutes he just sat there in his private quarters three stories below the Church of the Trust’s new London cathedral, staring at the special transceiver. The dyap resembled an upended corkscrew mounted on a dinner plate. It was one of only ten in existence.
Invented by the brilliant Theophrastus, the dyap violated Einsteinian physics to allow the widely scattered tways of the Ash Ock to send faster-than-lightspeed messages to one another with no possibility of interception. It was the prototype for an even grander FTL transmitter, one that Theophrastus believed would enable communication over truly monumental distances.
But from this moment on, a pair of those ten dyaps would be silent. A member of the Royal Caste, a member of the most powerful and exclusive group of creatures to ever grace planet Earth, had perished.
Bishop Rikov found himself unwilling to believe the report, but it had come directly from Sappho. There could be little doubt of its veracity.
Aristotle was gone.
His tways, one the mogul of a Venezuelan energy corporation, the other the prime minister of Free Brazil, had perished when a fire-fall nuke was detonated above Cape Town, South Africa, where the monarch had been staying. Thus far, no terrorist organization was claiming credit for the nuking, which was believed to have resulted in over a million civilian deaths.
The bishop felt nothing for those casualties. After all, most if not all were mere humans. But the untimely loss of Aristotle, who through bad luck just happened to be in the city…
That was worthy of being mourned.
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