V_The 2nd Generation

by Kenneth Johnson

  Stella looked up from the skull at the numerous men and women who had gathered nearby, and she saw that many of them were crying. She wondered if anyone would have mourned her passing as they did Blue's. She had many acquaintances there, but no one had ever allowed themselves to befriend her in a meaningful way.

  Stella knew that whenever workers like Connie Leonetti had been denounced over the years, though the informant was always anonymous, suspicion fell upon her. She, more often than anyone else, had somehow seemed to benefit from their disappearance. She sensed that several of the people who came to the death scene to pay their respects to Blue privately wished it had instead been Stella who had fallen into the tank of acid. She felt that more than one of them might actually have pushed her.

  As she stood in her house that evening staring at the family's picture, Stella wondered if even her husband Sidney would think of himself as her friend. They had lived together for nearly eighteen years. But Stella was a very headstrong, domineering, opinionated woman who ran the household exactly the way she wanted. In an earlier era it would have been said that she wore the pants in the family. She had always been pleased that her bullish, willful daughter Debra was following in her footsteps.

  Debra passed by her at that moment. Her thick legs were bare but she still wore her Teammate uniform shirt as she talked enthusiastically into a cordless phone. "No, the one that shoots a shell that explodes the chemical is the coolest. Didn't you get to try that one?" She paused, listening to a question, then, "No, they haven't told us either who we're gonna be fighting. Maybe some Resistance scum. But whoever it is, we're gonna seriously kick their asses!" Watching her daughter go into her room, Stella found herself frowning for reasons she couldn't define, then she looked back at the photograph before she realized her son Danny had been watching her from his doorway.

  "You've looked at that picture a lot, Mom," he said softly. "Thinking about Dad?"

  "Yes, of course." Stella paused a moment, then with a slight nervousness she quietly asked, "You really saw them load him onto a shuttle?"

  "Yes." Danny's eyes were clear and firm. "He wasn't 'killed by the Resistance.' They took him up to the Mothership." He stepped closer, speaking more confidentially to make sure Debra didn't hear. "Was that guy who died at your work today with the Resistance?"

  "Yes, I guess he was." Stella was struggling with the concept. "I just don't understand how somebody can risk their whole future by helping them."

  Her son had a ready answer. "Don't we risk our whole future by not helping?" The boy touched her arm. "Mom, the Visitors took Dad."

  They both tightened up slightly as Debra came from her room and passed by them, still intent on her phone call. "And did I tell you I got like a major commendation for finding that icky husk thing and shooting that Arab brat?"

  Stella and Danny watched the teenager walk off toward the kitchen. Stella felt a cautionary fear of her own daughter rise within her. She abruptly shook her head as she spoke sotto voce to Danny, "No. No. It's just too dangerous."

  She turned away from her son. He watched her go into her room and close the door.

  EMMA WAS IMMOBILE. SHE HAD BEEN SITTING ON ONE OF THE TALL stools by the wet bar in her pastel living room. Her legs stretched down out of her silk robe to the rosy carpet. There was a tension in them and an aspect that suggested she might bolt at any second, though she had essentially been frozen there since just after Mark left. She stared, her expression grave.

  Her mind seemed both deadened and spinning at the same time. She had considered immediate flight. She possessed the much-coveted Visitor VIP pass that was only given to the most key Players such as herself. In an era when travel was carefully monitored by the Teammate and Visitor authorities, moving from state to state was extremely difficult without first obtaining the necessary visas. But Players such as herself were allowed considerably more freedom. And yet, she wondered, where could she go? To her pied-à-terre on Central Park West? To her parents' home in Portland? She thought also of her cabin at Lake Tahoe and that brought to mind the wonderful snowy weekend she had spent there with Mark the previous year.

  It also brought a blurring to her vision, which she realized was caused by tears welling in her eyes. The emotions she felt for him were strong and true. But she feared that he was now lost to her. And yet, and yet, she wondered if there might perhaps still be some small spark for her in his heart.

  She forced herself to quell that unlikely hope and face the harsher, more probable realities. Her thoughts swung back again to flight. She could call and alert the corporate jet that was always at her disposal at San Francisco International to be ready for a quick departure. Or were the Visitors already listening for her to make such a call? And even if she were able to depart safely, would they not be able to easily track her progress and be waiting to arrest her at whatever destination she chose? Anywhere on the planet? Certainly they would.

  So she sat. The world, which yesterday she had owned, grew ever smaller and tighter around her. She realized now why so many people had disappeared into the Underground. She looked at the special cell phone Julie had given her and strongly considered calling her or Margarita, but then worried again about being overheard. She wondered how untraceable their numbers actually were. Emma feared she might have already endangered Mark's credibility with the Visitors. To also bring disaster down upon Julie and the others was something Emma could not do.

  So she sat, barely breathing, on the stool in her elegant darkened living room. She thought of all she had gained since she began singing and dancing in her parents' double-wide when she was seven years old. She remembered their nurturing despite their trailer park poverty, how their support allowed her to develop her talents. Emma had worked very hard and spent long hours to improve herself, to train her natural abilities. She remembered finally catching the eye of the local Visitor supervisor who had suddenly opened all the doors for her. Or at least that was the way Emma's mother had described it happening. From the time she was a teen Emma had noted how her pretty mother invariably grew somewhat closemouthed whenever that particular Visitor's name came up. She recalled how her father would smile, acknowledge the Visitor's help, and then change the subject. Emma had always thought that perhaps her parents were jealous of the Visitor helping her.

  But recently, especially since Emma's own close encounter with the press secretary, she had begun to wonder if perhaps her mother had some other, more personal reason for avoiding talk about that Visitor supervisor. Emma had intended to raise the question with her mother the next time they were together. It had become important for Emma to know just how her extraordinary good fortune had been initiated. And it disturbed her to contemplate what her mother's answer might be.

  Her door chime sounded with the impact of a lightning bolt. She stared at the intercom and could hear her own heart pounding loudly. Her breath came in short, shallow puffs. The chime sounded again and she inadvertently emitted a frightened whimper. Her eyes flitted frantically around the lovely living room, searching one last time for an escape route. There was none. Even if she jumped from her second-floor window she knew the fall wouldn't be enough to kill her.

  Then, suddenly, for reasons Emma couldn't fathom, she became totally calm. It completely surprised her. Her breathing became slow and measured. It was as though she had subconsciously drawn from some deep well of strength within her that she hadn't known existed. She sat for a moment longer, trying to understand it, but she couldn't. She decided to simply accept the strange phenomenon because it gave her the courage to at least face with dignity whatever was to come.

  She touched the intercom and spoke evenly, "Yes?" She anticipated an authoritative, resonant alien voice demanding her to admit the Visitor Patrollers.

  "It's me," Mark said quietly.

  Emma's heart fluttered with joy, but as she reached for the button to open the downstairs front door, she paused as her heart quickly sank. Of course he wouldn't be alone. He would have returned wi
th them. It would have been his duty. She paused, resigned herself, and then she pressed the button to admit them.

  Emma thought again of her corporate jet, of her high-flying career above the rabble and the real world. Now she felt as though she had leaped from the plane, as though she had gone into free fall from a great height and was now spiraling downward at increasing velocity. The air was whipping past her, the ground rushing toward her at terrible speed. And she had no parachute.

  With her head held high she opened the living-room door and was immediately confused. Mark was alone. He looked into her green eyes, then glanced downward, extremely pensive and conflicted. He finally said, "For whatever reason you saved my life, I'm appreciative." She gazed at him, as unsure of herself as he seemed to be of himself. All she could imagine was that he had come up alone to collect her and deliver her to the waiting troops below. She could tell that his mouth was very dry as he continued haltingly, "I won't say anything about what you're doing. I do love you, Emma."

  "Oh, my God," came out of her in a great exhalation as she wrapped her arms around him and held on to him in a trembling, tight embrace. "Oh, my God," she murmured as she felt a parachute open and catch her mere inches above the unforgiving ground.

  Neither said a word as they held each other like two drowning people might have clung to a life preserver in a storm-tossed sea.

  Finally Emma broke the silence when she whispered, "I love you, too, Mark. And I won't jeopardize you, I promise . . . I promise . . ."

  "I know you won't." They stood silently, clinging to one another amid the perilous times, each listening to the other breathing, feeling the other's beating heart.

  WILLY WALKED THROUGH THE MURKY, STEAMY CORRIDORS DEEP within the bowels of the Flagship. His face reflected his troubled mood as he thought back to the confrontation he and Harmy had had with Ted. Willy and Harmy had tried so diligently over the years to bolster Ted's low opinion of himself, to help him understand that despite his being a half-breed he still had possibilities if he could only learn to perceive the glass as being half full. But when Willy saw the teenager proudly wearing the uniform of a Teammate, and realized that his son had informed on his own mother, it was a devastating blow, which left Willy very near despair. Their last confrontation in the alley had taken Willy the full distance.

  Willy also knew that it was a good thing he had never shown his human face to their neighbors or he too would likely have been captured, tortured, and killed.

  Even the miraculous rescue of Mike Donovan had failed to cheer him once he learned that Mike's great spirit had been so badly damaged and that his attitude had become defeatist.

  So Willy had decided to give himself a small dose of positive energy from the one source aboard the Flagship that could encourage him. He turned the corner, passed a hissing vent in the dark corridor with its pipes that coursed with the Flagship's flowing fluids. He peered into Jon's janitorial hovel that was part living space and part piecemeal laboratory.

  The young half-breed was bent over his latest project, which Willy couldn't see, though it was clear the youth was happily engaged in scientific pursuit. When he heard Willy approaching Jon turned and his misshapen, half-scaly mouth contorted into a grin. "William! So good to see you, sir."

  They greeted each other not with the Visitor salute, but Willy gripped the boy's nearly human hand with a warm handshake. Then Willy winked and said, "Take a look," as he handed some data plugs to the boy who beamed broadly.

  "The Nasus Ganilppa Periodic Tables!" Jon was beyond amazed. "Brilliant! Wherever did you find them, sir?"

  Willy smiled, very pleased with the teenager's reaction. "Just did a little digging."

  "You're too modest, sir, I have searched and searched and could never find them."

  "Well, there you are," Willy said, smiling.

  Jon looked at him carefully, sensing a sadness beneath. He asked tentatively, "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

  Willy frowned curiously. "Of course, Jon, always."

  "That was a very melancholy look you had, sir."

  Willy sighed and sat on a container of custodial supplies. "I guess I was just wishing my son Ted were like you."

  Jon chuckled with genuine modesty and said, "Oh, I'm certain he can do much better than me, sir. Just give him time."

  Willy smiled sadly at Jon, appreciating his sensitivity. Then Willy's eyes drifted to the project the boy had been busy working on and Willy's expression became one of amazement. "Jon?"

  "Sir?"

  Willy stood up and moved to the makeshift lab table. Sitting on top of it was a foot-tall, jerry-built mini-capsule. It was a rough miniature of those in the Capsule Storage Chamber in which millions of humans were entombed.

  Willy was astonished. "Did you make this?"

  "Yes, sir," the boy said as though it were not much of an achievement. "It wasn't terribly difficult." Then he added with a touch of humor, "I've certainly had ample opportunity to study the technology."

  Willy looked closer and was even more dumbfounded. "What is that inside? A mouse?"

  Jon nodded. "My friend Dr. Eric let me have it from one of the food carts."

  "And it's alive? In stages?"

  "Uh, that's stasis, sir," Jon said shyly.

  "Stasis, yes," Willy corrected himself. "It's alive in stasis? Like all the people in Capsule Storage?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Jon, this is amazing!"

  "Oh, no, sir. A very modest effort. Believe me."

  "Modest!" Willy looked back at the homemade capsule, with its outer intestinelike tubes undulating. He examined all the various electrical and hydraulic connections that led from the capsule and were attached to the small-scale, makeshift life-support equipment that had obviously been fitted together by Jon from cast-off items. Willy studied the small living creature inside. "How long has it been in there?"

  "Oh, not long," Jon said with a shrug, "only a month or so."

  Willy looked with wonder at the self-effacing young genius.

  THE BLACK AND WHITE VIDEO IMAGE FLICKERED ACROSS THE SMALL vid screen. In the expansive Visitor laboratory which, like Jon's hovel, was also deep within the bowels of the Flagship, the Hispanic-looking Visitor technician named Teresa was trying to coax a steady picture. But the image was extremely jumpy, in and out of focus with video static and much interference.

  "Come on," she muttered, "you can do it." Through the static came a tantalizing, brief glimpse of what looked to her like the inside of an old warehouse. Then Teresa was rewarded by a tiny peek at a woman wearing a flower-print blouse as she passed the clandestine camera. Teresa thought she recognized her from all the vids of most-wanted Resistance fighters. The woman looked like the seventy-year-old Peruvian named Ysabel Encalada. If that proved to be the case, then Teresa knew she was getting a live image from a hidden camera within the Resistance headquarters.

  She glanced around the large shadowy laboratory chamber at the various Visitors working within it. Eric, the research doctor, was at the far end and busy with several others. Teresa wanted to shout out her triumphant achievement to them, but decided to keep silent until she could refine the reception. She looked back at the black and white screen.

  There was another brief clear moment where the camera transmitting the image jostled one way and then another, as though it were being held in someone's hand. Teresa wasn't surprised about that characteristic because she knew that someone among the Resistance group was transmitting the image.

  23

  THE PICTURE ON THE HIGH RESOLUTION MONITOR OF THE SCANNING electron microscope was confounding to both Julie and Kayta. They stood in the truck parked inside the old warehouse and studied the strange image on the screen. The electron microscope was the size of an office desk with a large, complex appendage on top. All in all it stood almost six feet tall. Julie, Blue, and Robert had stolen it years ago. It had been cared for since then like the precious jewel it was. It was the first major diagnostic apparatus they had come by and
was the cornerstone of their biochemical lab. Julie had the unit installed into its own small truck that was specially padded and armored for extra protection. Blue had rigged additional shock absorbers onto the truck to cushion the delicate rig during transportation. Julie also had the truck fitted with the appropriate 220-volt generator to keep the microscope functional whenever they were in a location where they couldn't steal city electricity.

  Julie and Kayta were using the powerful instrument to investigate the chemical weapon sample that Blue had stolen. The image on the microscope's high-definition monitor showed a webbing of octagonal shapes.

  "I've never seen a viral or bacteriological structure that looked remotely like that," Julie said as she studied the image closely. "Is it something you're familiar with?"

  Kayta shook her head. "Unfortunately, no."

  "Not the answer I was hoping for," Julie admitted, chewing her lip. "What's the resolution here?"

  "It was at your maximum, but with this device I've improved it." Kayta indicated a small Zedti unit the size of a deck of cards that she had attached to the microscope's electronics.

  "By how much?" Julie asked.

  "About 250 percent."

  Julie was impressed, but frustrated, "And that's still not enough for us to get an idea of how we can fight it."

  "Their science is very advanced. In many areas it exceeds Zedti knowledge." Kayta sighed. "What about your spectrographic analysis?"

  Julie turned to another unit within the truck where Robert and two others were intently engaged. The spectrographic analyzer was about two-thirds the size of the electron microscope, but was equally valuable and complex. Robert was also analyzing a few drops of the chemical weapon. Data was scrolling and building up on two monitors and three differently calibrated oscilloscopes that were part of the apparatus. "It's still cooking," Robert told them, "probably another hour or so."