After the Dark

by Max Allan Collins

  But there was no use trying to talk to them or reason with them or stall in any fashion. No one of these men was going to be swayed by words—even bribes would fall on deaf ears—and the truth was, he was outnumbered five to one.

  Combat 101: when confronted by superior numbers—attack.

  White took one swift step forward and leapt, his legs splaying wide as he kicked both men standing in front of him simultaneously. The one on the left grunted as White's boot struck him in the chest, the man's gun firing reflexively, the bullet sailing off across town trailed by the snick the gun made; the ski-masked tracker's feet went up and his head went down as he landed on his back in the snow with a faint whump. The one to White's right didn't even get out a grunt as White's boot caught him in the face, breaking his nose, dropping him to the snow, unconscious, gun dropping from his fingers, burying itself in a snow bank.

  White landed nimbly, then swung a leg around, in such a blur of speed that even trained types like these could only back away awkwardly. At the end of his motion his leg hit the ground, and then he was running, down that alley, leaving the fallen two behind, the other three coming after him.

  No shouts, no cries, from these pursuers—only their breath, barely audible behind him. Fast as he was, White had no hope of outrunning the trio—these were not ordinary men, but Familiars like himself. Still, with some luck, he might be able to pick a better place to make his stand.

  It did surprise and encourage him that they weren't firing at him. They would have their guns in hand by now—he didn't look back—and that meant there were no exterminate-upon-resistance orders for these trackers.

  He ran with long, easy strides, all those generations of breeding paying off, as he barely broke a sweat. Finally sneaking a look over his shoulder as he rounded a corner to his left, he could tell the three were still back there, the distance holding steady at about fifteen to twenty yards.

  He took a right turn, then crouched in a doorway and waited; he did not arm himself, leaving both pistols packed away. As his mind raced, one dominant thought prevailed: he did not want to use a gun on them! Although his stock with the Conclave—the Familiars' governing body—was at an all-time low, killing a Brother would send White careening across a line from which there was no possible return, except in a body bag.

  The first Familiar came around the corner, and White exploded out of the doorway to deliver a flying kick to the man's head, knocking him off his feet. The second one emerged just as White rolled and bounced to his feet. The Familiar attacked—like White, the man did not have a gun in hand—but White was ready. He dodged, he parried, and as the ski-masked assailant delivered one martial arts move after another, White avoided each, looking for an opening.

  As the third man barreled around the corner, White saw his chance. Spinning away from number two, he delivered a side kick to the solar plexus of number three and knocked him on his ass, the man's breath jetting from him as if he'd expelled a small cloud.

  Coming around to number two again, White executed a perfect leg sweep, dropping the man onto his back. Pressing the advantage, he caught the man across the clavicle with a quick chop and heard a sharp crack as the Familiar's collarbone snapped; but the man didn't cry out—pain wasn't an issue, really, but other physiological responses pertained, in this case unconsciousness.

  He paused momentarily, considering his three fallen adversaries, none of whom had come after him with gun in hand. The Conclave clearly wanted him alive . . . and that was a good sign, wasn't it?

  Wasn't it?

  Answering himself with a shiver, White sprinted off in the direction he'd been going, then turned right at the next corner, his mind working on the next chess move, when another Familiar stepped from the recess of a darkened doorway, a Tazer in his right hand.

  Questions fell like snow—where had this masked figure come from? How had the man gotten in front of him while he was fleeing? These thoughts and a dozen others flashed through White's mind in the moment it took the two darts to erupt from the end of the Tazer and puncture White's parka.

  He felt two sharp pricks in his chest, then his limbs flapped uncontrollably, and his feet lost their purchase and he found himself on his back, looking up at the gunmetal-gray sky. All the antipain breeding of centuries could not stop the electrical storm in his body from having its way with him, his veins on fire as current circuited through him, the questions gone now as the sky turned charcoal and everything around him grew very quiet.

  After only a few seconds, White surrendered to the unfamiliar sensation of extreme pain, and then it faded and he felt himself dropping away from Meander River, Alberta, as if he'd stepped off the edge of a cliff, plunking into an abyss, a place much colder than his Indian reservation refuge, and darker even than his darkest thoughts.

  The first thing Ames White realized, even before he opened his eyes, was that his gun was gone. The cold steel, the almost happy discomfort of the pistol binding against his waistband, was absent—it was like realizing a pickpocket had taken your wallet. He reached back and confirmed the weapon's absence from his spine at the top of his slacks.

  Despite what he'd experienced, White did not feel the ache, the soreness a typical human would experience; but he did feel an uncomfortable weakness, a certain leadenness, and the area in his chest where the darts had penetrated tingled, in an annoying, tickling fashion. This sensation immediately gave clarity to his thoughts and memory, and he remembered being found by the Familiars.

  He was somewhat surprised to be alive, though the actions of the trackers had indicated the Familiars had ordered his capture, not liquidation. Whether or not this was a pleasant surprise remained to be seen . . .

  Opening his eyes to dim illumination, White surveyed his surroundings and his situation. He was in a sparse gray cell, asprawl on a cold stone floor, the cell barren but for bars inset in a small window of the door—no bunk, no toilet; the cell was clean, the stinging smell of antiseptic tweaking his nostrils. A small, naked lightbulb hung in the hall beyond the tiny window, providing the only light; somewhere, water dripped. He still had his clothes (another surprise), but his parka, belt, and boots had been removed.

  Looking into the hallway through the bars, he saw not a row of other cells, but a blank stone wall, where shadows danced and jumped. White knew that most ordinaries—the term both the Familiars and the transgenics used to refer to “normal” humans—would be paralyzed by fear to find themselves in such a dank, dark environment, and would constantly search the shadows for mice, rats, or something worse.

  White, on the other hand, found the cell comforting. These surroundings, in and of themselves, presented no problems. His only concern now was coming up with a plan that would get him the hell out of here. No matter how bleak his future might appear, one favorable fact remained: the Familiars hadn't killed him immediately when they found him.

  “You have failed repeatedly, Brother White.”

  The voice rattled the bars—a booming basso profundo, piped in from somewhere in the darkness of the cell ceiling.

  White was startled, but only momentarily. Despite the obvious attempt at intimidation, this was not the voice of God, unless God had a German accent . . . and, since that seemed unlikely to White, he had a good idea who among the Conclave was doing the talking.

  “That's true,” he answered, calmly.

  “And you know the price of failure.”

  The voice had all the warmth of December in Meander River.

  “I do. But—”

  “But? You're going to try to negotiate with us, at this point? . . . After these countless failures?”

  White had the good sense to not answer.

  “. . . Do you imagine you have something with which to negotiate?”

  Despite the sarcastic tone, the man seemed to be leading him—as if trying to . . . help him?

  Why?

  White knew this man to be a key figure among the Conclave, wielding a power far greater than any he himself
had ever hoped to achieve. And yet now, for some reason the former NSA agent could not comprehend, this important figure was trying to guide him in this dark hour.

  White considered his response carefully—the correct answer could mean another chance for him, and the wrong answer . . . well, that would most assuredly lead to the imminent death he had expected ever since seeing those ski-masked trackers back in Meander River.

  Injecting the proper confidence into his voice, Ames White said, “I can deliver X5-452.”

  At first silence . . .

  . . . then a terrible, dismissive laugh rattled the speakers in the ceiling.

  Chilled, White realized instantly that he had just made a tragic, perhaps even a fatal, error. His response did not seem to be what the Conclave figure had wanted to hear.

  But what else could he offer them besides 452? Every plan for the future the Conclave had made hinged upon that bitch's extinction! Within days, the comet would arrive, and a new era would begin—an era threatened only by the existence of X5–452! What in hell could be of greater importance than “Max”?

  A terror rose within him—a panic that urged him to scream, to beg for his life; yet some strength in him wisely prevented any sound, any words, from coming out. But the logical part of him, his keen intelligence, failed him as well—he simply did not know what to say, what to bargain with . . .

  “You can ‘deliver' X5–452—how many times have you promised us that very thing?”

  “More than once, I know.”

  “And how many times has she bested you? How many times have you failed your brothers?”

  “Too . . . too many.”

  “What makes you think this attempt will be successful? Why should this be any different from all the other failures?”

  Hesitantly, White said, “The plan I have in mind is—”

  “Foolproof? Like all of your other cunning plans? . . . You've had so many plans, haven't you, Brother White . . . and yet on every single occasion she has defeated you.”

  “Meaning no disrespect,” White said, “she has defeated us—all of us—too frequently. As much as we may despise her and what she represents, she is a worthy foe.”

  “Worthy . . . ?”

  “If she were an insignificant impediment, her existence would not pose such a threat to our cause.”

  Now a terrible silence followed, and White wondered if he had spoken too frankly, if his brashness would result, finally, in the ultimate, fatal censure of the Conclave.

  “Your previous ‘plans' have left much to be desired, Brother. How can you reassure us of your abilities? How can you restore our faith in you?”

  “You can allow me to present my plan to you. For your consideration. Surely I don't need to remind you that only days remain.”

  “. . . Speak, then.”

  Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, forcing himself to stay calm—losing his temper here would be to lose his life—White explained the scheme, in broad but complete strokes. Even he didn't know every detail as yet, but the high points were already in place, and he went with them.

  And, too, there were aspects of his plot that it was best the Conclave not know, at least as yet—not until after the ends had justified his means. The important thing for the Familiars at this moment was he could deliver to them 452 . . . and the Coming would remain securely on schedule.

  “This plan will lead to the successful capture of X5-452?”

  “I'm staking my life on it,” White said.

  “That much is guaranteed.”

  What followed wasn't exactly silence—a muffled whispering, as the voice above and other Conclave members discussed White's proposition.

  And then: “Do you have funds?”

  A hopeful sign.

  “Yes,” said White. “Some.”

  “Then those funds will finance the operation.”

  White couldn't stop himself, blurting, “My own money?”

  The voice remained calm. “Whatever funds you have are yours only by our dispensation.”

  Best not to challenge that.

  “Now that that is settled,” the voice said, “we'll turn to the timetable . . .”

  Rubbing his forehead, trying to stave off one of his headaches, White said, “We can start as soon as you see fit, sir . . . Might I ask to join you in better quarters, better circumstances?”

  “You know you can't afford to fail again.”

  “I do indeed, sir.”

  “That should you fail, there will be no reprieve.”

  “Yes.”

  “Only your family's history with the Conclave allowed you to buy another opportunity this time.”

  “Thank you.”

  White remained stubbornly passive. He knew they were watching him from somewhere, knew too that they were well aware that he hated being lectured as much as he hated to fail. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him lose his composure.

  Soon the sound of a key in the door announced his return to the Conclave fold as grandly as a fanfare of trumpets.

  Forcing himself to breathe deeply and slowly, he instead concentrated on the jackhammer pounding in his skull. He was coming to understand that pain had its purposes, and in this case, it seemed to help him focus.

  In the case of 452, her pain would bring him only pleasure, and her death would ensure the triumph of the Conclave, in the imminent Coming.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  NAUGHTY AND NICE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  DECEMBER 20, 2021

  From the op ed page of the New World Weekly:

  Sketchy's Sketchbook

  by C.T. “Sketchy” Simon

  “Silent Fright”

  Not so long ago, if you'd told Emerald City residents that they'd see Christmas lights strung from the high fences of Terminal City, you'd have been not so politely told you were frickin' nuts.

  But a lot has changed in the six months since the so-called “Terminal City Siege” began. For one thing, the siege is officially over—both the unconventional residents of the compound and city government agree on that point. Though a brace of police cars remains parked outside the gates, 24/7, the truce has held.

  That truce was struck not long after the apprehension of Kelpy, the chameleonlike serial killer captured by the transgenics themselves—the one, defining action that had convinced many in the city that the Manticore refugees were serious about wanting nothing more than to fit in. The National Guard is long gone now, as is the threat of the U.S. Army.

  Still, a large segment of the populace remains unconvinced, and so the police still stand guard at the gates. The new mission of the boys in blue, however, is to keep out those who would try to destroy the peace, and not pen the transgenics in.

  The denizens of Terminal City are now considered Seattle citizens, American citizens, as equal as any other. Of course, that still doesn't sit well with some of our fine city's less understanding occupants. So, most of those who live inside Terminal City remain within the confines of this offbeat gated community, seldom venturing out for more than work.

  Their new place in the community, however, has garnered the transgenics a controversial nonvoting seat on the city council, and at the next election, Terminal City will elect its own alderman to a regular city council post. The New World Weekly supports this decision—the transgenics are human beings, too, after all, even if they are genetically enhanced creations of a secret government operation gone awry. (Editor's Note: Elsewhere in this issue, read the latest article in our continuing Freak Nation series: “Manticore—the U.S Government Freak Show You Paid For!”)

  For the time being, Max Guevera—the enigmatic, beautiful, raven-haired X5 who negotiated the peace—remains the de facto mayor of Terminal City. The dark-eyed and high-cheekboned Max—whose full lips and pleasing form draws stares from men and women alike—has a sultry presence that allows her to succeed in leading this rabble into becoming a full-fledged community. Her ta
king a stand . . . her courage and leadership . . . has been the backbone propping up this ragtag bunch of squatters since those early difficult days of the siege.

  In a black ensemble of turtleneck sweater and vest and form-fitting slacks and boots, the petite, shapely killing machine that was Max Guevera sat in a booth in a restaurant across the way from Terminal City. She was sipping coffee, reading the tabloid rag her friend Sketchy wrote for, a half smile dimpling one cheek. Oblivious to her own Catwoman chic, Max shook her head, thinking she'd have to give Sketch a little kick in the behind for that “sultry presence” stuff.

  Ironic, though, that of all the media, the sleazy New World Weekly would become the voice of reason, the first among the press to take the side of the transgenics. Ironic, too, that this least respected of Seattle publications would be the only one with national impact, due to its grocery store checkout-counter status across America.

  Other than her own centerfoldish write-up, she could hardly argue with anything Sketchy said in his editorial. Things were better for the transgenics now—surprisingly so, considering the genocidal threat they had faced. Still, problems remained—different problems, new ones, often mundane—and a peacetime Max found herself having difficulty adjusting to such minor troubles in a way the wartime Max had never experienced, where major troubles had abounded.

  Being bred as a genetically enhanced super soldier had its advantages, no question; but as much as Max had complained about wanting to fit in—and to be like everyone else, and just live in peace—there'd been too many times during the last six months when she felt a restlessness, a yearning for action that distressed her. Had Manticore hardwired her in a way that meant a normal life would remain out of reach, despite her best efforts?

  These thoughts, these feelings, troubled her, especially since everything seemed to be falling in place for her fellow transgenics.