by I. T. Lucas
Syssi shook her head and winced, rubbing her neck again. “I don’t think so. Not unless parting with your Porsche for a couple of days is a monumental, life-changing event for you.”
“So what is your advice, my sage oracle?” Amanda asked as Syssi stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“Just be careful and watchful. There isn’t much else you can do.”
Chapter 8: Mark
“To us!” Mark saluted.
Mark’s team from SDPD was celebrating their latest breakthrough at Rouges.
The local bar catered to a mixed crowd: students from nearby Stanford, young professionals from Palo Alto, and the occasional riffraff. Most days of the week a live band provided entertainment. Except tonight.
Tuesdays, the band was off, so the place was not as packed and not as loud. Which was why they had chosen tonight for their celebration.
“Peace, love, and rock ’n’ roll!” Logan downed a shot.
To outsiders, SDPD stood for Software Development Programming Department. Only those on the inside were privy to the special programming that the firm masquerading as a gaming developer was really working on.
In fact, the Strategic Defense Programming Division was a civilian outlet serving the federal government, its substantial pool of genius tasked with the development of viruses that could disable enemy weapon systems—specifically, WMDs—weapons of mass destruction.
Top programmers, gifted hackers, and brilliant mathematicians were secretively lured into its fold. Some were seduced by promises of big money, others by a chance of changing the world, and a few were simply blackmailed.
Once in, they were never let out.
Not that anyone really wanted out.
Realizing the significance of what they were working on, they knew there couldn’t be a higher calling or a greater purpose for their skills.
They were literally saving the world. Regrettably, as anonymous heroes.
“To Mark!” Armando raised his sixth shot of tequila. “Our boy genius. The one and only. The king of hacking. May he keep producing more fine lines of code!” He downed the shot, his cheering friends banging the table as they tossed back their drinks.
Mark felt a ripple of apprehension course through him. The salute was generic enough not to divulge anything specific and yet, potentially, it could have clued someone in.
SDPD, and Mark in particular, had provided the basis for the most famous computer virus in history. The virus that had infiltrated and damaged a dangerous rogue regime’s nuclear facilities.
It was just the beginning.
They were well on their way to developing something even better. Soon, there would be no advanced weaponry that they couldn’t disable, providing a safety net for the US and its trusted allies.
Naturally, some governments and terrorist organizations didn’t appreciate their work, therefore Mark’s life and that of his coworkers depended on their anonymity.
They were supposed to be invisible.
Heck, they were not supposed to even exist.
They were all drunk.
Well, everyone except for Svetlana, who was a bottomless pit. The tiny Russian mathematician had an off-the-charts IQ and a not-so-secret crush on Mark.
Holding her shot glass, she stood up to her full height of five feet nothing and saluted; “To Mark!” Then downing the straight shot of Absolut vodka she favored, proceeded to drop herself onto his lap, wiggling her tiny butt to get more comfortable or perhaps stir something up.
Mark tensed. Wrapping his arm around her waist to steady her, he held her in place, preventing her from burrowing further.
The girl took it as a sign of encouragement. Turning to face him, she planted a wet kiss on his lips.
The guys went wild, whooping and whistling. “Svetlana! Svetlana! Svetlana!” They cheered her on.
Getting bold, she straddled him, took his cheeks in both hands, and licked his bottom lip with her small pink tongue, urging him to let her in.
Gently, not wishing to offend her, he pushed her away and rearranged her position so she remained seated only on one of his thighs. Holding on to her waist, he reached for his drink and saluted. “To the team!”
“To the team!” the guys shouted.
Dejected, Svetlana pushed up from his thigh, and the sad look she pinned on him made him wince.
It was a shame that she chose him as her object of desire. Any of the other guys would’ve loved for her to get frisky with them. Svetlana was a pretty little thing, with skin so white it seemed translucent, huge, pale blue eyes, and long, wavy, white-blond hair. She was just a kid, really, barely over the minimum drinking age.
Mark liked the girl, just not in the way she liked him.
Winking at her, he playfully smacked her butt. As he had intended, Svetlana perceived the gesture as him flirting back. Smiling, the hurt look gone from her big blue eyes, she turned and went back to her seat.
Mark exhaled quietly. Being gay wasn’t a big deal to anyone anymore, but he was a product of a different era and preferred to keep it private.
No one needed to know.
He didn’t flirt with other gays or go to gay bars. Instead, he’d found a lucrative escort service that provided partners to affluent men like himself. As these establishments went, it was discreet, costly, and offered a good selection of prime healthy studs.
For Mark, it was the perfect solution. He made shitloads of money he didn’t need; his shares in the family business were more than enough to keep him in style. So why not spend it on his insatiable appetite? Safely and prudently.
He even had a tryst scheduled for later tonight and needed to leave soon to get ready.
Mark was excited.
Jason’s web profile had been promising. The guy was young, handsome, and a student at Stanford, which promised he wouldn’t be a complete dolt. Mark had no patience with stupidity. To him, it was as big of a turn-off as an offensive body odor or a potbelly.
At nine o’clock, Mark excused himself claiming a headache. He left after a round of cheerful, drunk hugs from his friends and a lingering one from Svetlana.
As he waited outside the club for the cab that would take him home, he sought to sober up in the night’s cool air. Except, his buzz was more about the thrill of anticipation than any lingering intoxication.
He got home with twenty minutes to spare—just enough time to grab a quick shower, decide on a flattering pair of slacks and a button-down shirt, and set his living room to the right atmosphere. His guest being a paid escort, the effort wasn’t necessary. Nevertheless, as this was the extent of his love life, Mark was determined to get the most out of it.
Thinking about the wicked seduction he had planned for tonight, Mark paced around his living room impatiently.
At the sound of a knock, he took a deep breath, and with a last quick glance at the mirror by the front door, hurried to open it for his guest.
The young man standing on his front porch looked nothing like the guy in the picture on the escort service’s website.
Mark’s neck tingled. Something was wrong.
“You’re not Jason,” he said, debating if he should slam the door in the guy’s face.
“Sorry, Jason could not make it tonight. I’m Gideon, his replacement.” The man forced a fake smile that did not reach his eyes.
Something was definitely off.
The guy was handsome enough; tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, but he wasn’t gay. Mark had centuries of experience and an innate sense about these things. He could sniff out a gay man from a mile away.
Gideon, if this was his real name, definitely wasn’t one.
There was something oddly familiar about the guy’s aggressive vibe, though, and Mark’s sensation of dread grew worse. A moment later, an adrenaline surge tightened his gut as he finally recognized it for what it was. His body’s natural alarm system had been triggered by the presence of another immortal male.
Except, this one wasn’t a member of his
clan. And as the only other immortals Mark knew of were his clan’s mortal enemies—the Doomers—this man meant him harm.
Terrified, he tried to slam the door closed, but the guy blocked it with his shoulder and with a brutal punch to the face sent Mark staggering backward. Following with his own body weight, the assassin brought Mark down.
When they hit the floor, Mark struggled to get free. But he was no match for the strength and skill of his assailant. In mere seconds, he found himself pinned face down to the floor with the immortal’s fangs sinking deep into his neck.
All struggle ceased the moment the assassin’s venom hit his system—the euphoria blooming in his mind and the languid feeling spreading through his body effectively paralyzing him.
He felt the venom being pumped into his bloodstream, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. Although still aware enough to understand that he was about to die, in his drugged state he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Eventually, the assassin withdrew his fangs and licked the puncture wounds closed. Mark knew that his near-immortal body would heal the bruising in a matter of minutes, and shortly thereafter, the venom paralyzing him would stop his heart, then disintegrate.
There would be no trace left of any wrongdoing, and heart failure would be determined as the most probable cause of death.
The family would obviously know. Besides blowing it to pieces, the only way to stop a near-immortal’s heart was to inject the body with loads of venom.
His Advanced Decision Card listed Arwel’s phone number as his next of kin.
The paramedics would call him.
Arwel would know what happened.
“This is for giving your corrupt western pets your stolen technology, you queer scum! This is for the computer virus!” the murderer hurled, then spat at Mark’s face. “You brought the war to your own doorstep. Fighting by proxy is over!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Mark was only dimly aware of what the Doomer was saying, hearing the words but not truly comprehending them. Through the drugged haze of his mind, he heard two more sets of footsteps entering his home. Conversing in short, clipped sentences, the men were speaking in some foreign language he didn’t recognize.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
As he drifted away, he wondered if there was anything beyond this reality. Would his soul go on to some kind of heaven? Was there anything besides dark oblivion waiting for him?
If there were, he wished other souls would be there, so he wouldn’t be alone. The thought of spending an eternity of incorporeal existence aware, and yet with no one to communicate with and nothing to do, terrified him more than fading into nothingness.
Chapter 9: Kian
Kian woke up with a start, his sweat-saturated hair sticking to the back of his neck and his heart still pounding from the nightmare. Filled with an intense sense of dread, all he could remember was the endless running and getting lost in a maze of strange staircases that had led nowhere, and being turned around in corridors that had twisted on themselves in impossible ways.
What had he been running from? Who had been chasing him? Why had they been chasing him?
It was just a dream. Kian tried to shake off the uneasy feeling. Nothing more than his mind rearranging bits and pieces of thoughts and memories to create an action horror flick with him in the starring role.
Yeah, that’s all it was.
Unlike his mother and sisters, he didn’t place much stock in dreams or premonitions. Ordinary, everyday reality was strange enough without throwing that into the mix.
Kian flung off the damp duvet, pushed off the tangled sheets and dropped his feet to the floor. Sitting on the bed with his elbows on his thighs, he let his head drop as he waited for his heartbeat to slow down.
After a moment, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen was just the incentive he needed to shrug it off and jump into the shower. At first, he’d planned to be quick about it, but with the hot water jets pounding his skin from all six showerheads, it just felt so good that he allowed himself to linger.
It was absurd that a man surrounded by so much luxury got so little use out of it. There was always too much to do and not enough time to do it. He was rushing everything; his showers, his meals, his interactions with others. And yet, there were always some tasks left undone and issues unattended to.
Most of the time Kian didn’t mind the intense pace and the heavy mantle of responsibility. It kept him far too busy to dwell on the fact that he was lonely, although rarely alone. Or that his very long and productive life felt futile, despite all of his accomplishments.
Just once in a while he would have liked to slow down. Savor life. Smell the coffee.
Coffee, he could really use some right now, followed by Okidu’s decadent waffles, topped with fresh fruit and smothered in coconut whipped cream. It wasn’t the healthiest of breakfasts, but what the heck. It was good!
He was fortunate to have Okidu as his cook, his butler, his cleaner, his chauffeur, and his companion. Lots of hats for one person to wear, but then again, Okidu wasn’t really a person. Quite often, Kian had trouble remembering that his butler wasn’t a living breathing man.
Okidu was a marvel of ingenuity; a biomechanical masterpiece posing as a person. He didn’t require sleep, didn’t require maintenance, was self-repairing, and could survive on garbage. He could even morph his form from male to female and vice versa by adjusting his facial features and body shape; sometimes alternating between the two just for the sake of entertainment, and sometimes because circumstances favored a particular gender. Inherently, Okidu had none. No reproductive system or sex organs to define him one way or the other.
No one knew who’d created Okidu, or how, or when. There were only seven of his kind known to exist. A priceless masterpiece that could not be replicated or replaced. Over five thousand years ago, the seven had been a wedding gift to Kian’s mother, a token of love from her groom. They had been believed to be an ancient relic even then.
Kian couldn’t remember a time without Okidu being around. Since he was a little boy, Okidu had been there to ensure his safety, to feed him, to dress him, and to keep him company.
Though uncomfortable thinking of Okidu as a possession, as such, he was Kian’s most valued one. Regrettably, Okidu couldn’t be a friend or a confidant, he just didn’t function that way. With his decision-making ability limited to a preprogrammed set of instructions within which he could learn and adapt, he was incapable of feeling true emotions. Nevertheless, he easily fooled the casual observer by approximating the appropriate tone and facial expressions.
“Good morning, Master!” Okidu exclaimed with a happy face and a perfect British accent as Kian entered the kitchen. Lately, he had taken to acting out his favorite mini-series on BBC, featuring an aristocratic British family and their household staff. Okidu had been alternating between mimicking the snobby butler, the hurried maid, and the cockney driver. Lacking a personality of his own, he must’ve calculated that mimicking cliché characters would make his passing for a human likelier.
It had been amusing at first. The exaggerated gestures, the different costumes, the accents. It was like having a private comedy show—every day, all day long, for weeks on end. It became annoying, and this morning it really grated on Kian’s nerves.
Furthermore, there were only two waffles left, with Anandur and Brundar ogling them like a couple of hungry wolves.
“I saved the last two for you, Master!” Okidu chimed.
Kian felt like punching something, or someone, or rather two someones. Pinning the two with a hard stare, he barked, “Do I have to see your sorry faces every morning before I’ve even had my coffee? And then you wolf down my waffles? Don’t you have food in your place?”
The brothers had an apartment two stories down from Kian’s penthouse, and though every Guardian had one in the family’s secure high rise, they preferred to stay together and share one.
Smack in the midd
le of downtown Los Angeles, the building he had built for the clan’s American arm was a luxurious dig. To preserve appearances, some of the lower floor apartments were time-shared by international corporations in need of lodging for their visiting executives. The upper floors and an extensive underground facility served the clan. A private parking level, with elevators that required a thumbprint to open their doors, ensured his family could come and go safely and discreetly.
It took hiding in plain sight to a whole new level.
“Sorry, boss, but our kitchen doesn’t come equipped with Okidu. And to be honest, between Brundar and me, we can’t even fry an egg.” Anandur was still eyeing the surviving waffles.
Kian sighed. “Resistance is futile,” he murmured and poured himself a cup of coffee. Leaning his butt against the counter, he took a satisfying first sip of the hot brew.
“Please make some more waffles for the kids, Okidu. You have underestimated their appetite.”
“Coming right up, sire!”
“It smells heavenly in here.” Kri, their only female Guardian, poked her head into the kitchen.
Tall and athletic, his young niece was a kick-ass kind of girl, which got her the approval of the male Guardians. And although muscular and wide shouldered, she still managed to look feminine.
As always, her long tawny hair was pulled away from her pretty face and woven into a tight braid. Today, the heavy rope was draped over the front of a red workout shirt.
“Okidu made waffles, and no one called me? I’m deeply wounded.” She walked in and planted her rear on a stool.
“Come in. Why the hell not? It’s a goddamn party!” Kian dropped a plate in front of Kri and poured her a cup of coffee.
He couldn’t tell her to go away now, could he? She had as much right, or lack thereof, to invade his kitchen as the other two.
“Thank you, Kian. As always, you’re so kind.” Kri accepted the mug. Holding it in both hands, she took a sip. “Ugh, bitter, I need sugar.” As his stern look made it perfectly clear that he was done serving her, Kri got up to get it herself. “I know. I’ve already used up my quota of hospitality.”
