Extinction Machine jl-5

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Why did that change things?” I asked.

  “Because Dad knew Erasmus Tull,” she said. “By the time I was in college, Erasmus was around the lab all the time. He’d become part of the team that was searching for new components, and he was apparently very successful at it. He kept getting promotions even though he was so young. Hearing about Erasmus — someone I could not possibly know — seemed to do something to Dad. That’s when he began making copies of everything related to the Project.”

  “Including the Black Book,” said Church quietly.

  “Yes. Dad had been such a company man that they never thought he’d betray them. But loyalty has to cut both ways, and when he realized that the Project was built on lies, he turned against them. Dad was a patriot, Joe. When they found out that he’d copied the Black Book, they had him killed.”

  “But your mother was killed in the same rigged accident,” I said. “Why? Whose side was she on?”

  “My mother was still very much with the company … and there’s a pretty good chance she’s the one who turned Dad in.”

  “So why’d they kill her?” asked Lydia.

  Junie gave her a long, hard look. “You should ask Erasmus Tull that question. Maybe it was easier to manage the hit that way. Or maybe he was running out of time.”

  “I have one last question,” said Church. “When you began your podcast and published your books on M3 and the Black Book, those people had to suspect that your father told you crucial secrets. Why didn’t they come after you?”

  “They did, once. A car bombing in Egypt that was blamed on terrorists. And a close call with what the police called a ‘failed abduction-rape.’ It failed because half the football team came stumbling out of a bar just as two men in black clothes tried to pull me into a van.”

  “No,” said Sam, “those were close calls, but someone like this guy Tull could have taken you out with a bullet or one of those microwave pistols. And you’ve been living all alone at that lighthouse for how long? Not to offend you, miss, but you should be dead a hundred times over.”

  “Which means they don’t want you dead,” said Top. “Now why would that be?”

  “I think it’s obvious,” I said. “For whatever reason, the governors of M3 want the world to know about the Majestic Black Book. Maybe they’re planning a big event, a reveal, and this is part of a plan to pave the way.”

  “That sounds thin,” said Pete.

  “It’s not,” countered Church. “Our government does that all the time. We leaked information on the stealth program before we rolled the first ships out. It cut down on wild speculation from eyewitnesses who thought they were seeing UFOs. This is a standard policy, like a valve that lets off steam. It makes the reveal less of a staggering drama.”

  “Iran did that with their nuclear program,” I said, and he nodded. “Which means that Junie’s podcasts and books could be part of a limited and very selective disclosure process.”

  “I think you’re right,” she confessed. “Besides, before last night they probably thought I only knew bits and pieces of the book. After all … I sat on the information for years. I was afraid to do anything with it. My life hasn’t exactly taught me to trust anyone. Family, governments … you wonder why I write about conspiracies? My whole life has been in the heart of one of the biggest conspiracies of the last century, and that’s not a theory.”

  “And last night you told the whole damn world that you had the Black Book and were going to share it with everyone,” said Bunny. “No offense, but … why not just paint a bull’s-eye on yourself? You had to know they’d move heaven and earth to pop a cap in you.”

  She shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  She was a long time answering. Ghost caught something, some emotion, and he whimpered and leaned against her. Junie bent and wrapped her arms around him, burying her cheek against the soft white fur on the top of his head.

  “Gene therapy is still largely experimental. There are always unexpected side effects,” she said, her eyes distant and her voice very soft. Then, she took a long, ragged breath, reached up, entwined her fingers in her wild blond hair … and pulled it off. Beneath the wig she was totally bald, her smooth skull unmarked except for the small blue tattoos the radiology techs put there to mark the spot where the tumor is. Then she looked up, looked at each of us.

  “They don’t need to kill me,” she said. “They already have.”

  Chapter Ninety-eight

  VanMeer Castle

  Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Sunday, October 20, 8:59 p.m.

  They stood in a row, staring through the glass at the massive vehicle.

  “Well,” said Aldo quietly, “now there’s something you don’t see every day.”

  “Actually…,” said Howard, but let the rest hang.

  “And it works?” breathed Aldo.

  “Yes indeed.”

  “But I thought there were all sorts of problems…”

  “Ah,” said Howard, “you’ve been in the field too long, my boy. We are no longer throwing all of our efforts into trying to build a Device or a Truman Engine. We have built it. You see, we were doing things backward. We kept trying to assemble the ten components of the engine first and that always led to disaster. It didn’t appear to make sense. Then we stepped back and reevaluated the process of sympathetic gravity. When certain conditions are maintained the ten D-type components remain inert; but when they’re allowed to enter into close proximity, the engine assembles itself. It’s wonderful, almost magical if you didn’t know that it was science.”

  “Right, but then it blows up.”

  “Yes and no,” said Howard. “It only blows up if there is nothing to balance the energetic discharge at the precise moment when the components form the complete engine. We kept trying to do only that. Then we realized that this isn’t how the original builders of these craft did it. They clearly kept at least one part in stasis — much like you and Tull did with the miniatures today. Those parts needed to stay in stasis until the eleventh component was in place. Or … perhaps we should more appropriately say that we were aware of components one through nine and component eleven, but we never realized that there was a component missing from the complete engine. We kept trying to build it without that crucial tenth piece.”

  Tull got it first, and he nodded.

  “The pilot,” he said. “The pilot has to be in place before the engine can be allowed to complete itself.”

  “Clever boy!” Howard cried out in delight and patted Tull on the cheek. “You were always the smartest one in your group. Yes, that is exactly what needs to happen. Once the pilot was in place, he could then allow the eleventh piece to slide into place, thus completing a true biomechanical engine.”

  “Son of a bitch…,” Aldo said with real admiration. He grinned from ear to ear. His joy was so infectious that even Mr. Bones smiled. “So it doesn’t take a full alien to run these things.”

  “We didn’t know that at first,” said Mr. Bones. “At first all we could determine is that a dead alien wouldn’t work. We tried that once and got the same big bang. That’s what really kicked the hybrid program into top gear. After some very costly and very, um, unfortunate tests, we managed to quantify how much of the organic material needs to be alien DNA and how much can be ordinary human. Turns out it’s not a lot — eighteen percent — but it has to be the right eighteen percent. That was thirty years’ worth of disasters, lab accidents, and collateral damage before we figured that out.”

  “How many pilots do you guys have?”

  “Oh, there are plenty,” said Howard, “but ‘pilot’ really isn’t the right word. Any hybrid can form the basis of the biomechanical engine matrix. That person does not have to be the one to fly the ship. So, in a pinch any hybrid will do, as long as there is a way for us to control the ship. Remote-control science is booming — the entire military drone program is a side effect of our resear
ch into remote control over these ships. And as for the hybrids … and there’s no shortage of the hybrids out there. We seeded them into the general population in the hopes that they’ll breed. The more the merrier, because we keep track and we can always grab what we need. They can’t really hide — they’re all too exceptional for that.”

  Mr. Bones smirked. “The folks in the New Age community call them ‘indigo children,’ they think that the human race has suddenly taken an unexpected evolutionary jump. There are thousands of them out there now. Almost half a percent of all the children adopted in the United States since 1985 are hybrids. We know which ones are from which batch. Just as we know which ones are specials. Like our dear Erasmus Tull. Twenty-two percent of his brain is alien. Makes him special in a lot of ways. His IQ in unchartable, and he has so many nifty gifts.”

  Tull glanced at him. “Do I know any of the real pilots?”

  “Some. There are a few from your group, but most come from Group Eight.”

  Tull made a face. He did not approve of the candidates from the groups that came after his. They were too emotional. Many of them were so unsuited to the Project that they were kept on the periphery, allowed to live because they were useful breeding stock, but kept in the dark about who they were or that they were part of anything besides a foster family. With Group Nine and beyond, the kids were raised in facilities that more closely approximated orphanages. Easier to cycle them into foster families that way. Fewer questions.

  Technicians crawled all over the triangular machine, making adjustments, checking the fuselage for the tiniest imperfections.

  “There are still openings in the pilot program,” mused Howard. “Not too late.”

  “Don’t start that again.”

  Aldo looked at him. “Really? You telling me you had a chance to fly one of these things and you passed? Are you out of your fucking mind? I’d give my left nut to fly one.”

  “Tull washed out of the program,” said Mr. Bones cattily.

  “You’re shitting me,” said Aldo.

  “Not at all. He was in one of the first groups of pilot candidates, but our Mr. Tull had a problem with the commitment to the program.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tull shook his head. “He’s screwing with me, Aldo. I quit the program because in order to fly the ship you have to let the ship do most of the work. It … reads you. It does all the work. You sit there like meat in a chair.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” said Howard. “The biomechanical interface requires—”

  “Hey,” snapped Tull, “can we just drop it? I don’t want to be a pilot, not like that. We all know where I belong in the Majestic Project. I think I proved that this afternoon.”

  Howard chuckled and patted him on the back. “Yes, you did, my boy, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

  “And yet Junie Flynn is still out there with a complete copy of the Majestic Black Book,” said Mr. Bones dryly. “Probably memorized, considering her talents. Yes, your fellows killed a lot of the bad guys, but let’s not forget that the destruction of the DMS was intended as a distraction. I believe that prioritizing that over killing Junie Flynn was a poor strategic choice.”

  Tull turned to him and smiled a killer’s smile. “You know, Bonesy, you’ve always been kind of a dick. Are you aware of that?”

  “Hey now,” warned Howard. “Mr. Bones is a governor of—”

  “I know exactly what he is, Howard,” said Tull. “He’s a toadie. Without you, he’d be nothing.”

  “Attacking me doesn’t change the fact that you let Junie Flynn slip away,” said Mr. Bones, unperturbed.

  “Did I?” He fished in his pocket and removed a small tracking device that was part of the Ghost Box unit. “I know exactly where she is.”

  “What?” said Mr. Bones, startled.

  “As soon as I took charge of this mission I sent a whole flock of the pigeon drones to Turkey Point. When Ledger’s team picked Junie and Ledger up, the drones clamped on to their Black Hawk. I’ve been getting continuous feeds all day. Right now they’re at a farm in Robinwood, Maryland. Guess who owns that farm?” Tull did not wait for them to reply. “John Allen Ledger, aka Jack Ledger, our boy’s uncle. And, according to satellite photos, the Black Hawk is parked behind the barn and there are three vehicles at the place. I think Ledger’s using the farm as a bolt-hole, gathering anyone we didn’t clip at the Warehouse. I’ll bet you Aldo’s right nut that Junie Flynn is right there. Safe, sound, and in our crosshairs any time we want her.”

  Chapter Ninety-nine

  House of Jack Ledger

  Near Robinwood, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 9:06 p.m.

  I was floored. I felt like the biggest horse’s ass in the world. And I felt a stabbing sadness that drove its wicked point all the way through me.

  “Junie, I—”

  She put her fingertips to my mouth.

  “Please,” she said. “There’s not a lot to say. I’ve been over the shock of it for weeks. I’ve made my peace and I know that once I transition out of here then a lot of things will be better for me. No more pain. No more fear.” Her eyes were bright with tears, and with calm dignity, Junie put her wig back on and adjusted it. She gave me a small smile. “It’s really my hair,” she said. “I had it cut off and made into a wig before I started the radiation. Vain, I know, but we all have our flaws.”

  “There are no medical records…” Church began.

  “I know. I have friends all over. One of the perks of being a player in the conspiracy theory field is you get to meet a lot of people who know how to keep a secret. I pay cash for all of my treatments and there’s a place in Philadelphia where I can get those treatments without using my real name.”

  I closed my fingers around her hand, pulled it away from my mouth but didn’t let it go. She allowed me to hold her hand, and even gave me a small reassuring squeeze. That nearly broke my heart. She, this woman with a horrible past and no future at all, giving me reassurance.

  Into the staggering silence, Mr. Church’s phone rang. He looked down at the display. “Linden Brierly,” he said. No one spoke. Church said very little, thanked Brierly, and disconnected. Then he placed a call to Aunt Sallie. “Auntie, Brierly said he already called you, so you know where we stand,” he told her. “I’m initiating Protocol Seventeen.”

  He disconnected and placed the phone on the table next to his chair. We waited in silence while he gathered himself. I’ll bet he was aching for a vanilla wafer.

  Mr. Church said, “By executive order, as of oh-eight-thirty Eastern Time the president of the United States has officially revoked the charter of the Department of Military Sciences. All field offices are to be closed immediately. We are to cease all activities, abandon all cases, and vacate all premises associated with the DMS. We are to return all weapons, equipment, and credentials provided by same. All personnel are hereby suspended with pay from government service pending notification of status.”

  We stared at him, totally dumbfounded.

  “The executive order further states that anyone acting contrary to the letter or the spirit of this order should be considered a threat to national security and an enemy of the state.”

  Mr. Church picked up his teacup and sipped it.

  “Well,” said Top, “at least they’re still paying us.”

  There were a few smiles. No real laughs.

  Bunny looked down at the papers spread out on the table. “So, basically if we keep trying to save the country and maybe the world from a bunch of murderous assholes with outer space weapons, then we’re the bad guys?”

  “In a nutshell,” said Mr. Church.

  Bunny looked around the room, then shrugged his big shoulders. “Then, hey … let’s be bad guys.”

  Chapter One Hundred

  VanMeer Castle

  Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Sunday, October 20, 9:15 p.m.

  “You knew all of this and you�
��re content to just leave them there?” demanded Mr. Bones.

  “Not exactly,” said Erasmus Tull. “I didn’t come here to get a pat on the head as a good dog, Bones. I wanted to talk this over with Mr. Shelton. And, yes, with you. I know you guys used Junie to seed the ground for the eventual reveal of Specter 101 and that whole generation of superspeed aircraft, but if she really has memorized the Black Book, why not bring her in and — I don’t know—file her away somewhere. Great reference book.”

  “Nice looking, too,” agreed Aldo.

  “She’d never cooperate with something like that,” said Mr. Bones.

  “‘Cooperate’?” said Tull, amused. “You really don’t get out of the lab much, do you? If we want her to ‘cooperate’ then we just apply the right pressure.”

  Howard pursed his lips. “That’s not bad. Her use as a free agent is pretty much done. Let’s bring her in.”

  Mr. Bones snorted. “She’s with Joe Ledger. Are you going to send more of your Closers in to do the pickup? How many are you willing to waste on that little project?”

  “No,” said Tull. “I’ll do it.”

  Howard shook his head. “I want you here. We have important guests coming in the morning. You don’t want to miss the demonstration.”

  “When?”

  “Eight thirty. I convinced certain key members of the DoD, including some very important generals that Shelton Aeronautics has something in late-stage development that might provide a response to the attack at Dugway. Everyone I called is very interested. So, instead of a big reveal at the air show, which is moot anyway, we’re going to have a private screening, so to speak.”