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The B2 crossed into South Africa about the same time the Demon Plague Two probe entered Earth’s orbit. This was intentional; all eyes, such as Earth had, would be straining skyward toward the approaching danger, not looking for one solitary long-range aircraft sneaking through the empty atmosphere of a battered Earth.
Fortress Team One, hurriedly encased in their bomb-shaped drop pods, woke within a few minutes of each other from precisely metered drugged sleep by even more precisely metered stimulants. Recorded messages whispered in their ears, reminding them not to panic or struggle, that they would soon be released into the air above their target, there to parachute to Earth and accomplish their assigned mission.
In his casing, Skull wondered whether his final message to Commander Forman had gotten through. He figured there was about half a chance. Half a chance he had signed his own death warrant, his own personal Kobayshi Maru scenario, if he couldn’t somehow change the rules.
He wondered why he did it. It wasn’t like him, to risk himself for – for what? Or maybe not for, but just against something one more time, against another opportunistic slimy son of a bitch trying to seize power for himself. Maybe that was why Skull favored Markis in spite of everything – he hadn’t seized power for its own sake. He’d been thrust into it, and was just trying to do the best he could.
Eight miles above Carletonville, over the Free Communities’ consolidated biological laboratory, the internal bay doors opened and the rotary launcher powered up.
Nine nano-infused casings wrapped nine nano-infused men. The treatment on the casings was to ensure there would be no evidence after the drop; every bit of the pods would be disassembled to dust by the tiny machines.
The mechanism spun on its axis, flinging the nine men Earthward in a tight vertical stream, a ladder-like stack of cylinders with stubby fins ensuring their orientations. Halfway down, at an altitude containing enough oxygen, casings disintegrated, flaking off in chunks and pieces that became bits and then dust, eventually to fall inside raindrops or drift as particulates across the landscape. Thus revealed and set free, drogue chutes deployed, small stabilizers that slowed and guided the armored nanocommandos until they could assume their hard arches and their body-flight positions, to loose the tiny puffing bits of nylon and dacron and silk until they linked up in formation, guided merely by the glow of their chem-lights.
Air rushed past them and because of its ever-present susurration fell silent, not literally but in their own perceptions because it filled their worlds, this rushing in the blackness, the stars above and the lights edging up toward them from below. They checked their altimeters on wrists or bellies as they preferred, watching the inexorable and hypnotic sweep of hundreds and thousands of feet, second-hands of death-clocks counting down toward oblivion.
Nanobots inside them insulated their psyches like opiates, wrapped them in warm cocoons of invincibility, whispering in their ears like lovers as they had come to know in the last few days of their training, seductive, orgasmic, promising and delivering the adrenaline rush of the ubermensch. Skull kept a grip on his sanity at the expense of joy and the happiness, or giddiness, that the others displayed. They were deadly puppies, all teeth and tackles, all but Huff, who always kept one eye on Skull, waiting for the inevitable wrong move.
Somewhere during the dive, the drugs burned themselves out and the fall settled down to an ordinariness that disappointed; Skull most of all, as it was seldom that he allowed himself out of his own head for fear of the loss of control. Sanity had its price and tonight that price was paradise lost.
He checked his altimeter, blazing through ten thousand feet. Thirty seconds or so and they would deploy their ram-air wings, thirty more seconds to think about what was before and ahead. The first rip and pop startled Skull out of his almost-fugue and he released his own pilot chute that dragged his main from its tightly packed stowage.
These parachutes were large and slow, gentle giants that would set them down as if on pillows even with sixty pounds of gear. Thirty pounds of armor, twenty of weaponry, ten of miscellaneous stuff, no nonsense. Some food, some water, knives and lights and all those things combat troops can’t live without.
They had practiced with these loads, and Skull had hardly felt them. Not only was his body supercharged, but his confidence followed, a dangerous invincible feeling stronger than any happy-drug, manufactured by his own brain in no way related to the nanobots other than his own beliefs, the high of a rock star on stage or a lottery winner.
Their boots struck the rocky mountainsides right after their combat equipment bags and they danced, dragging down their canopies until they collapsed like slashed jellyfish in the southern hemisphere’s autumnal zephyr, to follow the capsules into nanite dust. Nine men assembled as three teams of three, only then switching on their HUD-equipped helmets.
The sensor-equipped brain-buckets, like the pioneering smartphones of decades before, coated the world with a virtual overlay, identifying any anomaly it could, marking those it couldn’t, all displayed on the inside of bullet-resistant clear synthetic crystal of the Heads-Up Display.
“Listen up,” Skull said over their private secure network. “Change of plan. I’m taking Objective One. Huff, you got Two, Miller, you got Three. Get to it.”
“Uh, why?” came a voice, Miller’s, Skull thought.
“Shut up, Miller,” cut in Huff. “Do what the man says.” They heard some mumbled muttering but no more objections.
The three sections scattered, scrabbling across the rocky hillside above the brightly lit lab complex. The HUDs showed their paths like a GPS would have before the satellites were fried, though these keyed off the three-dimensional models assembled from the high-resolution photographs and synthetic-aperture radars of spy planes. These paths diverged as soon as they jumped over the fence.
With low-light amplifiers linked to the HUD processors, they sprinted for their objectives, exceeding thirty miles an hour even over broken ground, leaping rocks and bushes, hurdlers in the Special Operations Olympics.
Section Three was first to find Murphy, which was all right by Two and One as Three was the least important, its purpose more diversion than accomplishment. The running men tripped a pop flare, a simple mechanical device that fired a parachute-equipped bright burning light into the air, pinpointing them in its pitiless white while simultaneously drawing attention. They dealt with it by the simple expedient of running faster. By the time the reaction team came driving out in its armored vehicles, they were hundreds of meters away. They found another trip flare the same way, and Miller directed them toward their target, a warehouse on the far side of the lab from the more important targets One and Two.
Miller kicked the steel-cored door open in one violent blow. He felt his ankle compress, an impact sprain that would have been debilitating without the nanobots. He felt the joint grow hot and imagined the tiny machines frantically rebuilding his cartilage and bone like earthmoving equipment on a construction site. He kept his weight off it as he had been taught to make sure it healed properly, hopping easily on one leg for a moment or two.
He stared at the stacks and pallets and shelves inside, strangely familiar but unearthly in the faint emergency lights. “Find something flammable, something that will get cooking.”
Banson and Marquez leaped up onto the shelves, banging on boxes and barrels and crates with the butts of their assault rifles, looking for anything that would burn or boil or burst. One of the tall shelves with heavy supplies began to sway under Banson’s feet. “Hey, look at this!” he cried like the juvenile delinquent he nearly was, and he deliberately began to set up an oscillation, a harmonic swaying that within seconds knocked it over. Giant dominos, six more shelves fell over in a rolling barrage of falling boxes, barrels and bins. He whooped and hollered.
“Set some charges, here and there. Rig some thermite.”
A siren began in the distance, a rising and falling signal that someone had noticed something, possibly them, possibly something else. “Come on,” yelled Miller, “We need to be the diversion.”
“Fire in the hole,” Miller heard from above, and Marquez laughed, leaping to the top of another ten-foot-high shelf, well out of the line of the small blasts on the mess above. It amused him to take risks he never would have before. The bursts were small, bare pops that soon faded to curses. “Nothing really flammable here.”
“Come on down here, then,” he called, dropping back to the floor. “Put your charges right here, touching mine. They’ll all go off together. Yeah, stick a timer on there, two minutes ought to do it. I got the command detonator too.”
They slapped their charges up next to his, then began tossing boxes and barrels on top of the explosives. If they couldn’t get a fire started, the next best thing was blowing the place sky-high, like firecrackers under tin cans. Maybe they could take down the building.
A large bay door began rolling upward just then, and flashing yellow lights came on, warning all and sundry of the movement. A tactical stack of the reaction force scooted through the opening, weapons out in all the standard directions. A bullhorn from one of the two armored vehicles revealed by the rising door threw an amplified voice echoing into the metal space. “Put down your weapons and approach with your hands up. This is your only warning.”
Miller laughed, and he could hear Banson and Marquez’s amusement come over his secure link. “Split and take them!” he called, bolting to his right as his assault rifle spat bullets at the armored vehicles to keep their heads down. The other two men were closer to their dismounted team and would have no problem with them.
Projectiles crisscrossed the hangar, bright sparkling lights from ricochets and Needleshock impacts following at his heels, but far too slow as he accelerated like a cheetah, angling for the edge of the big door, trying to get out of the building and off into the darkness. He cursed himself for putting all six pounds of explosive compound under the supplies; he thought he could have run up and stuck a charge on the light armored vehicle nearest him and gotten away before he got shot, so fast could he run.
The spotlight followed him as he raced around the corner and out of sight, then in darkness skidded to a stop and put an eye to a bullet-hole, flipping up his HUD. He watched as Banson and Marquez cut down the dismounted tactical team with full automatic fire, eerily precise even as they ran for the back of the storehouse and the rear personnel door. They shielded themselves from enemy heavy sticky-round machine gun fire with the bulk of the shelves, and as soon as the men kicked open the back door Miller squeezed the detonator.
He closed his eyes but realized he should have put his HUD shield down as six pounds of high explosive shockwave slapped the metal wall in front of him, punching him in the face as the building’s skin flexed. He fell backward into a combat roll, ignoring the pain and running toward the side where his men had gotten out.
As he rounded the back corner he heard the high chattering of PW10 Needleshock submachine guns, and he laughed. With their full armor his men would go through these Sickos like a mower through green grass. He saw Banson and Marquez trading fire with an enemy fire team of five who had taken good cover positions behind more pallets. Miller had their flank and he ruthlessly exploited his position to roll up the enemy, gunning four men down before his magazine clicked empty.
He raced the last man, Eden youth and reaction time against Nano speed, but Miller had a lot more to do – drop his magazine, move it over and jam the full one taped alongside back in. The Eden just had to swing his weapon ninety degrees.
It was a dead heat. Miller imagined he could see the Needleshock rounds reaching for him as both men’s weapons spat muzzle flame. Perhaps he did see them in the instant before three hypervelocity bullets slammed through his forgotten-open face shield and into his brain, his dying thought echoing: I am so stupid.
The two other Nanos screamed in rage and charged the shooter, cutting him down ruthlessly before checking on their team leader. “He’s done,” said Marquez. “Let’s go kill some of these Sicko bastards.”
Forgetting the second part of their mission, the part where they joined up with the rest, go kill they did: Light Brigade charges at every security force they saw until they were finally brought down by massed fire. The Edens’ terror overrode their reluctance to risk the kill; sticky rounds and Needleshock and concussion grenades blended into a focused cacophony of submission that pummeled them into unconsciousness.
***
Section Two jogged, if their blazing pace could be so termed, toward the housing area on the southeast outskirts of the laboratory complex. The three faceless robo-beings out of some sci-fi shoot-em-up moved in ways that, if they were on a movie screen, would engender cries of “no way” and “agh, what horrible CGI,” but it was all for real this time.
They bounced twenty and thirty feet in a stride, leaped over automobiles and trucks, supermen with single bounds. They even jumped onto and over an entire dwelling, scampering along its roof, berserk high-tech elves a long way from Christmas.
Huff led his men, Bullion and Campbell, to the intended place, a nondescript house that seemed just slightly out of place, a bit older and grander than the others around it, as if it had been there for some time and the others had sprung up more recently like mushrooms, for they had. The neat and artistic painting on the welcome-plate next to the door read “Nightingale,” but the three men had little time to read it as they burst through the thin front door.
Two minutes of screaming and hollering later the occupants of the home were duly frightened and assembled in the living room, five children whimpering all on one sofa, their four parents sitting in the love seat and the two armchairs.
“Well, well,” Huff cackled, swinging up his faceplate. “Daniel freakin’ Markis, at the end of my barrel. One twitch of my finger and bang, no more DJ the PJ.”
Markis stared frozen in his seat, fearing more for the children and his wife than himself. “What’s this about?” he asked mildly.
“It’s about a li’l fun, Chair-man. You in the chair now, ain’t you? But hey, don’ worry, like they say in the movies, nothing bad’s gonna happen if you just cooperate. Here, look at what my homie got in his hand there.” Bullion held up a deadman switch attached to a block of explosive, all rigged to be ugly and obvious. “One slip and, bang! You wanna gamble on your Plague saving those cute little tweens?”
Larry, in his boxers on the love seat next to Shawna, held his palm out to his children as they started to bolt to him. “Stay there, baby, Ellis, just stay there.”
“Cooperate how?” Shawna asked, angry. “What do you want?”
Sirens started to wail in the distance, and the landline rang next to Elise Markis. She looked at it, then at Huff, her hands clenched in her lap. Daniel’s cell phone sounded from the bedroom. A rattling boom, a muffled explosion from far off, shook the house. More sirens began.
“Right now, I want you to just remain seated and shut down all your mobile and electronic devices until the captain turns off the seatbelt sign, and we will all enjoy our flight. Get it?” Huff laughed, his tongue sticking out, mock-comical. “Just to help you do it, I’ll point out that these are standard full metal jacket rounds, none of your pansy-ass nonlethal shit. Right now my compadres are doing some dances out there and we’d rather nobody helped command and control and coordinate anything, you dig? Now shut up!”
Minutes went by in silence, broken only by the quiet blubbering of children and shifting bodies in seats, and the sound of phones ringing repeatedly. Finally Daniel said, “They’ll eventually send someone here, you know.”
“I know. But we can handle that. In fact, just in case you get any heroic ideas – yeah, you too, big man,” Huff said, pointing his muzzle at Larry, “nice definition by the way, you must work out a lot – let me show you something.”
Flatfooted, without telegraphing in the least, Huff tossed his rifle into the air, just a little lift that left it hanging for an instant while he exploded into motion, mule-kicking the wall behind him. His foot drove through the drywall, the stud and out the other side, then came right back out to take its place on the ground before he deftly caught the weapon from its fall. The whole procedure had taken only fractions of a second.
“What the hell are you?” Shawna gasped.
“Tiny Fortress,” murmured Elise and Larry, simultaneous.
“Got it in one. Give the dynamic duo a prize,” Huff cackled. “This nano stuff is da bomb, yo.”
“Very impressive. You know, I used to play dat gansta shizzle too, mister whatever your name is,” Larry remarked.
“Oh, nigga, don’t even try it. You so out of date you soun’ like a ol’ Richard Pryor video. And my name, if that’s what you’ fishin’ for, is Huff. As in, suck it up, baby!” He did the open mouth laugh thing again, and Bullion and Campbell joined in, their amusement sounding hollow and muted behind their face shields.
“So what happens next?” Daniel asked, reaching slowly across to squeeze Elise’s hand in comfort.
“Just listen for the biggest sound around. Once you hear that, we should get a few more visitors. Then, when it’s all over, we make nice-nice and become friends and good citizens and Australians.”
The Edens glanced at each other, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Daniel.
“You gonna find out. For now, think about your kids and keep wondering. You won’ catch me monologuing myself into lettin’ these heroes get out of the trap, no suh.”
“I got to pee,” Daniela whimpered.
“Go on, baby, go pee and come right back,” Huff said, his voice deceptively gentle. “Don’t run away, or I’ll blow your little brother sky-high and you won’t be able to find him when you get to heaven.”
Shawna sprang to her feet and lunged toward Huff but Larry held her back.“You are one sick bastard,” she spat.
Suddenly affecting flat middle-America, Huff remarked, “You better hope so, because if I’m not, I must really be having a psychotic break, don’t you think?” That blinding white smile filled his dark face, and she sat back down, Larry’s arm protectively across her. “Better the devil you know.”
A sound began, a noise they had not heard in weeks, and even then only once, a roaring blast that called to mind an airliner low overhead or a fleet of double-rotor helicopters. Everyone instinctively looked up, even though the roar seemed to emanate from everywhere.
“That’s Raphaela’s shuttle,” Elise suddenly realized out loud.
“Oh, you are a smart lady. No wonder the Chairman likes you! Everybody say bye-bye. Go on, kids, say bye-bye to Raphael as he – she? –it? – flies away into space. Ground control to Major Tom! I’m a rocket man! I don’t care, I’m still free, you can’t take the sky from meeeeee.” Huff broke into a reasonably accurate rendition of the theme from Star Trek, doing a little jig and shuffle. “All right. Now let’s talk about Australia.”
“You’re crazy,” Larry said, meaning it with all his heart.
“Only for you, big man, only for you.”
***
Skull led Holden and Lumpkins through the streets of the lab complex at a jog, not hot-dogging or attracting attention. All quiet. It looks like my warning to Markis via Forman did not get through in time. I’m not sure if I’m happy or not. Either way, I have to make this work.
The main biolab entrance was set into the side of one of the rocky hills, built there originally to insulate and preserve it from the UGNA’s kinetic strikes. More importantly now, the question was whether they had used this advantage to improve security, creating a chokepoint with multilayered defenses.
The men slowed to a walk as they approached the built-out portion of the entrance, a steel shed that blended roughly into the hillside. Skull could see a man in a well-lit space behind a glassy barrier. Foolish. The light in there should be low, allowing better visibility to the guard and hiding him from us.
Stepping inside the door, Skull took two rapid steps before the surprised sentry could react, shoving the barrel of his assault rifle through the speaking grille. All very low-tech, it was unable to stop a determined attack.
Edens. Too damned trusting. “Just freeze there, officer, and nobody gets hurt. Open that door. No, really, open it or I just shoot you and open it myself. There you go.”
The door buzzed open as the guard pushed the release. “Lumpkins, sticky,” Skull ordered.
Lumpkins wrapped the guard’s hands and feet together with tape, one layer over the man’s mouth, as the other two dashed through the door. Down the entrance corridor, then they split up, calling “clear” as they found no one working that time of night – except their target.
“You are as beautiful in person as you look on television,” Skull said as he walked into the room.
Raphaela lifted her fingers from the keyboard in surprise, freezing in place, all except for her head, which tracked his movements. “I am unarmed and unresisting. Please tell me your intentions.” Her voice was calm, perfectly modulated.
Skull marveled a moment at the alien, just admiring her sculpted perfection. “Better than plastic surgery, this ability you have.”
“I decided it is best to be as attractive as possible. It generally engenders positive reactions in humans.”
“To a point. I’m sure the human part of you can explain where that advantage ends. But I’m not here to chat. Come along with me. We’re taking a little trip.”
She stood, almost of a height with her captor, though Skull was still taller. “May I ask where?”
“Out to your comet base. And why, you will soon ask? Because I’m a suspicious bastard. Let’s go.” He reached out to grasp her elbow, propelling her in the direction of the door.
She twisted in his grip, suddenly not there. Elbows and knees flashed, thudded into armor, an exchange of blows ending with Skull pinning Raphaela bodily against the ceiling overhead.
“That was stupid, and I thought you weren’t stupid.” He effortlessly set her down on her feet, then resumed propelling her down the corridors and out past the immobilized guard. “Holden, see if there are some keys in the office for that truck out there.”
They piled into the truck, Holden driving them through the streets of the lab complex, suddenly anthill-busy with flashing lights, sirens, and explosions in the distance. “Where is your spacecraft?”
“In a hangar, at the runway.”
“Thanks for not lying. I detest it when people lie to me.” Skull kept his grip locked on Raphaela’s arm to discourage any more resistance, or escape. “Tell me, how fast can your ship reach your base?”
The Blend stared at Skull for a long moment. “At one gravity acceleration, about eight days. Is that what we are doing? Going to my – to Raphael’s – base?”
“Among other things. Is there food and water aboard?”
“There’s abundant water, and food for both of us can be synthesized, though I don’t think it will be very palatable.”
“As long as it keeps us alive.” They pulled up in front of the hangar’s personnel door and quickly broke in. The moderate interior space was filled by the shuttle. Skull called, “Get that rolling ladder over here.” They climbed the thing to stand on top of the wing. “All right, open it.”
Raphaela placed her hand on the whitesparkle skin of the craft and its door appeared.
Skull stepped inside holding her close to him in the pitch-black interior. He put his face next to hers. “Look, with your technology in here I’m sure there are a dozen sneaky things you can do to try to regain control of the situation, but all of those are risky. I am stronger and faster and tougher than any human being you have ever dealt with, and anything you do will result in painful violence. So let’s cooperate for a while, shall we? Turn on some lights.”
“Lights, low” she spoke, and there was light, dim, ephemeral, but sufficient. His HUD began processing what it saw, identifying very little.
“Gentlemen, it’s been an honor. Open the hangar doors, then go rendezvous with Huff. I hope he held up his end. All right, shut the door.”
Holden and Lumpkins watched as the iris closed, then one pulled the rolling ladder away while the other ran to open the hangar door. A moment later they raced across the base in their stolen truck, the better to shuffle in with the official vehicles racing hither and yon. Behind them they heard, then saw the spacecraft roar into the night sky. A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the house. “Huff, you in there?” Holden called over his radio. “We’re outside.”
“Yeah, baby, come on in.”
They swaggered in the door to find the tableau as expected, the rump Fortress Team in complete control of the situation. Huff laughed. “Hey, now we got five. Any word on Miller’s section?”
“It sounded like they went down fighting, from what I could hear,” Holden replied, tapping his helmet by his ear.
“Yeah, that’s what I got too. Crazies. Okay, Mister Chairman and all you little chairmen, you heard the sound, you saw the sign. The boss is away with the alien, gonna fly now, and all we gotta do is come to some kinda understanding, a’ight?”
Daniel Markis nodded, eyes locked with Huff’s. “Okay, an understanding. I understand one of you just, what, kidnapped Raphaela and hijacked her ship? And now you want to go to Australia? Why?”
“Oh, you just gonna have to wonder about all that,” Huff replied. “Now here’s the deal. I’m sure somebody gonna be showing up to check on you pretty soon. So in a minute you’re gonna pick up that phone and have a long-range transport airplane fueled up and ready to go on the runway. Make sure it’s got food and water and at least nine parachute rigs, easy ones that anyone can use, nothing fancy. Then we drive over and take off. I’ll tell you where we’re going when we get in the air. All right, go ahead, pick up the phone.” Huff waved his assault rifle in the general direction of the children, who cringed.
Daniel picked up the telephone, careful, and dialed flight operations. A few minutes later and it was all arranged, surprising but not unusual for the Chairman. They saw flashing lights pull up in front of the house, and Lumpkins pulled a blind slat open with his fingers. “Three SUVs.”
Daniel said, “That would be my transportation. Our transportation.”
“Three vehicles?”
“Probably has my PSD in it. You mind if I talk to them? Might avoid some...misunderstanding.”
Lumpkins called, “Two people comin’ up the walkway.”
Markis stood. “Let me meet them at the door. You got the kids under the gun. Nothing will happen.”
Huff nodded.
A moment of conversation, then another moment, an argument that Markis won, as he always did, sheer force of personality. Karl and the rest of the PSD backed up to the curb across the street, leaving the vehicles sitting and running, empty, waiting.
“All right. Five of us, five kiddies, let’s get it on.” He seized the nearest, almost-eight Elizabeth, and the others did the same, gun muzzles pressed to necks. “Come with us, everyone, into the vehicles. I think we’ll take them all. Grownups drive.”
They drove through the surreal streets of the Carletonville complex, their flashers and the Chairman’s face passing them by checkpoints and staring emergency personnel. The military jet transport sat alone on the tarmac, engines running and ramp lowered. “Drive straight in.” They complied.
The loadmaster made as if to object until he saw the driver of the first vehicle, then backed up fast as the armed nano-commandos stepped from the SUVs. Huff pushed Elizabeth into Lumpkins’ arms and grabbed Daniel Markis by his collar, yelling over the idling jets. “Everything better be copacetic on this plane, because your kids are my collateral. Here, take this,” he handed Markis an envelope. “Read it when we’re gone. Now you daddies and mommies back these trucks off the plane and we’ll be taking off. If you hold up your end, all the kiddies come home safe and sound. If not, it’s on your head. Can you dig it?”
Markis yelled over the jet noise, “You can’t be serious! These are our children! Leave them here, I give you my word you’ll fly away, no problem!”
Huff stuck his face in Daniel’s. “I said, Can – You – Dig – It?” He laughed uproariously. “Edens, come out to play-ayy...” He shoved Daniel stumbling back toward the nearest vehicle.
Larry lunged forward. Five assault rifles came up to point at his chest and he stopped. Eyes hot with helpless fury, Markis grabbed Larry’s arm and pulled. He motioned Elise and Shawna back, signaling them to drive the SUVs off the plane. He had to scream at Larry, shoving him bodily away from his children, the nanocommandos grinning with their power and their invincibility and their guns and their hostages until he complied, streaming tears of rage.
As the airplane roared down the runway with his son and daughter Larry punched the side of the truck three times, bellowing hoarsely. Shawna threw her arms around him, holding on to his bleeding fist.
Daniel stared at the plane until it dwindled in the distance, then opened the envelope, looking inside for something to make sense out of the situation. He read the message inside in the light of the vehicle headlamps, then crumpled it.
Elise took it gently out of Daniel’s hand and read:
To DJ or whoever reads this: Sorry to change the rules again, but it’s what I’m best at. Huff won’t hurt your children. He’s not a psycho, he’s just a self-interested son of a bitch and not as crazy as he puts on. I told him if he harms one hair on their heads Spooky will kill him slowly. Nguyen’s a name to conjure with in the special ops community and probably the only one they’ll respect. I’m betting my life everything will work out fine. If not: sorry about that.
Raph and I are taking a little trip. With your usual short-term thinking you forgot about that Meme scoutship that launched the Demon Plagues. Do you really think germs are all they got? Were you really going to just let a working alien spaceship sit in a South African hangar instead of fighting for Earth’s survival? I bet you were. You weren’t even exploiting the ship for its technology. Looks like I’m going to have to save your sorry self-righteous ass again. It’s getting tiresome, so I think this will be the last time. Goodbye, DJ.
-Skull
P.S. Hate me if you must but don’t hate what I’ve done. It’s all for your better world.
