COMING FALL 2016 FROM MICHAEL J. MARTINEZ AND NIGHT SHADE BOOKS

A team of superhuman covert operatives emerges from the ashes of World War II in a Cold War-era paranormal espionage thriller from acclaimed genre-bender Michael J. Martinez.

It is a new world, stunned by the horrors that linger in the aftermath of total war. The United States and Soviet Union are squaring off in a different kind of conflict, one that’s fought in the shadows, where there are whispers of strange and mysterious developments . . .

Normal people across the United States have inexplicably gained paranormal abilities. A factory worker can heal the sick and injured. A schoolteacher bends emotions to her will. A car salesman alters matter with a simple touch. A former soldier speaks to the dying and gains their memories as they pass on.

They are the Variants, controlled by a secret government program called MAJESTIC-12 to open a new front in the Cold War.

From the deserts of Nevada to the palaces of Istanbul, the halls of power in Washington to the dark, oppressive streets of Prague, the Variants are thrown into a deadly game of shifting alliances. Amidst the seedy underbelly of nations, these once-ordinary Americans dropped in extraordinary circumstances will struggle to come to terms with their abilities as they fight to carve out a place for themselves in a world that may ultimately turn against them.

And as the MAJESTIC-12 program will soon discover, there are others out there like them, some with far more malevolent goals . . .

August 6, 1945

Cities shouldn’t be silent.

Berlin, however, felt nearly dead, figuratively and literally, and the thought sent chills up Frank Lodge’s spine as he led his men on night patrol through the U.S. administrative area of the former Nazi capital. There was a strictly enforced curfew, of course, so in the middle of the night there were no civilians on the streets, which were still clogged with stone and debris from the bombings. The only cars to be seen were the ones half-buried under rubble.

There were no streetlights either: the Allies—and the Soviets as well—were still struggling to restore even the most basic of public services. Sanitation was a disaster, and the smells from the summer heat lingered well after midnight, especially here near the Landwehr Canal, which had become both a watering hole and an open sewer.

Because of all this, the silence was practically audible in its own way, a distinct lack of sound that seemed to fill Frank’s ears with an eerie ring. He struggled subconsciously to find something—anything—that might give off a sign of life in this battered city. Sounds would’ve given Frank’s men something to react to, something to follow, something that would alleviate the creeping dread that accompanied each step through the hollowed-out streets.

He got far more than he’d asked for. The gunshot cracked out from the darkness without warning, and a soldier fell almost before the sound was heard.

Frank instinctively hit the deck, the cobblestones jutting into his ribs as he pulled his pistol and aimed at the darkness across the canal. There was nothing there, just a battered, pock-marked bridge serving as a no-man’s-land between where the Americans holed up and the Soviets hunkered down in the ruined heart of occupied Berlin.

To Frank’s right, the downed man made a gasping, choking noise. One of his soldiers. Again. And yet, the sound caused his heart to race, cleared his thoughts. Immediacy gave purpose.

“Everyone down! Hold fire!” Frank yelled, even though the squad was already prone and scrambling for cover. Rifles were trained across the canal, ready to respond.

“Are the Reds shooting at us, lieutenant?” one of his men asked. His voice was a mix of bewilderment and raw panic.

“Shut up,” Frank growled. “Keep down.” He needed to think. Maybe the shot did come from across the canal, which was Soviet territory. If that were the case, they would need to be extremely careful. No use in starting another war so soon after wrapping up the last one.

Frank crawled over to the downed man. It was Private Tony Abruzzo, one of the newer guys who’d come over in the spring, brought in to replace all the casualties in the Ardennes. Good kid, he thought. Funny, just turned twenty a few weeks back. Shit.

The medic was already there, practically laying on top of Abruzzo, poking around at the wound in his chest. He listened to the private’s breathing, then looked up at Frank with a resigned shake of his head. Frank was far from a doctor, but even he could hear it: shot in the lung, damn thing was collapsing. From the angle, looked like it probably got into his gut, too.

The private didn’t have long.

“Hold positions!” Frank ordered. “Doc, give me a hand. Let’s get him off the damn street.”

Together, the two men quickly moved Abruzzo toward the rubble on the side of the Schöneberger Ufer. The squad hunkered down behind the piles of brick and wood and peered into the darkness across the street and canal. The silence settled back down onto them like a pall, except for Abruzzo’s labored, final breaths and the labors of the radioman upstairs in the ruined building; he was trying for a clear signal in order to report in and, hopefully, get some help.

Frank settled the dying man down with the medic and quietly ducked over to his sergeant, a grizzled vet by the name of Sam Grogan. “Sarge?” he asked, trying to keep his cool as he waited for his orders, even as his mind reeled and urge grew in his belly telling him the only sane course of action would be to simply turn tail and get out of there.

“Seems like a one-off,” Grogan replied grimly, quietly, as he squinted off in the distance. “Pissed off German or drunk Ruskie. Take your pick.” He paused. “They’re going to want someone to investigate, sir.”

Frank frowned. “Yes they are, sergeant,” he said quietly. “Find me a path across that bridge that doesn’t have our asses exposed.”

Grogan nodded, and Frank returned to the medic. Abruzzo was breathing quickly, shallowly, labored. He was going quickly now.

Frank knelt down next to the dying man and took his hand. “Private Abruzzo. This is Lieutenant Lodge. You hear me OK?”

Abruzzo’s eyes shifted toward his lieutenant, and that would have to be enough. Frank leaned in.

“Listen, Tony. You’re getting out of this shit-hole. Not the best way out, but it’s out. I’m gonna see you off, and it’s gonna be OK. You hear me, private? It’s gonna be OK.”

Abruzzo gave a ghost of a nod and tightened his grip slightly on Frank’s hand. And with a rattle in his chest and a small, quick convulsion, he was gone.

“Mark the map for retrieval,” Frank said simply as he placed Abruzzo’s hand gently on his chest. “If we can’t get him later, we’ll make sure someone does.”

The medic nodded and pulled out his tattered map of the city, already stained with someone else’s blood. “Every time, you do that,” he said. “You think it helps?”

Frank shrugged as he got up. “Nobody should die alone.”

There was no good way to get across the Landwehr Canal with any kind of real cover. Worse, no one could identify the usual Red checkpoint on the other side of the bridge. The last thing Frank wanted was to cross over into Russian-occupied territory, only to run into a Soviet squad, especially if Grogan was right and they’d been hitting the vodka. The Reds were fanatics about their turf in Berlin; every bridge and street had a well-armed, well-staffed checkpoint. And even if the Russians didn’t have enough men to staff every little intersection, this was the Wilhelmstrasse, one of Berlin’s biggest thoroughfares. So where the hell was it?

Grogan ducked over to Frank’s position to report. “I got nothing over there, lieutenant. All dark. Seems like there’s some kind of emplacement there, but it’s unmanned, far as I can tell. I don’t like this one bit.”

Frank nodded in grim agreement. “Anything from base?”

“Yeah,” the sergeant said, holding up the “handie-talkie” radio. “No friendlies out here. We’re trying to reach the Russians now, but it’s now official: we’ve been ordered to investigate.”

Frank clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared out across the canal, into the pitch-black night. Orders and were orders, and one of his men was dead. Despite all the horrors Frank experienced in fighting through France and Germany, he couldn’t let that stand. Frank didn’t care about which country held which city block, but he’d be damned if he was going to let some drunk Russian get away with murder.

Grabbing Grogan by the arm, Frank ducked over to where the rest of his squad was huddled. “All right. Weapons out but not aimed. Form up, stick to the sides, and double-time across. Cover on either side, unless we run into the Reds. Then hands up and say ‘Preyviet.’ Got it?” Frank said. The men nodded. Grogan led the way across, with Frank taking up the rear, keep an eye out for trouble behind them.

There was none. And there wasn’t any at the other side of the bridge, either. Two piles of sandbags on either side of the street marked the checkpoint, but it wasn’t manned— damned odd. Beyond that was an intersection, ruined buildings on every corner. There were a handful of guttering lights in the windows, but otherwise total darkness and a deathly silence. The streets were barren; after midnight the Reds were just as strict about curfew as the Americans, British, and French were. Nobody trusted the Germans.

The squad took cover behind the sandbags, peering off down the dimly lit street, looking to Frank to lead. “I don’t like it,” Grogan repeated—this time, loud enough for the rest of the squad to hear. “We’re in Red territory but they ain’t here. Something’s wrong.”

Several of the men nodded in agreement, and Frank couldn’t blame them one bit.

“I don’t like it either. But Tony’s dead and we’ve got orders. So let’s go take care of it,” Frank said, squaring his jaw. “Same two groups. Stick to the sides of the street, use rubble for cover. We head up Wilhelmstrasse until we either find our shooter or meet up with some Russians. Let’s go.”

The men moved out, but Grogan waited a moment behind and sidled up to his lieutenant. “You know we’re about three or four blocks from the Reich Chancellery,” he said quietly, so as not to worry the men. “That place will be crawling with Reds.”

Frank nodded; the Russians were the ones to take the city back in April, and they had held on to the best parts of it since, including all the Nazi government buildings and Hitler’s headquarters. Nobody Frank had spoken to really trusted the Soviets. They were in bed with Hitler before they got screwed over, for starters. Their troops all looked desperate and malnourished, yet mean as hell and drunk off their asses more often than not. Some of the horror stories from the Soviet occupation zone were tough to think about—food and property stolen from civilians, women and girls raped, men killed for no goddamn good reason. Allies was too good a word for ‘em, Frank thought.

“Then I guess we better step lively, Sarge. Let’s go.”

The men started up Wilhelmstrasse as ordered. Every murmur and footstep echoed off the silent walls, every bit of rubble kicked up skittered across the street like an avalanche. Frank gritted his teeth. With each step, he became more convinced that they were sitting ducks, caught out in territory that, while not strictly enemy turf, wasn’t exactly friendly, either.

Another block went by at a slow crawl. For a moment, Frank saw a shadow move across a window three floors up. He raised his pistol, but by then it was already gone. He fought back the growing feeling of frustration, the urge to storm the building, barge in, take prisoners, protect his men at all costs. But they weren’t, strictly speaking, soldiers anymore. They were kind of like cops now. Frank heard that the Russians were pretty cruel to the Berliners in their quarter of the city, and the United States was determined to act better. Frank could only hope that the shadow at the window was merely a curious onlooker, just as nervous as he was.

It wasn’t the window Frank should’ve worried about.

The first bullet zipped all too close to his head, and then sound of multiple shots and muzzle flashes filled the street around them. Frank ducked behind a pile of rubble and got low, barking a quick “Cover!” to his squad. He risked a quick glance out into the street, and saw two of his men were dead already, crumpled in the middle of the thoroughfare. And the shots were still coming.

“Return fire!” Frank yelled as he readied his pistol. He eyed the M1 that one of the downed men still had in his hands and cursed himself for not grabbing a carbine before joining the patrol. No way this was coming from the Russians, but where were they? This area was supposed to be pacified.

Shots and flashes turned the dark, silent streets into a cacophony of sound and light. Frank couldn’t see or hear much. He fired blindly ahead, hoping they could at least buy themselves enough room to retreat back across the bridge. But they were under constant fire, and it was coming in heavier now.

Radio. Frank looked around for the signal corps man who kept the radio handy. He spotted him on the other side of the street, slumped lifelessly against a pile of rubble, blood pooling around him. Of the eleven men he’d crossed the bridge with, Frank could only account for five still shooting.

A flash of light from above startled him; he looked up and saw more fire from the second and third floors of the ruined buildings around him.

Ambush. He should’ve worried about the windows after all.

“Inside!” Frank shouted. “Get inside!” Entering a building with known combatants wasn’t the best plan, but it was better than sitting in a shooting gallery. Frank crouched down and rushed toward a door-sized hole in the wall of an old townhouse, grabbing the arm of one of his men as he ran past.

The soldier fell lifelessly over on his side.

Reaching cover, Frank allowed himself a moment to gather his wits. Maybe four or five men left. No sign of Grogan. Limited ammo. And the goddamn radio was out in the open on the street. From the sounds of gunfire he still heard, he figured there had to be at least six snipers still firing. Six! And where the hell are all the Russians?

Frank looked around desperately, trying to work the problem and find a solution rather than give in to panic. He was in the ruins of a townhouse. The furniture in which he guessed was the front parlor was half-crushed with rubble and covered in dust, and there was a gaping hole in the ceiling where a nice chandelier had probably once hung. It looked like someone punched a hole in a Better Homes & Gardens magazine. There was movement in other buildings, glimpses of light and shadow he could catch from the ruins of the doorway. But friend or foe? He couldn’t say.

Moments passed. Frank was about to edge toward the doorway, prepared to shout for retreat, to have his men stay moving within the gutted ruins for as long as possible, then regroup where they left Abruzzo’s body.

Before he could take another step forward, he felt cold metal press against the nape of his neck.

“Guten abend, herr leutnant,” the voice behind him said.

At the same time, an older man in civilian clothes emerged from the shadows in front of Frank—training a rifle at his chest.

His heart sinking, Frank dropped his pistol and slowly raised his hands. “’Evening, boys,” he said, tired and defiant all at once.

The man behind him threw a sack over Frank’s head, and Frank wondered if he’d ever see light again.

He might not have had his vision, but Frank still had the rest of his senses, and there were a few crucial things he knew. One: his hands were tied behind his back. Two: he was pretty sure he’d been lead underground. And three: wherever they were, it was a long goddamn way back to the bridge, let alone base. Then the sack was ripped off his head.

He found himself in a surprisingly large, windowless room the size of a gymnasium, but with a dirt floor instead of planks. There were Nazi banners hanging on the walls, which looked like smooth stone or concrete. There were torches—actual, for-real burning torches—in sconces on the walls, and the smoke rose toward a small shaft in the ceiling. It was a long way up.

In the center of the room was a large antique table, surrounded by six Nazis in uniforms of one stripe or another. There were another dozen people scattered throughout the room, mostly wearing civvies, but all armed. One of them shoved Frank to his knees . . . right next to one of his men.

The young man looked right at Frank with desperation in his eyes. It was Petersen; Frank couldn’t, for the life of him, remember his first name. He was shaking like a leaf, and his pale, freckled face was streaked with dirt and tears. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth; the Germans had taken a few swings at the kid on the way down here. The Nazis had a reputation through the war for beating the crap out of enlisted men, though they treated enemy officers better. But Hitler was dead, and this wasn’t a sanctioned German military maneuver. This was the last resistance against Allied occupiers, and Frank wondered how long the whole honor-and-glory thing would last.

They were screwed, after all.

“Keep your mouth shut and don’t do anything stupid,” Frank whispered. “We’ll be OK.”

“Lieutenant, what the h—” the kid choked out, but before he could finish, one of the Nazis behind them whacked the kid with his rifle butt, sending him to the floor again. The guard—a big, burly man with blond hair and cold eyes— pulled Petersen back to his knees and slapped him on the side of the head with his palm. “Quiet,” he said in English.

And Frank was kind of grateful, because Petersen swayed a bit but finally stared straight ahead, silenced. One less thing to worry about, for now.

And there they stayed, kneeling and under guard, while the Nazis around the table continued to . . . Frank couldn’t tell what the hell they were up to. Several of the uniformed bigwigs in the center of the room were checking their wristwatches and pocket watches regularly. One was a generalmajor and another an oberst, with a third wearing the tell-tale insignia of the S.S. Frank knew the Nazi ranks and insignia by heart; they were posted all over the base, in the hopes that patrols might ID and capture a senior officer if they got lucky. Getting captured by one hadn’t been given much consideration.

The Germans were waiting on something, Frank figured, and when they weren’t looking at their watches, they were looking down at something on the table—a map, maybe?— or fiddling with the knobs on a small radio set tuned to what sounded to Frank like a stream of gibberish. There was another, larger machine against the wall, about the size of a chest of drawers, with panels full of buttons, switches, dials and lights—a big, bulky thing emitting a low hum. What it was for, Frank couldn’t begin to guess; he’d never seen anything like it. But between that gizmo and the radio, it looked a lot like how top brass might stand around waiting for an incoming broadcast. Maybe Frank’s patrol got a little too close for comfort? He dismissed that idea out of hand; they were safely on the other side of the canal, and wouldn’t have been any wiser. And they were shot at first, after all . . .

. . . and lured across the canal to investigate.

Frank’s blood ran cold. Maybe the errant shot had been a trap to get them across the bridge. Maybe they were meant to be Guinea pigs for whatever strange crap the Nazis were working on.

But again, where were the Russians in all this? Frank’s men had only been a couple of blocks from the Reich Chancellery when they were ambushed. There was a goddamn firefight out in the open! Sure, the treaty officially dividing Berlin was only a few days old, but the Soviets had gotten cozy quickly, moving into the few houses left standing and pressing the locals into service—with severe consequences for anyone who pushed back. It was a dangerous place for anyone not a Soviet to be. So what the hell was the Nazi resistance doing—Well, that’s what they were, right? Some kind of resistance force?—setting up shop right under the Russians’ noses?

Maybe they’d taken back this neighborhood, Frank thought. Killed the Russians who were supposed to be at that checkpoint on the canal, scraped together a few blocks they could call home. Then it was guerilla warfare in the streets, no doubt. But why drag the Americans in?

None of it made sense, and Frank knew the Germans didn’t even take a shit without a plan in triplicate first. Whatever they were up to, the fact that he and Petersen had been left alive was no accident.

Petersen began trembling slightly. The air in the massive bunker had an unsettling chill to it, and they were wearing summer-issue fatigues. But Frank knew it wasn’t that kind of shiver.

The kid wasn’t doing a good job of keeping it together, but he kept his mouth blessedly shut. Whatever the Nazis were doing, Frank wished they’d do it quick. He thought of home, his family in Boston, his fiancée Elizabeth. He tried to put those thoughts out of his head fast – he wanted to be sharp. But throughout all his battles in the waning days of the war, he’d never felt this sense of dread, of impending doom before. Maybe they’d be tortured for information. Maybe the Germans were hoping for a prisoner swap. Or maybe these crazy fuckers just wanted to make them die in unholy ways.

The sound that erupted from the radio shook Frank to the core. At first it sounded like a big spike of static and feedback, but it continued . . . and continued . . . and it soon Frank knew without a doubt that it was a scream, utterly inhuman, laden with pain and terror. It was the single most unnatural and eerie thing he had ever heard, even during the worst of war.

“What is that?!” Peterson shrieked. “Oh, God, what is that?!”

The Nazis all either rushed toward the machine or circled the table in the center of the room. One of them—a tall, lanky bastard with a thin, cruel face—started furiously scribbling on a piece of paper in front of him. Frank overheard him addressed as “herr doctor,” and figured him for the man in charge. But given what had been discovered at Dachau, Frank had very little regard for any Nazi they called “doctor.”

“Lieutenant?!” Petersen cried above the shouts of men and the piercing, otherworldly scream coming from the radio. Before Frank could respond, the private’s guard gave him another whack upside the head with his hand. The kid straightened in response, a wet stain spreading around his crotch. For the first time in all his long months at war, in a million awful situations with dozens of scared kids, Frank wondered whether trying to get Peterson home in one piece was going to get them both killed. The shame of the thought wasn’t as overwhelming as he wished it would’ve been.

Then Frank went blind.

A huge white light burst forth from the center of the room, turning everything around him into a blizzard of ill-defined movement, accompanied only by that infernal screaming still emanating from the radio equipment and the shouts and cries of the Nazis as they reacted—some of them sounding actually joyful.

Frank doubled over in pain, his eyes screwed shut, his heart racing. There was something fundamentally wrong, a feeling in his gut that erupted inside him the instant that light exploded into being around him. The screaming through the radio increased and volume and slowly and began to . . . separate, somehow: a million different voices filled with pain and fear pouring into Frank’s ears.

And then, inexplicably, everything abruptly stopped.

Frank slowly opened his eyes. The Nazis were all standing stock still, looking upward at a point nearly six feet above the table, in the center of the room.

Frank had no idea what it was, or how on God’s green Earth it could even exist.

It was about six feet around, a spherical white light that looked like it was was both swirling and hovering motionlessly at the same time. The edges trailed off into the air like mist, and the light was somehow present without actually shining or illuminating the room.

It was utterly unnatural, and staring into it, Frank felt as if he went staring into some immense, unknowable abyss.

The Nazis moved into action. Long metal instruments, roughly soldered together with long cords trailing out the back and across the dirt floor, were directed toward the hovering light. They began shouting readings at each other, their hands fluttering across the controls, while others quickly scribbled down their findings. And in the middle of it all, Herr Doktor was soaking it all in, a broad, wicked smile spreading across his face like a disease.

Petersen choked out a ragged sob. “What is that? Dear God, what is that? What are they doing? What the hell is that?” the private said, over and over, a rosary’s worth of desperate prayer.

Before Frank could respond, a pulse of blinding light filled the room and another scream—this one far clearer and horrifyingly non-human—ripped through his ears. Everyone in the room turned away; even some of the Germans looked horrified at this. But most of them continued to poke and prod at the light with instruments. Frank could see it was definitely swirling now, like water going down a drain.

A spasm of pain rippled through Frank’s head. It was as if something had pushed its way into his skull and was somehow . . . writhing . . . inside his brains. He could practically feel ethereal fingers splitting the two halves of his brain apart and shoving something inside, something alive and unnatural that grafted itself to his mind and soul. It was a violation of his very being, his every sense becoming acutely aware and heightened. He pitched forward and fell onto his side, feeling each speck of dirt on his skin, the shouts from his guard echoing in his bones.

He didn’t know the exact moment that the pain became bearable enough to regain control of his body. Frank unscrewed his eyes open to find the German doctor looking down at him.

“You are not feeling well?” he asked in accented English.

Another wave of pain pushed through Frank’s head. “What the hell is going on here?” he finally said through gritted teeth, his own voice sounding like a radio turned all the way up in his head. “Who are you people?”

The doctor grinned, then pivoted away from Frank to bark out more orders in German. A moment later, probes and equipment were all over Frank as he lay on the ground, trying to control his breathing and somehow rein in everything going on his head, attempting to assume some sort of control over the thing that now resided inside his skull. When he was able to look up again, the doctor was back, a strange grin on his face.

“It is your lucky day, it seems.”

“I doubt it,” Frank gasped as he slowly pushed himself back up onto his knees. “What did you do to me?”

“I can honestly say I do not know yet,” the doctor said. “But we will find out, yes?”

Frank felt strong enough now to give the German a disgusted look. “You seriously think I’m going to help you, ‘Herr Doktor’?”

The doctor shrugged. “No, of course not. But you’ll help your soldier, yes?”

He then switched to German and barked something to Petersen’s guard. The man nodded and, without any warning, raised his rifle, and pulled the trigger.

Frank didn’t even have time to shout. Petersen’s chest erupted in a bloody mess. The look on the poor kid’s face was one of mild surprise, as if he’d been told the soda counter was out of Coca-Cola. Then he fell face-first onto the ground as Frank managed to scramble to his feet—no mean feat with his hands still bound.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” Frank screamed. “You killed him!”

The doctor nodded in Petersen’s direction. “Save him if you can. Take revenge if you cannot.”

Frank didn’t move for several seconds, uncomprehending, even as one of the other Germans freed his hands. Were they mistaking him for a medic? Was their English not as good as it seemed? “W-What?” he finally stammered.

“Go! Save him! He has moments left!” the doctor shouted.

That got Frank moving. He dashed over to Petersen’s side. “Kid? Kid! Can you hear me? Can you . . . ?”

Frank grabbed Petersen’s shoulders and started rolling him over—and as he did felt the thing in his mind start to writhe excitedly, causing him to gasp and wince in pain.

“Mike Petersen. Duluth.” Frank wasn’t sure where those words came from, and wasn’t even confident if he had spoken them himself, aloud, or if someone was giving him directions.

The energy drained from him, and Frank collapsed on top of the dead man, then rolled onto his back. The Nazi doctor knelt down and leaned over him. “What is it? What is happening to you?” he demanded.

“Basketball player. Daisy, oh Daisy, she’s going to be so sad.”

The Nazi kept talking, but Frank couldn’t hear. There was too much else going on, and he pressed his hands to his head as if to keep his own thoughts from leaking out—or to keep other thoughts from coming in.

“Mom and Pop and little Jimmy, too, they’ll be devastated. Letters every week, back and forth from Minnesota.”

The Nazi looked up suddenly, fear on his face. Next to him, one of the armed civilians fell to the ground. In the back of Frank’s mind, the sound of gunshots registered.

“That house, that was a great house over on Lake Avenue, but the family moved years ago.”

People were running now. Frank rolled onto his stomach and tried to crawl away, but the images and sounds kept flowing uncontrollably through his brain. All he could figure out was that there were more people in the room now. And there was shooting.

“Such drawing ability! A great future in art, or maybe architecture.”

Frank looked up and saw another soldier, pale and seemingly malnourished. He had a red star on his uniform.

Frank tried to get up, but managed only to roll onto his side as images and words flowed through his mind in a torrent. His body trembled violently, and he could no longer hold back the vomit that came out of his mouth.

The last thing he remembered before falling into blessed unconsciousness was the emaciated Russian boy in uniform, looking at him as if he were a ghost.

Visit MJ-12.net and michaeljmartinez.net for more information on the start of a brand-new series, MJ-12: Inception, coming Fall 2016 from Night Shade Books.

Look for another excerpt from MJ-12: Inception in the forthcoming mass market edition of The Enceladus Crisis: Book Two of the Daedalus Series.