Prologue 1- Then

 

            His nostrils flared as they filled with the stench of fresh blood.  Looking down at the body at his feet, he shook his head at such a waste.  With a flick of his wrist, he bade his underlings forward to take the body away and clean up the mess.  Squinting up into the early morning brightness, he once again could not help but hate the cursed sun and its’ heat.  Its rays flashed down only to be amplified by the stone under his feet and then only to be further reflected by the whitewashed walls of the buildings around him.  He felt like he was going to boil in his own skin.

            As the body was taken away, he examined the area where the murder took place.  It was an alley set back from the street where the main market was situated.  The narrow street was bordered on both sides by four storied buildings that housed residential dwellings.  He snorted.  Dwellings, more like kennels.  He could smell the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting food from where he stood.  He looked up at the faces poking out of windows, all pointing and gossiping.  One look from his stern face silenced the gossip and shamed the occupants into withdrawing back into their homes. 

            Draping his white scarf over his head, he delicately stepped around the congealing blood pool and began the short, hot walk back to the police building.  It wasn’t much of a building, but it was cooler than being out in the open.  How he hated life in the city. 

            Mind you, he could never say that life in Babylon was ever dull.

 

 

Prologue 2 – Now

 

            These days were never dull.  Even with his interest peaked, the General stirred uneasily in his seat.  He hated these briefings.  He hated the people at the briefings.  He hated what the people at the briefings had to say.  He just hated it all.

            There were six of them in total.  The heads of Australia’s two intelligence services – ASIO and ASIS; The Chief of the Defense Forces; The Minister for Defense & Intelligence; The Prime Minister’s Security Advisor, and The General.  No one else in the government was aware that these meetings even occurred such was the sensitivity of the information discussed.  Not even the Prime Minister was privy to all the information.  None of those present would have it any other way.

            Their briefings were held every week without fail.  If someone was absent – no matter where in the world they were – they were included by either secure phone line or data uplink.  The briefings were never missed.        

              Today, the briefing was dealing with a new terrorist threat that Australia simply was not prepared for.  Indeed, when The General had first been made privy to the sensitive information sitting in front of him some six months ago, he laughed so hard he had almost urinated in his uniform.  After he had been fully briefed, he found the idea of the type of terrorist being presented in the dossier simply unbelievable.  The General believed in the power of a tank.  The General believed in the ability of Australian Troops to get in and get the job done.  The General believed if nothing else worked; carpet-bomb the bastards.  The General did not believe in genetically diverged humans.  The General had a very low tolerance for bullshit, and the dossier in front of him had initially been very much what The General would define as a lump of waste requiring shovels.

            But then he had met them.

            He would never have believed it.  Even when they were standing in front of him, the soldier in him demanded proof.  And proof they had provided.  It had taken The General exactly one whole bottle of Bundaberg Rum Open Proof to settle his nerves from the displays of their “abilities”.  Now, he was being told that a similar group of individuals, with similar abilities, were planning a terrorist strike somewhere in his Wide, Brown Land.  To say he was pissed was akin to saying a tsunami was a teeny wave.

            “Problem, Harold?”  The director of ASIS asked of The General.

            The General shifted in his seat before replying.  When he did it was with the usual gruffness that only reinforced hi stereotypical reputation.  Truth be told, he liked the reputation.  It made people pause.  It promoted fear and respect in his soldiers.  It also pissed off the intelligence types.  And that brought a crooked smile to his face.  “Of course, I have a bloody problem!”  He began in a shout that would rapidly evolve to a bellow.  The room had no carpet and The General liked how the acoustics lent themselves to his type of communication.  “Your fucking Intelligence mob is supposed to fix these things.  What the bloody hell do you need my help for?”

            The Director of ASIS cocked an eyebrow.  He liked and respected The General, but he admitted he was a pain in the arse of the first order.  The Director, however, was possessed of a much more refined civility and thus did not bellow, even when he wanted to.

            “We are doing all we can.  But unfortunately, this type of strike is not something that we alone can prevent.  You have assets all over that part of Queensland and we need you to advise them of the threat.  We need more eyes.”

            The General laughed.  It bounced around the room.  “More eyes?  You’ve got satellites.  You’ve got access to more satellites from our friends.  Why the hell should my people be moved from where they are?  Give me one good bloody reason and I’ll bloody well do it.”  The General punctuated the remark with a stabbing motion in the air.  A honeyed voice from behind him answered.

            “Because, if your assets aren’t made aware, Harrison, then they could very well be the first victims of a threat that you didn’t want them to be alerted to.”

            The General cringed inwardly even as the clicking of her heels announced the arrival of she whom The General referred to as “The Bitch”.  She was the Director of the organization that was responsible for the individuals who had so spooked The General.  She was also a woman who carried a very big stick, and was not afraid to wield it, with devastating force.

            As she arrived at the conference table, the ASIS Director stood and politely kissed her cheek in greeting.  The two were old colleagues from many years ago, and he valued and trusted her input.  The General reluctantly respected her.  She was a tough woman with access to data that she would readily share without price.  However, she also was a determined leader who would always strive to get her own way.  She spoke in her usual authoritative and business-like tone that always raised The General’s hackles.

            “Harrison.  I understand the inconvenience from a logistics standpoint.  But you currently have six units in the potential catchment zone of this threat.  I’ve made condolence calls to the families of the fallen and would prefer not to see you do any more than necessary.  Considering our losses in Iraq and Afghanistan, I am sure you have made quite enough calls already.”

            The General grunted in response.  Unfortunately, she was right.

            “Fine.”  He conceded none too graciously.  “You tell me where and when and I’ll get them moving.”

            She smiled a genuine smile of appreciation.  That was the other thing The General hated; she was appreciative of efforts expended on her behalf.  God how he longed for the days where you stuck it to the intelligence agencies. It just was not easy, anymore.

 

 

Prologue 3 – Them

 

            It was not easy.  He looked down at the human female.  She was restrained to the bed upon which she lay.  He had to concede that, for a human, she did indeed possess beauty.  Her body was firm and ripe.  Her face was pretty and unlined.  But he viewed it with the same objectivity he would as if he were standing in front of one of their paintings.  Whilst he knew the importance of the work, the next step gave him cause to pause.

            “What is the matter?”  His colleague asked from behind him.

            “I really do not want to do it.”  He replied without inflection.

            His colleague walked forward to stand side by side with him.  He looked down at the woman.  “She is a model.”

            The one turned to look at his colleague.  “She sits for artists then?”

            The colleague shook his head gently.  “No.  This one puts on clothes that are given to her and then walks up and back down a raised platform in them.”

            “And?”  The one prompted expecting more.

            The colleague shrugged casually.  “And that is it.  She wears their clothes.  She then returns backstage and puts on another set, and repeats.”

            The one’s brow crinkled in confusion.  “And they consider that a way of living?”

            The colleague shrugged again.  It was as baffling to him as anyone else.  “Apparently.  They have entire exhibitions centered around the activity.  It seems a wasted past time to me.”

            The one nodded slowly in agreement.  “And yet we wish to breed with them?” 

            The colleague nodded.  “Only by breeding with them can we improve them.  They have reached an evolutionary plateau as we ourselves are in danger of doing. At least, in this instance, they will assist us in moving forward.”

            The one looked down at his nude body, and his still limp appendage.  “She does not excite me.”

            The colleague gestured to her.  “She is considered very beautiful by their standards.  And yet I understand your reluctance.  She is not up to our standard.”  He turned to the One.  “Think of me as you do it.  That should assist.”

            The appendage grew.

 

Chapter One

 

            She looked out over the fields of dead land and lifeless corpses.  It was bad enough that her stock had suffered but survived through both drought and flood in recent times.  But now, they were suffering the indignity of being targeted as blood sport by a local gang, just recently moved to her small, isolated town.  Hers was not the only property being targeted either.  Two other properties had lost stock because of the new gang.  There were rumors that the hoons had relocated to her town to establish marijuana crops, an always lucrative revenue stream for the criminal element.     

              An early morning ride on her favorite horse had confirmed the rumor.  She could not help but admire the organizational skills of her new “neighbors”.  There were now several greenhouses, all with marijuana plants at various stages of growth.  The plants were being grown hydroponically to accelerate their growth, and thus provide a higher turnover of the crop, and consequently, a higher turnover of profit.  She left the corpses of her stock out in the open.  After all, there were other animals that would benefit from the bodies and if she could not use them, the local scavengers could at least benefit from the carrion.    

              She went back to her house and prepared herself for the task ahead.  It was time that she took back ownership of her land and sent a statement to the gang.  Life was hard enough for her and her friends.  A local collection of criminals adding to their woes simply would not do.

She grimaced.  Though she knew what she was about to do was necessary, she did not particularly look forward to the task.  She had never been fond of violence.  Indeed, she had always avoided it whenever she could.  Unfortunately, there were times when violence was truly the last resort.  She waited until nightfall, dressed in a simple cotton dress and her ever present head scarf of the same material, and set off on bare foot to confront her “neighbors”. 

              Part of her distaste for the pack of unruly heathens was their location and their behavior.  They had bought the vacant piece of land next to her and then built a warehouse-cum-squat type of shed on the fence line, not 400 meters from her own residence.  They favored loud music, loud bikes, long nights, and excessive amounts of beer, drugs, and women.  Their parties lasted well into the night, and she had excellent hearing.  Sleep was becoming a rarity for her.  Given how physically frail she normally was, sleep deprivation was the last thing she needed.

              She proceeded down the short dirt road that was the only access point to the property towards yet another one of their “parties”.  Empty forty-gallon drums had been converted into fire pits and several were dotted around the front of their shed.  The ruddy glow of the burning logs reflected off her plain white apparel.  The louts were everything she imagined them to be.  Tattooed.  Loud.  Coarse.  Rude.  Drunk.  Stoned.  Unwashed.  They groped their female “companions” without respect or shame.  Suddenbly, the impeding violence did not seem as distasteful.  She moved forward to a point where she knew she would be seen.  She wanted to give them a warning after all. 

              The first to see her was an overweight, bearded lout with a beer bottle in one hand and his companions’ breast in the other.  He went to take a swig of his bottle and noticed Her out of the corner of one bloodshot eye.  He dropped both the bottle and the breast of his companion, and then stood.  He walked a few steps forward and then stopped, casting his gaze over Her in a way that made her flesh crawl from the inside out.

              “G’day love.”  He started.  He spoke in a thick Aussie drawl and with a volume that she considered unseemly at any time of day or night.  “We were wonderin’ when you were gonna come over and meet ya new neighbors?”

              The Woman returned his gaze with one that would normally cause a stranger to pause.  “My apologies.”  Her voice was measured and controlled.  “I’ve had problems with my stock.”

              The man laughed in a subconscious confirmation of their actions.  “Well, it’s a hard time for you farmers ain’t it?  All sorts of things happening to your animals.  Bloody piss poor luck I reckon.”

              Now she smiled a small, tight smile.  She found she was now looking forward to what she had to do.  As always, the regret would come later.  She reached up and modestly removed the wimple from her head.  It took several moments for the drunken biker in front of her to realize what he was seeing.  Without the coverage of the wimple, he could clearly see the distended rear portion of her head. 

              “Jesus Christ!  You ain’t normal!”  He yelled at her, grabbing the attention of the dozen or so others that were at the front of their communal residence.

              By now the woman had begun to exercise her talent.  Her skin began to prickle with the all too familiar sensation of static.  The back half of her head, in contrast, had begun to radiate a warmth that was the side effect of her talent.  For her, it was almost a sensual experience.

“We do not like you.  And we do not want you or your drugs here.  Please leave.” 

              The biker laughed at her and made several obscene gestures as his companions joined him. She had warned him.

              She resolutely brought her palm forward as one may do to stop a door.  From the air, only centimeters in front of her hand came forth a concentrated burst of electricity.  It surged forward and hit the man in the center of his chest.  The force of the bolt flung him backwards and through the flimsy wall of the shed.  For many moments, his companions stood there unmoving.  Only the man’s female was active, and she simply stood in place screaming as if she were in a B-grade horror film.  The screeching resembled fingernails being dragged on a chalkboard.  She was the next one to go sailing from her feet and through the same hole in the wall made by the man who had previously groped her so salaciously. 

              By now many of the gang in front of her had grabbed weapons and now faced their pastoral neighbor with several rifles and handguns.  She faced them without a trace of fear.  “Go ahead.”  The Woman almost laughed out loud at her flagrant use of the tacky, film quote.  “Make my night.”

              Almost as one, they bikers fired.

              Unfortunately, she had been ready for them.

              What the uneducated criminals in front of her did not realize was that She was a woman possessed of a unique brain.  Hers was fifty percent larger than most and possessed of a third lobe.  She was a freak of nature, but a very talented freak indeed.  It was this extra lobe that generated her talent.  She could utilize the neuro-electric energy of her own brain to interact with the electro-magnetic energy around her.  She could gather up the ever-present static charges around her into a single lightning bolt of shocking and devastating voltage.  She could even join the electro-magnetic energy of her brain with the natural charge of metallic objects.  With that, she could move and manipulate these objects.  She could not manipulate large heavy objects, but small bullets were no problem for her.

              Their bullets stopped in mid-air.  For the collection of drunk and stoned drug peddlers, it was a disconcerting moment.  In front of them, hanging in mid-air, were the projectiles that by now should have ripped apart the delicate appearing woman in front of them.  Instead, their bullets hung there for several moments before the Woman in front of them “flexed” her talent and exploded them.  What was next visited upon the group of criminals could understandably, but incorrectly, be described as visit by a harpy from Hell. 

            Systematically, she moved through the entire property with her arms outstretched, her distended head unadorned, and her fingers flexed.  The air rang with the small sonic booms created by the bolts of energy she unleashed with deadly accuracy.  The screams of the men were of a terror that came from realizing one’s nightmares, and then having that nightmare appear right in front of them.

            There was nothing they could do to defend themselves.  The woman would be exacting retribution on one group as another would approach from behind.  Somehow, she could sense they were there.  The men would not even have time to raise their weapons, before yet another flash of electric energy would have them thrown from the feet with their clothes burned and their hair singed.

            She did not kill them.  That is one act she simply would not do.  She had only ever killed once, and it had been in the defense of a young woman being targeted by an abusive, alcoholic husband.  The man’s mind had become so addled from drink and madness, that he simply had not been able to comprehend the warnings given to him.  Thus, when he had threatened to kill the already bruised and bloodied young bride, the Woman had had no other option but to exercise her latent in all its dreadful lethality.  Now, she simply wounded and bruised. 

            She wanted the criminals to live.  She wanted them to remember this night.  With all of them now on the ground in various stages of pain and suffering, she went back and focused on their equipment and the oh-so-treasured motorcycles.  She ignited fuel tanks and sent their two wheeled monstrosities exploding into fragments.  She sent multiple bolts renting the air as she all but dissolved the greenhouses where their ‘crops’ grew.  She set fire to several farm vehicles that sat at the rear of the property.  With one last, double-handed bolt, she ignited the chemicals shed where they stored the compounds necessary to sustain their hydroponic crop.  Even she was startled by the enormity of the explosion.  Clearly, there had been a significant stockpile.  They obviously had planned to be around for the long term.

            Now, as she walked through the destruction that was of her own devising, she noted with some grim satisfaction that they all lived.  She wanted them to know who had done this.  She wanted them to relive it in their sleep; to cry out in horror every time a thunderstorm drew near, and lightning rent the heavens; to recoil from the elements as they lay on the ground, curled up like mewling babies.

            Later, she would place both hands to the side of her face in an artfully contrived look of shock at being implicated in the wanton damage of the property next door.  The middle-aged policeman, a friend since birth, will chuckle as he tells the story of how the Bikies were apparently molested by her wielding lightning bolts as if she was some sort of Viking Warrioress of legend.  She would nod her head knowingly through a concerned expression as he patiently explained that their equipment had probably short circuited and ignited all the chemical compounds on the property, and that their drug addled minds would conjure any story to abrogate their responsibility.  She would, with obvious appreciation, thank him for calling by and letting her know what the strange lights and sounds had be.

            She would close the door, wait for his vehicle to depart her property, and exit onto the main road.  It was then that her frail body would finally fail her and thus she would collapse to the floor and weep at her actions.  The shame and guilt always returned.  In time, she would gain control of herself.  She would then unsteadily rise to her feet and retire to her bed where she would rest.

 

            He would rest.  He was tired and had left the driving bass of the dance party behind him.  Walking home, he enjoyed the feel of the cool early morning breeze over his skin resulting in the evaporation of his sweat.  He had become bored with the collection of bodies that writhed and undulated on the dance floor and had decided to go home to bed.  He had even forgone the obvious interest of a particularly attractive Greek man whom he knew would have proven a congenial diversion.  But he was tired.  The drugs, as they always did, had worn off far too soon and his metabolism was once again demanding rest.  So, he had simply left, with not one look back at the revelry, or the handsome Adonis.

            Now, as he slowly walked home, he wondered if it was too late to go back and to take the Hellenic prize up on his blatant offer.  With a small chuckle, he decided that sleep was the activity best suited to his bed this crisp morning.  Glancing at his watch, he conceded it was far too close to five a.m. for his liking.  As he turned onto a side street, he noted with some annoyance a group of young men who were lounging beside a heavily modified car, all drinking and smoking. 

            He smiled a small little smirk of amusement.  In his short vinyl shorts, white vinyl boots and matching vest stretched over his muscular and heavily tattooed olive-toned build, he must have appeared quite the sight to them.  And, true to form, it did not take long for the taunts to begin.  He simply ignored them.  He had been taunted by the very best and five, insignificant, classless pieces of rough trade certainly were not going to get the better of him.  He simply walked on.

            He was a little more than halfway down the street when the taunts ceased.  He was confident of what was going to transpire, so it came as no surprise when he heard car doors opening and closing and an engine roaring to life.  With a small grunt of annoyance, he turned and walked into the middle of the road with his hands on his hips, staring at the car bearing down on him.  He really hated being kept from his bed when he was tired.  With a careful look to make sure no one else was present or observing, he set himself and waited. 

            He saw the maniacal grins and could almost imagine the adolescent goading that was going on in the car.  Boys could be so predictable.  He felt a moment of pity for the owner of the car.  He liked hotted-up cars.  He liked the guys that usually accompanied the hotted-up cars more, but he particularly appreciated a fine piece of automotive handiwork.  Unfortunately, he also appreciated being left alone.

            The car was less than four meters away when he raised both fists over his head and then brought them down on the front of the bonnet.  Such was the force of his strike that the front of the car attempted a serious dive into the roadway beneath it.  Inertia being what it was, however, the back end wanted to keep going, and thus it caused the car to flip up and over his head to land noisily on the road behind him, bursting all four tires as it did so. 

            He walked up to one of the windows and perfunctorily put his fist through it, shattering the glass from the door.  With his hands on his hips and a look of derision on his youthful face, he leaned into the group of shocked and shaken but otherwise unhurt young men.  “Don’t you boys ever grow up?”  He said before he turned and strode off.  Yes, if there was any justice in the world, it would lead him to bed to sleep as needed.

 

            He needed for there to be justice in the world.  And so, he stalked his prey.  Five nights previous he had been listening to his police scanner and had heard the report come in.  A unit had been sent to a possible domestic incident, and a six-year-old boy had been sent to hospital with multiple broken ribs.  The father, also the alleged attacker, was apparently resisting all attempts to be interviewed.  And so, for the previous four nights, he had observed the goings-on in the small apartment.  Every night, his prey would come home from his job, berate his wife for the better part of an hour, then sit in front of the television and drink the cheapest of bottled vodka.  He snorted.  Trash was trash and it did not matter what rung of the socio-economic ladder it was on, nor the color of their skin.  Occasionally, the brute would hurl an insult at the woman who would noticeably cringe with fear every time.  Other times he would simply dispense with the verbal abuse and beat her.  Given that he was a bear of a man and well over six feet, and she was a petite thing with large, scared eyes, it was hardly a fair match.  And so now, having discovered where the violent abuser worked, he hunted.

            He had almost laughed out loud when he discovered that his prey was a gardener in the local botanical park.  He had almost expected him to be a criminal or serial rapist or the like.  But to discover he was a tender of small flowers and orchards?  It was simply too much.  And so, he walked barefoot through the park – he never wore shoes, he did not need to – until he saw his quarry in the Japanese section of the park.  Immediately, the look of the hunter was replaced with an artfully contrived look of shock.

            “Oh – my – god.  I can’t believe I’m meeting the man who designed the Japanese garden.”  He all but effused; mimicking the brainless effeminate articulation that he knew would get him noticed. 

            The man turned and straightened up, clearly confused by the girly queen who was now approaching him.  “What?”

            The Hunter put his hands to his chest with fingers splayed as he grinned like an idiot.  “This is SUCH an honor. I mean, when I had to, like, decide on my thesis for landscape design, I came here, you know, for inspiration and there… it… was… my inspiration… oh – my – god!”  He pointed grandly at the plot in front of him.

            The man, clearly choosing to believe him, smiled, and decided to let the homo gush.  After all, he barely got a nod from his supervisor, so to get a landscape architect major going on about his work, it generously stroked the pride within that usually went without.  He talked about his work, and the plants and how much effort he put into it and how unappreciated he was. 

            The Hunter played along, stroking the other man’s ego like a surfer waxing a board.  It was so easy.  Mister Domestic Abuser was one of the little people who very much resented being at the bottom of the pile.  How pathetically predictable it was.  In truth, he could have been forgiven for it, but breaking a child’s ribs simply because he was upset at the size of his own penis was something that crossed the line.

            After about fifteen minutes, he decided he had heard enough.  And so, he interrupted the man in mid-sentence and asked how his son was.  The Abuser looked at him shocked.  The Abuser tried to say something several times but could not.  The fact that the Hunter had discarded his facade and now wore a look of implacable resolve may have had something to do with it.

            “You are a maggot feasting on the fear of others.”  The Hunter informed him flatly.

            The Abuser was not about to take this sort of insult from some girly poofter, no matter how scary a look he could muster.  To that end, he stepped forward and swung a mighty punch.  If it had connected, the Hunter guessed it would have been very impressive.  But he chose to not let it connect.

            With a blur of speed, The Hunter caught the Abuser by the wrist and twisted.  The Abuser crumpled with a strangled cry of pain and surprise.  It was a truly wretched spectacle.  Even when the Abuser lashed out with the other hand, he was again quickly restrained and made to feel some of the pain he had caused.

            The Abuser began blubbering like a child and pleading with the Hunter not to hurt him.  But it was too late.  He should have thought of the consequences before he had hurt an innocent child.  And so, the Hunter bared his extended incisors and with a snarl of hunger, bit the man’s left wrist, directly into the vein.  The Abuser’s look of pain was replaced by one of horrific confusion.  Having ones’ blood drained will certainly do that to a man.

            It took several minutes, but at last the Hunter let go and the now lifeless body dropped to the ground.  As planned, he took a small note from his pocket and laid it under the uninjured right wrist of his victim.  He was not concerned about his fingerprints being on the note; he did not have any to worry about.  With a sigh of satisfaction, he walked away from the scene of a regrettable suicide.

            Several days later, he turned up on the doorstep of the woman and her son and handed over a large check that he informed her was her husbands’ life insurance.  He offered his condolences and walked away.  The life insurance story was a complete lie.  The check, however, was very real.  He had barely stepped onto the street when he heard the delighted squeals of the now emancipated woman behind him.

           

            He imagined he could hear the delighted squeals of his woman.  The stunningly handsome young man sat on a stool in the kitchen wondering, again, why he had not acted before.  True, the relationship was still new, but he had so wanted it to work this time.  Unfortunately, his ability to pick the wrong sort of woman seemed to continue to work against him. 

            He glanced at the clock in the kitchen.  It was almost midnight.  She had called several hours earlier to inform him that she was catching a last-minute tutorial at the university where she studied.  It was another lie in a long line of lies.  There was always something to go to at the last minute.  There was always one more assignment.  It was a lie on a lie on a lie.  And he had tired of it.

            She was stunningly beautiful; tall and voluptuous; with an hourglass figure and the style of a 1950’s movie star.  She was intelligent and cultured and oh so sophisticated.  She was also the best sex he had ever had.  It was completely uninhibited, almost animalistic, and it would last for hours.  Quickie was not in her vocabulary.

            But now, the sex was not enough.  It was all or nothing now, and he wanted nothing more from her.  Strangely enough, he felt very little sadness about what he felt necessary to do.  In fact, there was a release to his decision, a lessening of weight that had been a burden for too long.  Ever since the detox and his subsequent yearlong stay in rehab, all he had wanted from life was an ease of living.  He had money, that was never an issue.  But right now, he had drama and difficulty and hassles, they were the issues, and he wanted no more of it, just like he wanted no more of her.

            His musings were interrupted by her entrance.  She could never just walk into a room, it always had to be a grand entrance.  As usual the door flew open, banging against the wall and further marking it.  She would toss down her handbag, immediately begin on how busy her day had been and how tired she was.  She would hastily kiss him and then put her laptop on the table and plug it in to recharge.  She would put the kettle on and squeeze his arm as she again strode past him on her way to the shower.  He wondered why she needed a second in an hour.  Surely, she always had one at his place before coming home.  She was so caught up in herself that she failed to notice his bags by the kitchen counter.

            He shook his head.  Enough was enough.  He stood and walked over to her laptop.  He placed the second, third and fourth fingers of his left hand on the screen.  With a thought, the small, technological beings who shared his body raced out of his fingertips and connected him to the laptop’s memory core and hard drive.  After a few seconds of searching, he found the file he was after.  The obscure password of her email meant nothing to someone who could circumvent such programming with a thought.  He called up the most recent email from her other boyfriend, complete with its’ explicit descriptions of their previous lovemaking session.

            Leaving that on her desktop, he picked up his bags, walked out of the apartment and down to his waiting taxi.  He had decided some pampering was required and had chosen a luxury hotel in the city as his next stop before deciding on his future.  He would order some food, get some booze, and maybe even go out to a club.  Then again, maybe he would stay in, call in an escort, get drunk and watch some rugby.  Either way, without her around, it was a win-win scenario.

 

            She had thought it a win-win scenario.  She loved working out on her own.  The young woman – Thumper to her friends – preferred to be alone in the gymnastics facility where she trained.  She was just about to get back on the uneven bars when she heard a door open.  Turning around, she was annoyed to see her rival walk in.  She really wasn’t her rival; Thumper couldn’t be bothered with such trivialities.  Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the red headed athlete striding up to her.  As usual, Red had a look of haughty disdain on her face as she approached her.  Red took her mantle of star of the studio to heart and had developed a refined sense of bitterness where Thumper was concerned.

            She stopped in front of her.  “I’m supposed to have the studio to myself for the next hour.”  Red declaimed.

            “I’m only using the uneven bars.  I won’t get in your way.”  Thumper replied neutrally.

            Red didn’t seem okay with that.  “You're always in my way.”  She replied tartly before turning on her heel and walking over to the beam.

            Thumper just shook head with a small sigh.  She looked at the uneven bars and decided she had done enough.  She retrieved her towel and went back to the locker room where she steamed, took a long cool shower, and then changed into some casual sweats.  She briefly considered going back in and trying to come to some understanding with the rouge hag, but then decided it was simply too much effort.  As she walked out of the locker room, she wandered down the common hallway and out the front doors, waving to the receptionist as she did so.  As she walked out into the humid Newcastle air, she despaired of it ever cooling down again when she felt a tremble beneath her feet.

            It was brief; maybe a second, but she had felt something.  The gymnastics facility bordered an industrial estate that was deserted this time of day, so it could not have been the result of any activity there.  It had been many years since that terrible day in Newcastle when an angry earth had visited its fury on the city.  Many buildings had been leveled and there had been thirteen deaths, it was something that she did not wish to revisit.  And yet, she cursed as the vibrations began again, just like that December day in 1989.

            It started as a small regular shaking beneath her feet, but it quickly grew in intensity until the streetlights were swaying and the ground itself began to heave and crack.  The doors to the gymnastics facility burst open and the receptionist ran outside.  The woman was hysterical.  Thumper knew that the woman had lost her mother in the previous quake, so there was probably some psychology happening that was intensifying her reaction. 

            Unfortunately, she could do nothing to calm the woman down.  Eventually, she pushed on her shoulders until the woman was sitting in the middle of the street sobbing without pause.  Thumper had just settled her on the bitumen when she heard a scream from behind.  She turned quickly and cast her gaze upwards.  On the second level balcony, Red was standing there screaming as the old warehouse style building that was the gymnastics hall shook and buckled around her.  There would have been no time for Red to get outside from the second level workout space even if she had tried.  Thumper knew that the building would not hold up.  It was over sixty years old and little more than a tin shed.  The sickening sound of twisting metal announced in no uncertain terms that the balcony Red was on would not be a balcony much longer.  Thumper silently cursed for what she was being forced to reveal, but there was a life that was in danger.

            Running forward, she took off and leapt three meters to the top of the metal awning over the entranceway; lightly rebounding off that, she somersaulted up and over the handrail of the balcony, and then softly landed next to Red.  The woman was staring at Thumper, clearly dumbstruck at the ability that was plainly magnitudes above her.  Thumper picked her up in a cradle hold and leapt up and over the rail.  Again, she rebounded off the awning to land lightly on the street and immediately ran to the center of the street, simultaneously throwing Red over her shoulder in a fireman’s hold whilst snagging the hysterical receptionist with the other hand.  With her two passengers, she ran with speed outstripping a gazelle to the open grass of the park across the road and unceremoniously dumped both to the ground as she herself dropped down.  She looked up from where she had thrown herself and saw the balcony all but dissolve under the violent jolts.

            The entire quake had lasted less than a minute, and yet, once again, fear had come to Newcastle.  Pushing herself up onto her knees, Thumper looked around.  Most of the industrial estate was still in one piece, although some of the less permanent buildings had collapsed.  Several streetlights were down and so was the entire front half of the gymnastic hall.  She looked over the other women to make certain they were unhurt.  The receptionist was slowly getting herself under control, but Red was looking at her through an expression of fear.  With a quaking voice, she spoke.

            “What the hell are you?”  She asked, fear punctuating every syllable.

            Thumper calmly stared her straight in the eye.  “Something better than you could ever be and aren’t you lucky.”

           

            She thought herself lucky.  Even though her adviser droned on and on and on, she regarded him as the most capable attaché she had ever had, but there were times when she wanted to pick up a chair and bust it across his teeth.  Mind you, if she did that, she would have to break in a new attaché, and that was much, much worse.

            “Has the regional council made a decision yet?”  She interrupted his droning’s.

            He readjusted his glasses as he spoke.  “No.  I believe it will be at least a month before they agree on a resolution.”

            She looked out at the sunny afternoon without.  She would go for a swim later she decided.  It was warm enough, and the water would still be cold.  She hated swimming in warm water.  You were supposed to cringe when you first entered the water.  It was a way to remind one of one’s insignificance next to something as immense as the ocean.  She just hoped she wouldn’t run into another shark.  She turned her attention back to her attaché as he recited profit and loss figures, annual expenditure, harvest yields, product sales and other things that were important to her. 

            “What has happened with the summer residence?”  She asked.

            He readjusted his glasses yet again as he replied.  She found the nervous habit annoying and distracting.  “The lower three fields have been sown; the new agricultural laboratory is installed and operational; our dairy facilities have been expanded to accommodate the new cheese production house; lamb yield was fifty percent higher than expected; and the village has been extended to accommodate the ever-increasing employment force.”

            She breathed in deeply.  The next question was certain to make him drop his glasses altogether.  “And how many more death threats have I received.”

            Surprising her, he put the documents in his lap to one side and looked at her squarely.  “Three in the last month.”  His tone was rock steady.

            She rose and, over his objection, strode to the window.  She was tired of hiding.  “Is there progress in the investigation?”  She asked quietly.

            From behind she heard him sigh with resignation.  “I’m afraid not.”

            She turned back to face him.  “Please request that they redouble their efforts, I would prefer not to leave The Pack leaderless.”

            He rose and bowed deeply.  “As you wish, Baroness.”

            She nodded in deference to his respect.  He was a droning, boring bag of hot air, but his devotion to her and his duties had been above reproach for the last two centuries.  She was grateful for him and the sense of continuity he projected.  In those rare times, when she was honest with herself, she admitted she was quite fond of the man.  She motioned for the two of them to walk.  It was lunchtime and she was starving.  They had just stepped out of the parlor and into the hall when a gunshot rang out.  From beside her she heard a short, sharp crack and saw her attaché fall to the floor, blood flowing from a wound to his knee.  The cracking had probably been the bullet breaking the poor man’s knee cap.

            She looked back to see a figure dressed entirely in black with a balaclava over his head.  For a moment, she was amused at the absurdity of his dress given it was midday in inner city Melbourne in the twenty-first century and not Russia during the Cold War.  He fired at her, but she was prepared.  She easily evaded the bullet and sprinted forward to knock the gun out of his hand.  What she was not prepared for was the strength with which he returned the blows she was raining down on him.  This was no average assassin; this was one of their allies’ kind.  With that, she flashed into her Human/Lycan hybrid form and called on all her speed and strength. 

            She extended her claws and raked them across her attackers’ chest, drawing first blood.  He screamed and vaulted over her and ran on through the house.  She followed him, startled servants and Embassy staff quickly running out of the way of the pursuit.  One thing she realized was that he was a professional.  He was beginning the turn into corners even before he had got to them.  He was clearly familiar with the Embassy’s floor plan.  She didn’t care; she dug the claws of her feet into the carpet and pushed off with a huge burst of strength.  She leapt up and came down on the back of her quarry and the two went crashing to the floor.  He kicked her off and valiantly attempted to get back up, but she was just too fast, as all her kind was.

            She leapt onto his chest and tore the balaclava from his face.  She was not familiar with him, but that didn’t matter.  She wanted information, not a reunion.  With her weight on him, and his arms pinned to the floor by her feet, she leant forward.  He looked up into her face, which was a mix of human and wolf.  Her teeth were longer, and her incisors were three-inch fangs that could rip out a man’s throat with little effort.  Her ears, normally somewhat pointed, were now extended by about four inches.  Her eyebrows were now much fuller, and her jaw line was much more angular and somewhat distended.  Sharp, silver eyes dared him to break her gaze.  For anyone it would be a sight of horror, but her quarry appeared not to be scared easily.  Even now, futile as it was, he tried to break free.

            She casually slapped him across the face.  It got his attention.

            “Stop moving around.  You know you can’t shift me.”  She informed him almost nonchalantly.  “You will tell me why I am being targeted and by whom?”

            He spat at her, his own elongated incisors making that a somewhat messy task.  She backhanded him across the face, this time drawing blood. 

            “That will get you nowhere even faster.”  She drawled.  “Who?”

            His struggles ceased and his breathing began to slow.  He stared at her with undisguised loathing.  “The Red Council.”

            She rolled her eyes and backhanded him even harder the third time.  His eyes momentarily glazed over with the pain.  She was many times stronger than him.

            “What are they?”  She asked quietly.

            He replied through a slight slur.  “The Red Council has tired of its association with the mongrels of history.  They will kill you, and then The Pack.”

            As he finished, two of her most trusted security staff entered the room.  She motioned for them to take him away.  “Interrogate him, thoroughly.”  She instructed.  As they left, she shifted back to her human form.  She would need to call a meeting.  Thankfully, she did it so rarely that she was always obeyed when she did.  Just because one had influence did not mean one was permitted to abuse it.  Not even Karolinya, Countess of Laschavia; Marquise of Tolseichner; Baroness Holfensteim; and Regent-Hereditary of Wallachia.

 

            She laid out the six photos on her desk.  They were an intriguing if not slightly scary bunch.  Inwardly she reprimanded herself.  They were different, not scary.  She sighed.  This was exactly the reason why people such as this were encouraged to keep quiet about what they could do.  Society barely tolerated racial and religious diversity.  To ask the ignorant masses to further accept genetic diversity on such a level was simply too much for the tiny little souls to cope with.

            As the person in a high position in an Intelligence agency, she knew it was far kinder to keep the general population ignorant to the realities of the world.  Indeed, the realities of their own neighborhoods were usually too much for them.  She sighed as she settled back into her luxurious chair, a small perk of her position. 

            She remembered with a shudder her years at MI-6 where she was sustained by her patriotic desire to serve her country and her Queen.  She certainly had not done it for the money.  Thankfully, her new employer demonstrated their belief in their employees by rewarding them with salaries that mirrored their value.  She had been on holiday in Fiji – overdue of course - when she was approached with an offer to return to and head an agency that was six hundred years old.  She had eagerly accepted and swiftly took the helm of a group of some four thousand agents, sequestered in various regions of the world.  What’s more, it was a very well-funded agency.  Certainly, her first paycheck attested to that.  She was surprised to find that money could be used for other things rather than simply paying the rent and the light bill.  Her beach-side cottage in Byron Bay was testament to that. 

            She still possessed a sense of duty.  However, it was far more generic these days.  As a Regional Director in Charge of a global intelligence community, the world was her backyard, and there was a tremendous amount of weeding to be done.  Thankfully, this organization had resources unavailable to others.  And this included her little group of genetic treasures.

            The scientist in her found them fascinating.  Five of the group were what they were due to a small, almost inconsequential variation in their genetic make-up.  When analyzed, the genetic mutations were so minor, that only the most skilled geneticist would have noticed anything out of the usual.  And yet, these infinitesimal changes resulted in the most amazing abilities.  There was the wolfwoman; the strong man; the vampire; the acrobat; and the witch.  She chuckled as she remembered the comic books her youngest nephew was always reading.  One of them was about a group of individuals with genetic abnormalities that battled to survive in an unforgiving world.  She wished she could tell him that the myth was a reality.

            The sixth member of the rather select group had earned his abilities only through a technological gift that she herself had played a part in devising.  The young man was the son of a colleague of hers.  When she had heard that his son had fallen prey to addiction, she had advocated on his behalf that his boy be given the opportunity to be their test subject.  Not only had the procedure proved an enormous success, but the resulting side effects had proven to be of significant worth to the Agency.  Thankfully, the young man was so grateful that he eagerly accepted his new role.  Sadly, his father had not lived to see it, having been terminated during a mission in the Chinese hinterlands.  The individuals responsible had been quickly apprehended and dealt with.  She had taken it very personally and had reacted in an appropriately personal manner.

            Now, she had to find a coordinator for her little group of ‘special’ people.  She looked to the stack of files on her other desk.  She had been sent a shortlist of applicants from six different intelligence agencies throughout the world.  She had people in every agency in any country that had one, of course, but the big six were what she used to recruit.  CIA, Mossad, ASIS, MI5, MI6, and German Federal Intelligence were all her breadbaskets. 

            One file kept catching her eye.  He was the quintessential quiet achiever.  He was never late for work, and he never left early.  His attention to detail was total.  His analyses were insightful and comprehensive, and he was a published author in the fantasy genre. 

He had two novels currently in circulation, both concerning werewolves and witches.  It was a personality quirk that would prove valuable.  She summoned her assistant and handed him the file.

            “Get him here.”  Was all she had to say.

 

Chapter Two

 

              He woke several minutes before his alarm was due to go off as he did every morning.  Reaching over, he switched off the alarm and rose from his bed.  He threw open the curtains and gazed out at the early morning sun as it embraced Canberra, capital city of Australia.

            His shower was leisurely and indulgent, as it was every morning.  It was the only time of the day he had entirely to himself and so he enjoyed the serenity, fleeting though it was.  In time, he turned off the shower, dried himself, shaved, and dressed for the day ahead. 

            As usual, he had not taken two steps towards his front door when his phone rang.  It was his mother.  Again.  She called every morning to see how he slept and to wish him a good day.  He indulged the ritual with a good-hearted nature.  He truly loved his mother and she had been recently widowed after 30 years of marriage.  He did not need to try and wonder if she was lonely, he could hear it in every phone call that he received from her.  One every morning.  One every evening just after dinner.  He could hear the loss in her voice, even when she tried to be upbeat and sunny.

            For almost two years she had nursed her husband – his step-father – through a long battle with lung cancer.  Sadly, it had been a battle that they knew he would never win.  The cancer had been too far advanced even when he had been first diagnosed.  Later, it had spread to every organ in his body including his brain and his bones.  She had been there in the hospital when he had died, and the agony in her voice when she rang to tell him had broken his heart.  Now, he made every single moment available to her when he could.  Phone calls.  Weekends away.  A bunch of flowers every few weeks.  He was resolved to do whatever he could to ease the sharpness of her pain.  He was all too aware of the fact that he would be helpless to banish it entirely, but perhaps he could ease it somewhat.  It was the least a son could do.

            He finished his phone call and, with his travel mug of coffee in hand, he walked the four blocks to his place of employment, enjoying the early morning as he always did.  Though the city is often mocked by many who lived and worked there, Robert Smith liked Canberra.  True, even as the nation's capital it was still little more than a large country town, but that was its charm.  Towering eucalyptus trees lined the streets and native birds thrived on the indigenous vegetation whilst filling the air with song.  It was a small city – really a large country town – but he loved it.  He had lived there for nine years, and it was well and truly home.  He had arrived at the beginning of the “City Renaissance” which saw a maturation the of the city’s dining scene.  Art galleries were now dotted through the suburbs, and the bar scene had become a mature and classy affair, something he welcomed when he worked late.  It was a very liveable city, and he relished the relaxed feel to it.

            He greeted a few of the joggers that past him as they did every morning.  Robert Smith liked to get to work early; he did his best work first thing when he had his work area to himself.  It would be an hour or more before the rest of his workmates turned up.

            He walked towards the main entry of the Australian Secret Intelligence Service.  ASIS was the foreign intelligence service of Australia, and served the same function as MI6 or the CIA.  For nine years, Smith had worked as a senior analyst specialising in the Middle East and the Sub-Continent.  As with most of the staff, his was a face not to be known.  His was a life that was not to be garnering popularity.  He had accepted the type of life that would be demanded of him when he applied to the Service.  It was understood that all employees of the Service were to conduct themselves as quietly, as humbly, and as invisibly as possible.

              As he entered the building, he endured the security measures that were standard procedure for an intelligence agency.  Eventually he could pass, and he headed to a lift that would take him down beneath the ground level of the city of Canberra.  Elevator conversation was non-existent.  There was only so much one could discuss where the weather was concerned, and thankfully the other people in the elevator welcomed the silence, as did Smith.

            Departing the elevator, he nodded to a few colleagues as he made his way to his office.  Robert Smith liked his office.  At least, that’s what he continued to tell himself.  He was seriously concerned about what would happen to his mental health if he accepted the reality of being in a windowless bunker in the sub-sub-basement of his building, thirty metres underground.  Three commendations, eight spotless performance reviews and a stunning nine-year career still only warranted a concrete den that a diseased hyena would say no to.

            He shook it off.  The real workers were all underground, such was the way.  It had been so for the last fifty years and was not about to change any time soon.  The administrators and bureaucrats all lived topside.  The analysts, intelligence officers and those sundry staff members most ambiguously labelled as ‘spy’ all dwelt underground.  Such was the order of things.  Upstairs, the bright offices and happy people were all the politicians and government committees that toured the organisation needed to see and know about.  Only a select few ever ventured downstairs and even then, it was a rarity.  Plausible deniability was very real and always expected.      

            The other analyst who shared the space with him handed over a file.  “Can you have a look at this?”

            David Oliver was a good analyst, but he had an almost pathological need for independent confirmation.   Smith quickly glanced at the summary and saw that it was yet another exceptional piece of analytical work.  He handed it back.

            “Everything looks good to me.”  Smith replied with a smile.

            “Cheers.”  Oliver thanked him before turning back to his paperwork. 

            Robert Smith turned back to his three computer monitors.  One screen only ever displayed his schedule; the second was an interactive map of the world that would allow him to access of all but the most sensitive of intelligence with a click of a mouse: and the third contained his current analysis of yet one more bucket of data that had been diverted to him concerning the Middle East.  Smith was known as an expert on the Middle East, a title he wore begrudgingly.  He had long ago tired of the never-ending cycle of hatred that plagued that part of the world.  Every time a new packet of data came in, he would shake his head and wonder if it was simply a matter of evolution leaving part of the world behind.  He knew it to be an unkind thought, but he just could not grasp the seemingly omni-present mania that gripped that part of the world.    

            It was hate.  Pure and simple hate.  The thing that most confused him, was that these people needed each other.  Their countries depended on each other, and yet, they spent almost every waking hour defining some new way of inflicting harm on each other.  Smith idly wondered if they even knew what they were fighting about anymore.  Or, if the fight itself had now become a vocation, rather than a means to an end.

            “I see there’s a new edition out?”  Oliver interrupted Smith’s musings.

            “Hmm?”  Smith said in polite confusion.

            “Novel two?”  Oliver pressed.  “It’s in a fourth print run now.”

            Smith nodded.  “Yeah, mate.  Doing well.”

            “A couple of more runs, and you’ll be able to buy your mum that house she talked about.”  Oliver pointed out respectfully.  Oliver was Smiths’ biggest fan.

            Robert Smith Intelligence Analyst was also Robert Smith Fantasy Author.  His latest novel – a sweeping tale of Vampires in South America – was the second novel of a four-novel deal he had landed with a prestigious Australian publishing company.  With his first novel, he had managed to attain a following that included fans in Australia, South America, and Germany.  Such was their enthusiasm that Novel Two began to enjoy a more mainstream success and was enjoying its fourth printing.  His writing was very important to him, beyond the modest return he was making.  It gave him a welcome diversion from the often-bland nature of his job.  It was an important job.  But at times he seemed very much on the Hamster wheel.  Writing took him away from the world he lived in and deposited him in a world of his own making.  It was a very exciting and enthralling pursuit.

            Smith turned back to his own work, picking up his coffee cup as he did so.  Unfortunately, he had long since finished the current cup.  With a groan, he got up and walked down the too brightly lit bare cement hallway to a nook laughingly described as “The Staffroom” – a recess with a coffee machine, small fridge and one vending machine, usually empty.  He put his cup under the machine and pressed the Latte button.  An otherworldly groan was emitted by the ancient auto-brewer as it ground some beans and heated some milk.  Smith took a step back.  Last week, an agent had been burned by boiling water when a pipe had come loose due to the pressure of the machine, and its’ complete lack of maintenance.  The machine started to make a regular clanging noise and began to vibrate so hard that it rocked from side to side slightly.  Eventually, he had a full cup of coffee, and even better, all his skin was intact.  He turned to go back to his work area to see a very serious looking young man standing in the hallway. 

            “Agent Smith,” The young man started.  “Would you come with me please?”

            Smith was about to ask who the hell he was when the young man held up an identity card.  On it was a security clearance beyond anything Smith himself could ever have.  He put the coffee cup down and followed the young man out.

 

            “Are we there yet?”  Smith asked wearily.

            The car had been driving for an hour.  What had started as a jaunt through the Canberra suburbs was now a drive in the country.  Robert Smith enjoyed a leisurely drive as much as the next person, but the countryside surrounding Canberra in summer was dry, parched, and deadly dull.  The young man who had approached him and now shared the back seat with him turned to him with a small smile on his youthful face.  “We’re here.”

            Smith turned to look out of the car window.  As they veered off the main road, they proceeded down a gravel lane.  About one-hundred metres on, they came to a rambling estate that included several Federation style houses and what appeared to be an enormous outbuilding.  Smith was finding the whole setting a little surreal.

            “Let me guess,” he started.  “I’ll find out when I’m inside what’s going on?”

            The young man nodded then got out of the car.  Smith did likewise, but without the nod.  His escort indicated the largest of the four houses.  “Will you follow me please, Agent Smith?”  It was phrased as a question, but Smith really had no option but to comply.  He was happy to follow him, if nothing more than for a chance to get out of the heat.  The two men’s shoes crunched as they made their way over the gravel to the seven steps that led up to the front entrance of the main house.  As he walked up the few steps, Smith noticed the all too casually placed men, all wearing grey suits.  Smith was relieved when they went inside to find the house comfortably air conditioned. 

            He was led into a sitting room and informed to take a seat.  He did so in an antique chair that was generously padded.  The whole room was impeccably decorated.  It contained many examples of Australian cultural icons.  There was a single page of a handwritten manuscript bearing the signature of A.B. ‘Banjo’ Patterson – the poet.  A pair of worn and torn ballet shoes sat in a glass case with the name of the legendary Australian Prima Ballerina Lucette Aldous engraved onto the glass.  A miniature model of the Sydney Opera House sat on the mantle of the fireplace beneath what appeared to be an original copy of the Articles of Federation framed and hanging above it.  His gaze was drawn back when a woman entered the room carrying a silver tea service.

            She was of middle years and had the matronly build of a hypo-metabolic individual who ate whatever they wanted to but never considered the calorie count.  She set down the tray and held out her hand.

            “Good morning, Agent Smith.”  Her voice was rich, authoritative, and carefully modulated.  This was the voice of a leader.

            He stood respectfully and returned the handshake.  “And you would be?”

            She smiled as she sat in the chair across from him.  “I’m the woman making the tea.”

            Smith could not help but smile as he sat.  He loved the little games his kind played.  “I’d guess that you’re a little more than the tea lady?”

            She laughed.  It was full and hearty, a good belly laugh.  “And you’d be right.”  She poured two cups of tea and added sugar and milk to them both.  Handing him one, she then picked up her own and continued.  “My name is Penelope Thomas, and I am the Oceania Regional Director in Charge of the C.S.D..”

            Smith frowned as he took a sip of the excellently prepared tea.  “I’m sorry, Ma’am.  But I have never heard of the C.S.D..”

            “Good.  I would have been concerned if you had.”  She took another sip.  “The Commonwealth Security Directorate was formed over six hundred years ago, by the then collaboration of four religious institutions who were worried that the growth of monarchic empires and secret organisations would threaten the peace of the world.”

            Smith put down his tea, no longer caring for it, and leant back in his chair.  “Ma’am, is this a joke?  Because if it is, I’ll play along and laugh later with the rest of you, but I don’t get it.”

            Her smile dropped.  “This is no joke, Agent Smith.  This is very real, and I need you to listen to everything that I have to say.”

            Smith suddenly realised the significance of his situation.  After all, they could not have had access to him or even the most limited knowledge of him without some serious security clearances.  She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap.  She looked for the entire world like a schoolteacher he once had. 

            “In 1403, a group of Jewish Rabbis, Muslim Mufti, Papal Emissaries and Templar Knights formed an organisation that would attempt to safeguard global peace.”

            Smith cocked an eyebrow rakishly.  Religion was something he had nothing but scorn for.  “How’d that work out for them?”

            The Director smirked.  She had read in his personnel file that he had an unusual humour for an analyst, but it in person it was off-beat, and yet, completely charming.  He would do well.

            “Not so good to start with.”  She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face.  “Indeed, it proved to be moderately disastrous given that most of the wars being started were indeed being instigated by members of their own faiths.”

            “It was internal extremism.”  Smith noted with contempt.

            Thomas nodded.  “It's not a new concept.  Unfortunately, they knew that they risked death to openly attempt to counter their own extremist elements, so they gave up.  Then they realised that to disrupt from within was the best thing to do.”

            Smith frowned.  “I'm finding it hard to believe that they worked together given the Pope of the time hated both Muslims and Jews?”

            Thomas cocked an eyebrow.  “I don't remember saying the Pope was involved.”

            Smith nodded with comprehension.  “Papal emissaries; It was members of his own court.  They weren't sanctioned.”

            Thomas nodded.  “It didn't take a genius to realise that there was going to be a whole bundle of wars.  The primary directive of what was to later be known as the C.S.D. was mitigation.  Without them, there would have been ten times the wars that actually occurred.”

            Smith spread his hands.  “It's not unlike what we do now.”  He frowned.  “Hang on; the Templar Knights were disbanded in 1312.”  Awareness suffused his features.  “They survived.”

            Thomas nodded.  “Most of them did.  There were thousands of them remember.  To continue; those involved realised that there was a common interest in keeping the extremism of the time in check.  Plagues, famine, natural disaster, extreme poverty; these were keeping everyone busy as it was.  The last thing they needed was a constant state of conflict.”  She sipped her tea again.  Smith noted that everything she did was purposeful and deliberate.  This was a woman who had built a façade from the ground up.  He idly wondered how many were lucky enough to penetrate it.  Even her voice was carefully modulated.

            “The religions of the world have always been composed of two types of worshippers; the quiet ones who actually follow the tenets of their faith and do so in a respectful, and most importantly, private manner; and then there are those who try to impose their faith on anyone and anything with a pulse.  Unfortunately, there were more than enough of those, hence those little tiffs like the Crusades and the Inquisition.”  She sipped the last of her tea and daintily dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.  “Over the course of the centuries, the organisation changed to become a global watchdog with resources not available to other intelligence agencies of the day.  Also, we are bound by none of the restrictions that other agencies face.”

            Smith squinted.  “Does this come under the U.N.?”

            Director Thomas shook her head.  “We have contacts within the U.N. who we liaise with, but no, we don’t actually report to them.”

            “Then how do you manage your accountability?  Where do you draw the line?”  

            Thomas was pleased.  This was exactly the type of man she wanted to lead her little group.  “We report directly to the Commonwealth Secretaries.  Whilst they prefer not to hear the details, they are kept informed of our activities in general.  We make the hard decisions and do the dirty work, and then we tell them the results.  Unlike some other Intelligence agencies, I could name, we do not overthrow entire governments or destabilise the inner workings of sovereign nations.  We do, however, remove those who will try to do the afore-mentioned things.  We don’t always succeed unfortunately, but we are making a difference.”

            Smith listened with interest.  It was the mantra of agencies everywhere ‘Do as much as good as you can whilst doing the least harm’.  What concerned him was the apparent invisibility that such a large and complex organisation appeared to have.  “Do any of the Commonwealth nations know you exist?”

            Thomas nodded.  “Certain leaders do, and no I won’t tell you who they are.  It isn’t for you to know.  But I do want to discuss an opportunity with you.”  She handed him a file. 

            She poured herself another cup of tea whilst he perused the well summarised contents of the file in his hands.  He read every page; just to make sure it wasn’t some sort of gag – he was still on the fence that this was a legitimate meeting – and then closed it and looked up at Director Thomas.  He held the file up.

            “If this isn’t the biggest load of bullshit ever written, then you’ve got one hell of a story to tell me.”  Smith’s tone was as perplexed as he was feeling. 

            Thomas, on the other hand, merely smiled.  “We would like you to come with us for a few days.”

            Now Smith knew he was being set up for something.  Maybe they were finally giving him a party for his most recent commendation, and he just didn’t know about it.  When he spoke, it was with an understandable mix of confusion and anger.  “I can’t go anywhere.  I shouldn’t have left the office.  The only reason I did is that pretty boy over there,” Smith pointed at Thomas’ handsome assistant, “has a security card my boss doesn’t even have.”

            Director Thomas held up her right hand into which was placed a cordless telephone.  She pressed one button and waited before speaking.

            “David, its Penelope…  Oh, I’m fine, how are Vivienne and the kids?”  There were frequent pauses which denoted conversation.  “Oh, how wonderful for her, you must be so proud!  … Listen David, I have your guy Robert Smith here… Yes, him.  I need him for a few days, can you spare him?”  She smiled broadly.  “Oh, that’s grand, David.  Thanks for that.  We’ll catch up next week…  Okay.  Give my love to Viv and the kids.”  She pressed a button and handed it back to her assistant.  As she did so, another grey suited man came in with an overnight bag and set it down beside Smith’s chair.

            “I’m sorry that I had men rifling through your underwear, but timing is somewhat tight now.”  She rose.  “Please follow me.”

            Smith shook his head but otherwise complied.  Director Thomas led him out of the main house and across a large, almost park-like lawn to the outbuilding he had noted when he had arrived.  Upon entering, it was like no barn he had been to before.  Whilst the outside was rustic and somewhat run down, inside it was a sparkling clean and perfectly organised hangar with a Lear jet parked in the middle of it.  Smith followed Thomas onto the plane and an attendant in an immaculately tailored suit offered him a drink as he sat down.  He asked for, and received, a double scotch on the rocks.  Despite the early hour, it did not last long.  As soon as Director Thomas had sat down the door was closed and the engines hummed to life.  Three minutes later they were airborne.  Knowing it would prove pointless to ask where they were going, he turned his attention back to the file she had given him.

            Contained within were the profiles of six individuals who could not possibly exist outside of folklore and modern fantasy fiction.  He should know, as someone with two published novels about werewolves and vampires, he knew these people could not be real.  And yet, he had just drunk a very well-made drink on a private jet with no markings, belonging to a global intelligence agency he had never heard of, ferrying him to an unknown destination.  Requesting and receiving a second drink, he read more closely.

            Simply titled ‘THETA’, the file contained six of the most basic of profiles.  The first was an apparently immortal individual who was a living and breathing vampire.  The man had been during the first Babylonian Empire and required mammalian blood to survive.  He could stick to walls and was listed as a suspect in several murders of high crime figures. 

            The next was a European aristocrat who was almost six hundred years old and was listed as a werewolf.  She could change shape into a mix of human and wolf; possessed enhanced senses; and was leader of something referred to as ‘The Pack’.

            An Australian pastoralist was next on the list, and she seemed perfectly normal until he read that she possessed an enormous brain that allowed her to manipulate most forms of electro-magnetic radiation.  She was also one of the richest women in the country and yet, he had never heard of her.  He did not particularly envy her vocation.  The part of the country where her property was located had been experiencing drought for three years straight.  It was doubtful anyone could maintain their fortune for very long under those conditions.

            He was stunned when he read that the next individual was the love child of the vampire and the witch.  He was only five years old, and yet he had the appearance of someone in their early twenties.  His parents’ unusual genes had endowed him with incredible strength and speed, as well as an IQ of somewhere in the range of 2005.  He was also an active homosexual with a seemingly inexhaustible interest in Hellenic men.  Smith wondered what the hell he was getting himself into.  With no small amount of trepidation, he silently cursed his Greek mother for his obviously Hellenic features.

            Even the two individuals who sounded normal weren’t.  The girl was a pint-sized acrobatic dynamo that was described as weighing only thirty kilos, whilst possessing the strength to propel her ten stories straight up.  The guy was an ex-model and combined heroin and meth addict who had been cured with a type of medical nanotechnology that now allowed him to interface directly with all sorts of electronics and computers.  Smith drained his second scotch, politely refused a third and put the file down.  At the exact same time, Penelope Thomas swivelled her seat back around to face him.

            “Questions?”  She asked simply. 

            Smith nodded.  “Just one, exactly how much of this absolute shit?”

            Thomas chuckled genuinely despite his profanity.  “You’re not the first person to ask that.  It’s all real.  One hundred per cent and none of the details in there have been made up just to test you.”

            Smith spread his hands.  “This is crazy.  This is Saturday morning cartoons!”

            Thomas nodded.  “Of course, it is.  But I did tell you that we had access to resources that others did not.  And besides, a writer of fantasy fiction with an undergraduate degree in philosophy and folklore, coupled with a graduate degree in micro-biology and anthropology should be able to at least allow for the speculative existence of these people.”

            Smith gestured at the file.  “You’re saying these people are the result of weirdly developed genes, or medical technology so advanced even I haven’t heard about it!”

            Thomas nodded calmly.  “You’ll feel differently when you meet them.”

            “Which is where?”  Smith asked somewhat crossly.

            “Melbourne.”  Thomas replied.  She gestured to her assistant.  “Campbell?”

            Her assistant – Campbell obviously – opened a file, handed it to Smith and began to speak.  “The town is Williams.  It is in the rural west of Queensland and exists as a service point for the stock trains transporting beef, pork and lamb to the Port of Darwin for distribution throughout the Asian market.  Five days ago, a worker presented at their local hospital with flu-like symptoms.  Two hours later he was dead, four hours after that so was all the staff and all their patients.  Eleven hours later, the entire town of one thousand and eighty-three people were dead.  Even the six thousand head of cattle at the stock pens outside of town were dead.”

            “Cause?”  Smith asked without looking up from the briefing file.

            “Anthrax.”  Campbell replied.  “But from the reports, a strain unlike any other in existence.

            Smith suddenly felt cold.  Plain, old, garden variety anthrax was bad enough.  But a genetically engineered strain with a 100% fatality rate was even worse. 

            “If everyone is dead, how did you get this information?”  Smith asked curiously.

            “We had an agent on the ground there.”  Campbell replied.  “He was there investigating the influx of South-East Asian workers into rural and remote Queensland.”

            Smith frowned.  “When was being an Asian in Queensland a crime? Aside from the usual rural bigotry?”

            Thomas answered this time.  “It’s a problem when we have strong evidence that they’re using the stock routes for heavy weapons smuggling.”

            “That’d do it.”  Thomas replied.

            Campbell continued.  “Thankfully, he was able to send us biometric data on the anthrax before he died.  We’ve analysed it and it most certainly is a Loki.”

            Loki – the name of the Norse God of Trickery and Deceit - was the universal code word for a bio-engineered virus.  Smith whistled.  “Shit.”  He said simply.

            “Indeed.”  Thomas replied.  She gestured to Campbell who retrieved a syringe and advanced on Smith who was quickly on his feet with his fists cocked. 

            “What the hell!?” 

            Thomas held up a hand.  “Calm down.  It’s only an inoculation to the Loki.  You’ll need it.”

            Now Smith looked at her with a visibly paler face.  “Are you serious?  You want me to go out to a place where this thing killed everyone?”

            Thomas nodded.  “Yes, and we will be going with you.  Now take the inoculation.”  Once again, the voice was not to be disobeyed.

            Smith sank into his seat and allowed the injection.  Campbell simply injected him through his shirt, not even bothering to expose the skin.  It stung like a mother.  He winced as the needle was withdrawn but was surprised to see no bleeding.  He looked curiously at Thomas.

            “It’s a little gift from our resident Lycan.  You’ll find it all out later.”  Thomas explained, or, more accurately, didn’t.  The ringing of the seatbelt sign announced their descent.  Smith looked at his watch.  They had only been in the air forty minutes.  Canberra to Melbourne was usually at least an hour-long flight.  The jet went faster than it seemed.  He couldn’t fault the ride though.  It was the smoothest he had ever experienced.  Even his one-time trip on Air Force One didn’t compare.

            Looking out the window, Smith was stunned to see that they had touched down at Melbourne International Airport.  After a lengthy taxi, the jet came to a stop at a secluded part of the airport where a stretched limousine awaited them.  Smith was not a field agent and couldn’t help but gesture at the vehicle.  “This is low key?”

            Thomas nodded in confirmation.  “It is if you’re a wealthy traveller who doesn’t want to slum it with the masses.”

            Smith shrugged.  There were plenty of those people in Melbourne and so he realised the car probably would not warrant a second glance.  It was a thirty-minute car ride to their destination.  Smith looked around and cursed quietly.  They were in the Docklands precinct of Melbourne.  All around him were yuppie scum.  Smith had come from a working-class family and quietly detested the new corporate elite that such developments tended to attract.  His mother had been a cleaner all her life and his father had worked in construction before succumbing to an asbestos related lung illness.  His childhood in Brisbane had been in the western suburbs.  There, with the rest of the Housing Commission families, he grew up rough, spoke rough and fought rough.  By the second week of high school, he had already broken his arm in a playground brawl that had escalated beyond a simple student fight.  Not many people would have thought to have hidden a piece of steel piping at the fight site, but his opponent had clearly thought ahead.  And so, when Robert was gaining the upper hand, his opponent reached for the pipe and, with a mighty heave, shattered his arm in three places.  It took him a full year in rehabilitation to recover. 

            The next year, his parents moved him to a private school.  His mother took on a second full time job to afford it, but she and his father were determined that their son would get better than they had.  Unfortunately, it was in private schooling that Robert Smith developed his distaste for the upper classes.

            And here in the Docklands precinct it was worse than the upper classes – it was the Aspirants.  They were usually rude obnoxious men with their equally rude and gormless female partners.  But he realised that stereotyping probably wasn’t something that someone in his position should be doing.  Especially given he was about to be meeting a group for which there was no established stereotype.

            The limo parked outside a gleaming concrete and glass building that looked like yet another modern office block.  It was completely devoid of any artistic or architectural merit.  Smith knew that bare concrete and exposed steel was currently the style du jour, but it bored him just the same.  Campbell led him and Thomas into the elevator and on up to the sixteenth level where they exited into the foyer of a rather swanky penthouse.

            The walls were a muted yellow whilst the furniture was modern and gorgeously accented with wood.  The view overlooked the city.  It was stunning.  It was certainly several steps above Smiths’ windowless basement in Canberra.  Seated in the living area, were the six people that Director Thomas had brought Agent Smith to meet.

  

Chapter Three

 

              Seated on one of the two couches were Garreth McCleod and Sarah Roth.  The vampire was impeccably dressed in a royal blue, pin striped suit over a black shirt and matching royal blue tie.  He looked for the world like a banker, although, most bankers weren’t so pale as to be almost translucent.  Smith could even see some of the surface veins under his skin.  Plus, most bankers wore shoes.  It was an effect that leant a peculiar quality to the outfit.  His hair was short and immaculately styled.  Smith momentarily could not help but feel a twinge of envy.  His own bald scalp, though currently in vogue, was not a style of his choosing.

            The witch was looking at him with a genuine smile on her face.  And it was an extremely pretty face.  She wore a simple dress of a natural fabric, and a scarf of the same material was wound around her head.  Though Smith knew her age to be forty-one, her face was unlined and there was a youthful spark of mischievousness in her eyes.  She wore no makeup and yet her face was radiant.

            On the opposite couch were Hamish Roth-McCleod and Melissa Benton.  Intellectually, Smith knew that Hamish was chronologically only five years old, but he had the appearance and build of a young man in his mid-twenties.  His features were almost Asian, with olive skin and eyes that were less rounded than a Caucasians.  He wore a tight white t-shirt and army fatigues that had been cut off just below the knees.  He was well muscled and yet he still retained a very adolescent look.  On his feet were tan coloured sandals and his arms were decorated with numerous tattoos.  He had short, spiky blue-black hair and brown eyes.  His lips were full and pushed forward slightly in a contemplative pout that made Smith just a little bit nervous.

            Melissa Benton wore a simple outfit of jeans and a blue shirt.  She was diminutive and had that physical perfection that one often saw in people with a compact build.  Her auburn-coloured hair hung loosely around her shoulders, and she had a pleasant face. 

            Seated in an easy chair, perpendicular to the two couches was Marcos Theonakis.  The young Greek man was stop-traffic handsome, and Smith could easily believe that this had been a man who had earned several thousand dollars a day as a top model.  He, like Benton, was simply dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and flip-flops and yet, he wore it so well one could be forgiven for thinking he was dressed to the nines.  He possessed the usual lithe and lean body of a model, and he his brown hair was a mess of short curls.  

            The only member of the group standing was Carol Holfensteim.  She was dressed in a designer, two-piece beige suit of slacks and a waist length tailored jacket.  She stood with her hands clasped behind her back and she radiated an aristocratic air that filled the room.  Her hair was styled in a short but feminine haircut, short around the sides and back with some length on top.  She wore a few modest, but clearly expensive pieces of jewellery and she had designer label heels that only added to the overall look.  Her gaze dissected him from startling silver eyes.  She was going to be one tough cookie.

            “Good morning, everyone.”  Director Thomas said in greeting.  “I’d like to introduce to you Agent Robert Smith.”

            Smith nodded to the group.

            “So,” Hamish began in a cheeky tone, “You’re the new baby-sitter?”

            Smith was taken aback.  “It’s my understanding that I’m here to work with you on one mission.”

            Director Thomas stepped in as Hamish was about to reply.  “We can discuss the pertinent details of Mister Smiths’ stay with us later.  But right now, we have a plane to catch.”

            The witch raised a hand.  “One moment please, Penelope.”

            Director Thomas nodded.

            The witch rose and approached Smith.  She walked with easy, casual grace.  She had a light, woody fragrance that smelt very good.  When they were about a foot apart, she stopped, and spoke.

            “We scare you.”  She said quietly.

            Smith straightened his shoulders.  “Not at all.”

            “Liar.”  She reprimanded him gently with a smile.

            Smith gave in to his own curiosity.  “How can you tell I’m lying?”

            “Answer my question first.  Are you scared?”  Her tone was gentle but probing. 

            Smith was getting lost in her eyes and scent.  They were kind eyes, and they held you to them with an intensity that came from concern, not authority.  He nodded.  “Yes.  This is way out of my comfort zone.  You people should not exist.”

            “And yet we do.”  She responded gently.

            “And that’s why I’m scared.”  Smith admitted.  It was not something that he would normally do, but he found himself unable to lie to this woman.

            She smiled.  She waved her right hand slowly over him, as if she was experiencing the contours of his skin but without touching him.  “I’m an empath.  But rather than the actual emotion that you experience, I feel how it affects your bio-electric signature.  We all have our own electro-magnetic field, and it changes with our emotions.  What some call witchcraft I call advanced neurological sensitivity.  I can feel the changes in your bio-electric output and interpret them.  It lets me know what people are feeling.”  She continued to run her hand ‘over’ him.  “It’s what we all are after all; bits and pieces of matter held together in electro-magnetic fields.  We are alike.”  As she finished, she placed her hand on his shirt over his heart.  “And I like you.”

            He was startled by the amount of warmth that radiated from her hand, out and over his chest.  He shyly returned her smile with a small one of his own.  Campbell cleared his throat, and they all made their way to the lift and car back to the plane.

            Upon arriving back at Melbourne Airport, they stepped out of the limo and onto the tarmac.  It was a shockingly hot day.  In midsummer, Melbourne could get up to 45 degrees Celsius.  Smith could tell that it was easily in the mid-thirties, and the reflective quality of the tarmac amplified it.  He felt a droplet of sweat drip down the back of his head into his collar, and the heat blasted through the soles of his shoes.  He glanced at the vampires’ bare feet and pointed.

            “No shoes?”  He asked.

            McCleod replied with a voice that froze the air around him.  “No need.”

            Smith could tell that he and the Vampire were not going to get on well.  Once they were airborne, their attendant re-appeared, this time with a well-stocked tray.  Smith took a closer look at the young woman this time.  Whilst she was immaculately dressed and groomed, Smith recognised ex-military when he saw it.  Given her olive complexion and slight accent, he was guessing Israeli, most likely ex-Mossad.  With that in mind, he decided not to flirt with her as he usually would with a beautiful woman.  A beautiful woman who is ex-Mossad would be able to kill him ninety-three different ways before she even bothered reaching for a weapon. 

The attendant greeted each person by name, dispensing drinks with aplomb and a smile that Smith found completely adorable.

              “Organic fruit juice for you, Miss Roth.”

            “One glass of bubbles for you, Baroness.”

            “Long Island Iced Tea, light on the ice, heavy on the booze.”  She handed the large glass to the Hamish who winked at her in return.

            “Thanks, Darl.”  He replied irreverently.

            The attendant merely waggled a finger at him in response.

            In response to his curious look, Hamish answered Smith.  “Mega metabolism.  My body processes it faster than the alcohol can do anything.”  Hamish held up the glass.  “Cheers!”

            “I suppose that solves the issue of drinking on the job.”

            Hamish winked in reply after taking a generous sip from his glass.  “And our little jaunt gets us out of our annual evaluations.”

            “You’ll complete those on your return Hamish.  Never fear.”  Thomas corrected him primly, to which he pouted in return.   

            The attendant handed coffees to Thomas, Campbell and Benton.

            She gave the Greek lad a bottle of purified water.  Smith refrained from rolling his eyes.  For lunch, he half expected the ex-model to consume exactly half a celery stick.  She handed the vampire a tall glass of something red, thick, and possessed of a metallic odour.  Smith could not help but say something.

            “Should I ask?”

            McCleod looked to him boldly.  “Up to you.”  It sounded like a challenge.

            Smith accepted.  “Blood?”

            “Yes.”  McCleod replied.  “Bovine, in case you’re wondering.”

            “No victim today?”  Smith challenged back.

            “Not this week.”  McCleod’s eyes deadened, becoming bottomless, crimson pools of infinity.  “But the week is still young.”

            Smith found the remark uncalled for to the say the least.  “So how do you choose who gets the bite?”

            McCleod took a slow, long drink from the glass.  Smith perceived he was doing it intentionally to cause him no small amount of discomfort.  “I’m like Santa.  I know who’s been naughty and I know who’s been nice.”  McCleod replied in a tone devoid of inflection.

            “So, who did you do last?  What did they do to deserve that kind of death?”  Smith was horrified by the man’s apparent lack of respect for life.

            McCleod put his half-empty drink down and replied through narrow eyes.  “The last one was a nurse who thought it amusing to torture the elderly patients in her care.”

            Smith was feeling himself get angry.  “So, you didn’t think to just report her to the police?  Let the justice system deal with her?”

              “I am justice.”  McCleod replied flatly.  “And you should be thankful for that.  Under your system, she may have gotten eight years in prison, ten if the judge was in a bad mood.  Under mine, she received the sentence she deserved.”

            Smith found that he was unable to respond.  Truth be told, he was finding himself in full agreement with the bloodsucking vigilante.  He just wasn’t going to give the smarmy bastard the satisfaction of hearing it.           

            Two hours later they landed at the airstrip of the town of Williams in western Queensland.

            Williams had been founded with the railway.  It sat exactly halfway between the southern stock trade and the Port of Darwin where beef, lamb and pork were sent on their way to the Asian Markets for consumption.  Its’ sole purpose was as a rest stop for the trains and the people manning them.  In time, the town had grown to include several abattoirs and a large collection of stock yards.  With the influx of workers came families who required schools, a hospital, general stores, and the usual conveniences of modern life.  There had been exactly 1083 people there until nine days previous.  Now, there were 1083 decomposing corpses and some six thousand decomposing cattle carcasses.  The stench was awful.

            Though his arm still ached, Smith was thankful for the inoculation that had been given to him no less than four hours earlier.  Looking around at what he could only vaguely recognise as an airport, there were probably a dozen bodies, all decomposing and bloated in the afternoon sun.  The witch walked past him over to the bodies.  She held a hand over them and concentrated. 

            “There’s nothing.”  It was all that she said.  It was enough. 

            During the flight, they had each been given a part of the town to cover.  With a gesture from Director Thomas, they all dispersed.

            Williams was not particularly spread out, so it was not too difficult to cover the distance on foot.  Smith was glad he had left his jacket on the plane.  He removed his tie, bundled it up and shoved it in his back pocket.  He also loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves.  He had been given the part of town where their shopping strip was located.  It was approximately a dozen stores that consisted of a butcher, a bakery, a supermarket, several supply stores, a dentist and two pubs.  Bodies were everywhere.  He was horrified to see children and infants amongst the dead.  He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at their presence, there were families here after all, but it pained him none the less.

            The thing that surprised him the most was the absence of insects.  Ordinarily, he would expect to see flies and maggots happily feasting on the bodies, but there were none.  He bent down and examined one corpse closely to see any sign of bug activity, but there was none.  It was a little hard to believe.  As he stood, he suddenly realised that he had not had to contend with any insect whatsoever since he had landed. Anyone who had travelled in the outback knew that flies were a fact of life and swatting them away became almost a subconscious reflex.  Here, there were none.  No ants.  No flies.  No cockroaches.  Nothing.  It was all very wrong.

 

            Hamish strode through a residential neighbourhood.  Although he maintained a world-weary exterior, he was not above having the same emotional response as others.  Here, unseen by his teammates, tears streamed down his face.  He did not sob, that was something he had never done, but he would ‘leak’ – as he put it – for the victims around him.  It was a macabre scene.  It was as if people had dropped dead right in the middle of what they had been doing nine days earlier.  There was a woman underneath a clothesline, with her laundry basket still half full.  Two children lay unmoving on a lawn with a ball next to one of them.  A man was half concealed under the car he had been repairing.  It was all a bit too surreal.  There was even a car whose driver had simply slumped backward.  Hamish could tell that it had been moving at the time as it had ended up half in a fence at an odd angle.  For some reason, he found that extremely disturbing.

            He walked over to the car and looked in.  Inside was what he assumed to be a husband and wife, or at least girlfriend and boyfriend, slumped back in the front seats, festering in the heat like the rest of the town.  He walked to the front of the car and with a sigh, he bent down and grabbed the bumper and lifted the front section clear of the ground.  With minimal effort, he dragged the car to the driveway and set it down.  For some reason, he felt it the right thing to do.  His good deed done, he turned and walked away to continue his lonely trek.

             

            Carol Holfensteim did not like death.  She had experienced her fair share of it, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.  Indeed, she found it most disconcerting.  As with all her kind, death was an effect, and not a foregone conclusion.  The only death she had ever known was when the odd member of her pack had gone insane and had to be put down.  It was regrettable, but immortality had its responsibilities after all.

            She was walking through the stockyards.  Her enhanced senses picked up every little sound and smell.  From the pop of bursting skin - the result of decomposition and the gas that was its’ by-product – to the occasional rustle of dust as it was disturbed by an errant breeze.  She heard it all. 

            The smell was something she was not appreciating, that, and her outfit.  She wished she had been given more notice about the mission so she could have dressed appropriately.  Chanel was gorgeous of course, but it really wasn’t appropriate death-wear.  She stepped delicately around the carcasses.  Having absolutely no understanding of what she was supposed to be looking for, she simply took in everything for later consideration and analysis.  All the fences were intact, all the stock was accounted for, and the rail-tracks themselves were in perfect condition.  If this had been a robbery, it was the worst one she had ever seen.

            This was getting her nowhere.  With a small grunt of dissatisfaction, she morphed into her hybrid form.  She closed her eyes and concentrated on her auditory and olfactory senses.  In her hybrid form they were many times more sensitive.  She took several slow, measured breaths.  Interestingly, she detected a faint sterile odour, not unlike what one would encounter in a hospital.  Knowing she was several kilometres from the one and only hospital, she knew this was not correct.

            Dropping down onto all fours, she sniffed at the ground.  Her aristocratic sense of pride was thankful that there was no one around to see her scrambling around on all fours, in Louboutin heels no less.  Amongst the odours of cattle fur and diesel, she found the scent trail.  It resembled anaesthetic.  There was a sickly-sweet but sharp tinge to it that stood out beyond all the other scents.  She followed it, occasionally sweeping her nose back and forth to confirm direction.  She was stunned when, eventually, she came to the train platform and discovered a single leather bag that sat apart from everything else.  She returned to her human form and retrieved a walking stick that lay next to its previous owner.  With it, she carefully opened the bag to see six empty medical containers inside.  With a final sniff, she knew she had found the home of the anthrax. 

           

            Melissa Benton fervently wished they could have been able to pair off, rather than having to conduct a search on their own.  She was still very new to all of this, and she had little in the way of professional detachment.  Walking through the school, she tried not to look at the bodies of students who now lay where they had fallen.  Unfortunately, there was no space that didn’t contain bodies; the playground, hallways, classrooms, toilets, all had children of various ages slumped over.  It was very depressing.  Thankfully, the school was not particularly large, so it didn’t take too long to search.  She had walked onto the school oval when she noticed something strange.  Everything else in the school was in perfect condition, and yet what appeared to be a storage shed on the perimeter of the oval seemed scorched.

            She walked over to it and tried the doors.  They were locked.  Noting the presence of skylights, she crouched down and then leapt up onto the roof.  As per usual, the skylights were not locked shut.  Why would they be?  It wasn’t like there was someone around who was supposed to be able to reach them.

            She propped up the skylight and dropped through and down to the floor below.  She surveyed the room as she straightened up.  Apart from some exercise mats and athletic equipment, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.  What was strange was the smell.  There was an antiseptic quality to it.  It reminded her of the crème they used at the gymnastic halls when she scraped something on the beam.  She was always scraping a knee or an elbow on the balance beam.  It was her worst apparatus.  You’d think that someone with genetically enhanced agility would have no problem on a piece of wood only two feet off the ground.  Unfortunately, reality had taught her never to assume anything.

            She looked around for a medical cabinet.  She found none.  She pulled down a large gym mat that had been leaning up against the anterior wall and was surprised to see a door.  There must have been a second storage area.  She tried the handle only to find it locked.  Not interested in searching for the keys, she simply kicked the door in.  It flew off the hinges and connected with a bench on the other side.  She was just about to step through when something caught her solidly in the stomach with enough force to launch her back through the main doors which were torn from their hinges with a metallic groan.  She came to rest on top of one of the doors, gasping for breath and clutching at her stomach.  She looked up to see something exit the shed in a blur and dart back across the oval and into the bush nearby.  With a grunt, she got up to follow it but stopped when she saw that her brand-new jeans were torn almost the whole way down the left leg.  It had taken her ages to find a pair that would fit.  With a curse, she sprinted off in pursuit.  She had spent several hundred dollars on those jeans, and she was going to make someone pay.

           

            Sarah Roth walked through a semi-industrial area on the north side of town.  She was not surprised by the amount and diversity of equipment required to maintain the stockyards.  She herself only had a hundred head of cattle back on her Hunter Valley property and yet the amount of equipment required for them seemed inversely proportioned to what she had determined their needs to be.

            Thankfully, the area she had to search had few bodies, although, the few that were present caused her pain.  Sarah was a gentle person with a kind and compassionate heart.  Furthermore, she knew people like these.  Her main residence was in an agricultural and stock breeding community, and she knew that even though the faces might have been different, the personalities of the people would have been remarkably similar.  Farmers were the same everywhere.  They were a stressed lot who agonised over the weather and their mortgages. Many would attempt to repair their equipment first before calling in a real mechanic.  A dollar saved was yet another dollar available for the bank.

            As she continued her search, she began to feel something that she was positive would not be there – life.  A faint prickling on her skin announced that there was something – or someone – alive nearby.  She hastened her pace.  It was difficult to perceive a direction as the signature was so faint.  She had to consciously moderate her own breathing.  She could not allow the excitement of the moment to overtake her, resulting in her own emotions drowning out the life sign.  Unfortunately, the towns’ electricity sub-station was also putting out a significant amount of electro-magnetic energy, and it was beginning to cloud her sense.  But even with the ‘static’ of the sub-station, she could clearly sense the bio-electric signature of a person.

            Her search took her into the administrative building for the sub-station.  Even here, bodies sat, lay, or slumped where they had died.  Some were slumped back in their seats at their desks; others had fallen forward and were now slowly decomposing into their keyboards.  She suppressed a shudder.  She also felt a building rage.  She wanted to know who had done this and she wanted to see them brought to justice – swiftly.  The thought that a community so like her own could be so mercilessly cut down was repugnant.  The signature was getting stronger the higher she went in the building.  Climbing the internal staircase, she finally exited onto the roof of the six-level building.     

            The roof was cluttered.  Several water tanks competed with large crates for space.  But she was triumphant.  There was a life sign, and it was somewhere here.  Closing her eyes, she took several calming breaths.  The life sign was in front and off to the left of her.  She opened her eyes and walked towards it.  Something was amiss, though.  It was a life sign, but it was not the life sign she was expecting.  This was familiar, but not human.  As she rounded a large crate marked ‘Feed’ she came face to face with a Lycan.  Unfortunately, it was not just any Lycan.  This was one was covered in pustules and seeping sores.  Her skin was falling off in large sheets and she reeked of gangrene.  Sarah could also sense that the poor thing had gone insane.  Her neurological signature was fluctuating uncontrollably and putting out an obscene amount of energy, even for a Lycan.  The creature pivoted to face Sarah and shrieked like a Banshee.

            Sarah took several slow steps back whilst the being processed the shock and surprise of seeing her there.  The sick woman looked this way and that, clearly confused and unsure of what to do.  Sarah could feel waves of terror and anger emanating from the ill Lycan.  Negotiation was clearly not going to work with the sick individual.

            Before she could do anything, the Lycan moved forward in a blur of motion, striking Sarah, and knocking her to the ground.  She cried out in pain and shock.  Her left forearm bled from a series of scratches the Lycan’s sharp, claw-like nails had rent in her skin.  She quickly got herself back to her feet; she would tend to her wound later.  She gathered her strength and reached out with her sense.  Now that she had experienced it up close, the Lycan was much easier to track, and it was coming back for her.

            She was beginning her strike before she even saw the Lycan emerge from behind a tank.  Using her ability, she gathered up the static electricity in the air surrounding her and struck out with a concentrated burst of energy.  The bolt of electricity lanced out and struck the diseased Lycan as it sped towards her.  A scream of fury and pain rent the air as the Lycan was thrown from her feet from the force of the bolt.  The smell of singed skin and flesh quickly filled the air and Sarah had to concentrate to fight down the urge to heave.  She had been successful.  The infected Lycan now lay on the ground.  She was barely conscious and moaning in obvious pain, but she was clearly not going anywhere in a hurry.  Sarah had taken great care in making certain that the bolt was strong enough to take her out of action for several hours.  She retrieved her phone and sent a quick text message to Thomas informing the woman of her catch. 

            Looking down at her arm, she noted that the scratches were not deep.  Given the nominal strength of a Lycan was many times that of a human, she was surprised.  She knew there was no danger of infection, thanks to the inoculation provided by their Lycanthropic teammate.  Still, she would make certain the wound was properly cleaned and the risk of infection dismissed.

                          

            Director Thomas watched as her assistant, Campbell, knelt and took tissue samples from several of the corpses.  It was a moderately gruesome task, but one that would hopefully provide some answers.  What Thomas had difficulty believing was the 100% efficacy of the Loki itself.  Even the Black Plague had only killed about a third of its victims.  The most heavily engineered bioweapon could usually only manage 70%, so the fact that everyone had succumbed to this bug was a serious cause for concern.  Thomas quickly dismissed the possibility of a genetic fallibility shared by everyone in the town.  That could happen in a dozen people, but in a thousand it was highly improbable. 

            She retrieved her PDA and called up the latest report from their medical section.  Whilst the data provided by their agent in Williams had been helpful, it had been far from complete.  There was an enormous amount of guesswork going on and very little hard research.  She became disturbed by the repeated use of the phrase ‘incomplete data acquired’ throughout the report.  She quickly typed out a message requesting a redoubling of efforts.

            “Ma’am?”  Campbell said.

            Thomas leant down and looked to what Campbell was pointing at.  It was a patch of skin that had reacted in a very different but very familiar fashion.  It was certainly different to all the other symptoms – pustules and scarring and haemorrhaging – but familiar in that it resembled the skin of their Lycanthropic associate.  With a skill that impressed Thomas, Campbell quickly removed the section of skin and stored it in a sample container for later analysis.  He handed it to her.

            “Now, why would this be showing up here?”  Thomas mused out loud.

            Campbell put away his tools and stood up.  “According to our records, there were no Lycans here.”

            Thomas frowned in disapproval as she peered over the top of the sample container.  “We don’t know the whereabouts of every Lycan in the country, Mr Campbell.”

            Her assistant dipped his head in apology.  “Of course, Ma’am, but with an agent on station, we should have known if there was one here.”

            Thomas nodded slowly.  He was right of course.  But it brought up an uncomfortable possibility.  Had the Pack and the Haemocracy lost control?  Were rogue elements responsible for the attack? 

            “Why here?”  Campbell mused out loud.

            Thomas frowned.  “What do you mean?”

            Campbell shrugged.  “At the risk of sounding insensitive, Ma’am, why target a backwater town that has no real significance?  The economic impact is minimal, and the loss of life is low on the terror scale.”

            Thomas shook her head slowly as she spoke.  “The tangible effects are not the only results achieved here.”

            Campbell looked confused.  “Ma’am?”

            Thomas gestured at the surrounding bodies.  “This was a test site.”  At his still confused look she began to walk, gesturing for him to follow her.  “Look around.  Cattle; domestic pets; people of various racial and genetic stock; diversity of age and health; this was a perfect site to test an experimental bioweapon.”  She pointed to a tour bus that now contained only remains.  “I bet we could go through this and have six or seven different racial profiles.  And yet, all of them died.  It’s unheard of.”

            Campbell now understood.  “Genetic variance, in combination with external factors like immunisations and childhood illnesses, usually give at least a minority of people some protection.”

            Thomas nodded.  “But they all died.  The cattle first I think.”

            Campbell’s face became set.  “It was the entry vector.”

            Thomas smiled a grim little smirk.  “That’s how I’d infect a cattle town.  I want a forensic team up here to conduct a full investigation.”

            Campbell nodded.  “Local authorities?”  He asked.

            Thomas shook her head.  “They’ve already been dealt with.  We have complete control.”

            Campbell nodded and set off to make the necessary arrangements.

            Thomas looked back over the corpses one more time before turning on her heel and heading back to the relative comfort of their plane.  She stopped as her phone buzzed.  A text message from the witch informed her that another Lycan had been caught.  Her theory had been proven at least half right.  She simply hoped that the other half would not similarly prove prophetic.

           

            Garreth McCleod was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.  Death he could handle, but disease he could not.  Of course, his Haemocratic biology could easily defeat all but the most specific viruses and bacteria quite easily, but he found that the presence of disease brought up too many memories.  The downside to an immortal life was the remembrance of those he had once knew who had died and how.  If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel himself back in London during the Great Plague.  It was a part of his life he cared not to remember, bit could never forget.  It had been a time of starvation and sickness for him.  Somehow, the Plague had broken through his vampire immune system, and he had spent almost a month seriously ill.  During that time, he could not feast, and thus slowly starved to the point of death.  It had only been the timely intervention of one of his own kind that had saved him. 

            Now as he walked around yet another small neighbourhood, he cast his gaze over the bodies.  In his eyes, they were all children, even the elderly.  In his mind, elderly was a term of mortality, and as such had no claim on him.  He could never be called elderly, he was ancient.  For thousands of years he had lived, wandering the earth as he saw fit.  His earliest memories were of a small village by an oasis in a desert.  It was the crudest of tents, basically some animal skins strung between two trees.  If he had to make a guess, he would say it had been over six thousand years before the Common Era.  He remembers his first taste of blood coming from a goat that the family kept.  He remembered ‘nursing’ from it often, and yet he did not remember it dying.  It was most curious.  His daydream was interrupted by a familiar smell.  It was the smell of another Haemocrat.

            According to their intelligence, there were no Haemocrats within two thousand kilometres of Williams.  The scent was fresh.  They had been through here only minutes ago.  Stepping up into a jog he followed the scent to a two-storied house only a couple of streets over.  All the windows and doors on the ground level were locked.  He could smell that the Haemocrat was inside.  Choosing a stealthy approach, he utilised his ability to adhere to almost any surface and scaled the wall to a second level bedroom.  He slipped through the open window and paused.  The only sound seemed to be a muffled growling coming from the ground level.  He quietly padded down the hall to the top of the stairs.  The sound was coming from the kitchen.  Not trusting the wooden stairs, Garreth jumped up onto the wall and slowly crawled his way down.  Pausing near the arch that was the entrance way to the kitchen, he gathered himself before slowly moving forward to look inside.  What he saw sickened him.

            A member of his kind, infected and sickly, was biting chunks out of a body that had fallen in the kitchen and was devouring it.  It was a ghastly scene.  To think that a fellow Haemocrat had been reduced to little more than a scavenger of meat turned his stomach.  Ordinarily, a Haemocrat would be disgusted at the thought of consuming meat.  Their sustenance, their reinvigoration, this was something that came from the blood.  Dropping down into the entrance way, the ill Haemocrat took notice of him.  It did not run, nor did it attack straight away.  It squatted there, small pieces of flesh dropping from its mouth, staring at Garreth uncertainly.  Slowly, with obvious fervour, it put down the arm it had been feasting on and started to pad towards Garreth like a panther would approaching a kill. 

            “Stop.”  Garreth commanded in a voice that ordinarily would have made even the tide pause.

            And pause the creature did, at least for a moment.  Then it began to again move forward.  There was no rationality in its eyes.  It didn’t even walk upright.  It awkwardly crawled over on hands and feet until it was only a metre from Garreth.  It then sat back in a kind of squat and seemed to look him over.  Garreth took a cautious step back.  At the very least, he wanted a little more room should the creature attempt anything.  And he was thankful he did.

            Without any forewarning, the creature leapt at him with its mouth open and incisors extended.  Blood and gore coated its face and teeth.  Garreth easily sidestepped it and brought his elbow down hard on its spine.  The creature was sent sprawling on the floor and into a wall.  Garreth clearly heard its skull crack.  For a moment, it appeared dazed, and it seemed unable to shake off the aftereffects of the blow.  A healthy Haemocrat would have barely felt the blow, but this diseased thing, although sick, was clearly without the usual biological tricks possessed by a member of their kind.  This was confusing to Garreth, but he put it out of his mind for the moment.  With a roar, the Haemocrat again attempted to attack Garreth, but this time it simply tripped over itself and again went sprawling.  It did not get up this time.  Garreth waited to see if it would try again, but it was clearly unable to do so.

            Garreth stepped up to it and squatted down to look it over.  Whatever had infected this creature had clearly affected its entire biochemistry.  Haemocrats were extremely difficult to make sick.  Their hyper aggressive immune system would usually neutralise any virus or bacteria within seconds of entering the body.  Smallpox; Malaria; HIV; Tuberculosis; Ebola; none of these could move past their internal defences.  So how had this one been made sick?  Garreth retrieved his phone and sent a text message to Thomas advising her of a specimen.  Not wanting to soil his new suit, he dragged the body onto a small trailer in the garage and began his walk back to the plane, dragging the little red wagon behind him.

 

Chapter Four

 

The forensics team had arrived three hours later, and a makeshift command and control centre was set up on the fringes of the town.  Agent Smith had been stunned at the speed of the entire operation.  From his recruitment to the establishment of a clean zone at the mission site had taken only eleven hours, including a side trip to Melbourne and their subsequent arrival in Williams.  Smith was truly impressed by the resources available to Director Thomas and her team. 

            He stood outside a hastily erected, but impeccably equipped isolation room where their two infected captives now lay.  The Greek boy currently stood between the beds with a hand on each of their ill captives.  Thomas had explained to him that even his medi-nanites should be able to cure – or at least temporarily improve – their condition.

            The Greek boy – Marcos his name was – was the member of the group that most intrigued Smith.  He said very little, but he clearly listened to and comprehended everything.  The most unnerving quality to the guy was a purpose that radiated out from his entire being.  Otherwise, he was as active, and as vocal, as a piece of deadwood.   He was a complete enigma to Smith.  He was not like the others.  They were all open books and extremely easy to read.

            The only surprise they had provided was by way of the bloodsucker when he saw that the witch had been hurt.  He had been solicitous of her care and refused to allow the nurse that had arrived with the forensics team to treat her.  He had cleaned and wrapped the wounds himself.  He had even undertaken the task of making certain that she had not been infected by the seriously ill Lycan.  She had endured his attention with a small but satisfied smile on her face.  Once he had finished and asked if she had required anything further, she had simply put her hand to the side of his face and thanked him for his care.  It was, thus far, the only human thing he had seen the vampire do.

            Agent Smith sat down into one of the many folding chairs that had suddenly materialised with the forensics team and allowed his head to fall forward into his hands.  Rubbing his face, he decided that he needed a drink, although, with the events of the day, it would most likely not end with just one.

            Twenty-four hours previous, he had been a mid-level analyst who wrote fantasy novels on the side.  He wasn’t even that well known.  He had a devoted following, certainly enough so that he was able to buy an apartment and a car and a few little things.  But that was it.  Now, he was in the central west of Queensland attending to an outbreak of mutated anthrax, which he was protected from thanks to the powerful white blood cells of a team member who could turn into a Lycan hybrid.  Along for the ride was a witch, a five-year-old strongman, a vampire, a super acrobat, and a dude with micro machines in his body who was now attempting to heal two more freaks that had gone crazy due to being infected by the anthrax. 

            Smith barely noticed that someone sat in the chair next to him.  He did hear the voice when it spoke though.

            “If you don’t mind some free advice,” Campbell, Thomas’ assistant began, “Don’t start drinking.  You won’t stop and you’ll only feel ten times worse tomorrow.”

            Smith lifted his head and sat back into the chair, allowing it to support his weight for him.  “Is that what you did?”

            Campbell smiled jadedly.  “Mostly.  That and I tried very hard to convince myself it never happened.”

            Smith slowly shook his head.  There was no way he would be able to convince himself that this hadn’t happened.  He had far too vivid a memory.  Plus, after an event like Williams, he wanted to believe.  He wanted to be involved now.  Somehow, he knew that had been Director Thomas’s plan all along.  He had none of that jaded cynicism many of his colleagues shared with each other.  He still retained a deep and abiding sense of duty and care to his country and its citizens.  If being a member of this team, even temporarily, meant that he increased his capacity to affect change in a positive way, then he would do it.  He just had to wrap his head around the reality of the situation, and that, would most like prove to be the hardest part.

 

            Marcos ‘listened’ to the information his mechanical companions were sending him.  For almost thirty minutes he had been directing the small Medi-nanites into the bodies of the two captives, urging them to halt the infection currently ravaging the Haemocrat and the Lycan.

            Thanks to a small, permanent implant in his brain, he could, in a generic sense, understand what the Medi-nanites were doing.  He could not explain it in words even if he tried, he simply knew that they interfaced with the technology and that then sent out signals that provided the basis of the information he would then interpret.  Sometimes there would be images in his mind; other times a nerve in a certain part of his body would be stimulated, letting him know the location of the microscopic robots.  Currently, his entire body tingled.  This, combined with the images he was receiving, told him that their two patients were most probably even beyond his skill.  To date, there had been nothing the little beasties had not been capable of beating.  Cancer; Brain-Damage; Nerve-Damage; even severed spinal cords had been no match for those he shared his body with.  But the infection that had so ravaged the ill Lycan and Haemocrat was giving his friends a run for their collective money. 

            He opened his eyes as a voice came over the speaker in the room.

            “Anything?”  He heard Director Thomas ask.

            Marcos shook his head as he replied, his handsome face devoid of expression.  “No, Ma’am.  I don’t know what this is, but it’s stubborn.”

            “Retrieve and withdraw please.”  She instructed, receiving a nod from him.

            He again closed his eyes and sent out a request for the nanites to return.  It took only seconds.  When the last had returned to his bloodstream, he withdrew his hands and left the room.  Outside, Director Thomas was waiting with Agent Smith and Garreth McCleod.

            “Report.”  Thomas requested.  Smith was impressed by the quiet authority she radiated.

             Marcos replied with little inflection.  “From what I gathered, the nanites were unable to cure this due to the fact that the infection is mutating faster than they can adapt.”         

            “Faster?”  Thomas replied in obvious surprise.

            Smith saw Marcos’s smile for the first time.  It was barely a smirk, but he smiled.  “Perhaps I need an upgrade.”

            Thomas chuckled.  “What else?”

             Marcos shrugged.  “Not much.  Their systems are breaking down and their neurology has been fundamentally altered.  They don’t appear to be aware of what’s happened to them.”

            McCleod interrupted.  “They were not acting like a Lycan or a Haemocrat should.”  He paused as if uncomfortable.  “The Haemocrat was eating meat.”

            Smith could tell by the shocked looks on Thomas and Marcos that this was a significant piece of information, but he didn’t know why it was.  Thankfully, McCleod must have noticed his expression and explained further.

            “Haemocrats do not eat meat.  We cannot process it properly, and the blood yield in meat is far too low for our needs.  It would be like a regular person living on a diet of cardboard soaked in milk.”

            Smith screwed up his face in reply. 

            “Did your friends identify the pathogen?”  Thomas asked Marcos.

            The attractive young man shook his head.  “No.  They seemed unable to find one.  This has to be something new.”

            Thomas turned to Campbell.  “Make certain the forensics team profile the infection.  Full analysis if you would please?” 

            Campbell nodded then walked away to enact her directive.

            Thomas looked back to McCleod.  “How is Sarah?”

            McCleod's face softened slightly.  “She’s fine.  She escaped infection.”

            Thomas smiled.  “That's good to know.”

            The vampire continued.  “According to Melissa it did not move like a Haemocrat.”

            Thomas looked intrigued.  “Explain.”

            McCleod shrugged lazily.  “It was exceptionally fast.”

            Smith interrupted.  “I read your file.  You’re supposed to be able to move quick right?”

            McCleod nodded.  “But only to a point.  We are faster than humans, but the Haemocrat that attacked Sarah was moving at a blur.”

            “Lycan speed.”  Thomas surmised.

            Sitting on the far side of the room, Holfensteim turned her head in their direction.  Smith correctly guessed that her enhanced senses would easily hear their conversation.  She rose and joined them.

            “Lycan speed?”  She asked the vampire.

            He nodded.  “A Haemocrat with Lycan abilities.”

            The two individuals looked horrified.  Director Thomas took Smith aside and explained as the vampire and the lycanthropic aristocrat began talking in a language unfamiliar to him.

            Director Thomas motioned Smith into a seat.  When they had both sat, he spoke.  “What’s this all about?”

            Thomas nodded.  “Let me bring you up to speed.  Lycans are faster and stronger than Haemocrats, much stronger and faster.  Haemocrats have abilities well beyond the norm, but nowhere near approaching a Lycans.  To have a Haemocrat displaying abilities beyond Haemocrat norm, is shocking to say the least.”

            Smith was becoming more confused by the second.  Thankfully, he knew what questions to ask.  “Haemocrats are males only?”

            Thomas nodded.  “Haemocrats are always male, and Lycans are always female.  They only ever mate with each other and when the Lycan gives birth, if it is a male it is given to the Haemocracy, if it is a female, it is raised by the Pack.”

            “So,” Smith began.  “Is this how they got the weird genes in the first place?”

            Thomas shrugged.  “I’m afraid I can’t divulge any of that information.  I don’t know how long you’ll be with us, and that sort of information is highly classified.”

            Smith nodded.  That was something he understood and respected.  Thomas continued.

            “It is impossible, by any natural means, for a Lycan or Haemocrat to share abilities.  Plus, neither one should get sick.  I can count on one hand the illnesses that can affect a Haemocrat, and on one finger for a Lycan.  To have these two as they are it is… disturbing.”

            Smith smirked.  “Ma’am, with all due respect, this is all disturbing.”

            Thomas nodded sympathetically.  “You’re having quite the day, aren’t you?”
            Smith took a deep breath and let it out.  “It’s a day that won’t finish now, will it?  You can’t let me go back to my old job knowing what I do now.”

            Thomas shook her head, glad that he had been the one to broach the subject. 

              “No.  When I spoke to your boss, he knew what I was asking of him.  If it makes you feel any better, you were going to be reassigned anyway, now you get to be reassigned to a better team.”

            “A better team.”  Smith repeated the term with some trepidation.

            Thomas leant into him and lowered her voice.  “These people are exceptional.  And they are just like you and me.  The only differences between us and them are some genetic materials.  They’re different types of humans, but they are human.  Treat them as such.  Treat their abilities as quirks of the job.”

            Smith looked to Thomas with a sceptical look on his face.  “They’re pretty incredible quirks, wouldn’t you say?”

            Thomas smiled broadly.  “Are they quirkier than that gentleman in your office who knows thirty-six languages fluently?”

            Smith paused before replying.  “I guess not.  Mind you, ol’ Graeme’s a bit of a freak.”

            Thomas leant back in her chair nodding.  “We’re all freaks, Agent Smith.  Just freaks of a different flavor.”

           

            Two hours later, Smith was in the roomy tent that had been provided for his use and seriously considering turning in, when he was summoned to the command-and-control room.  Once there, he noted that everyone was present, including a member of the forensics team. 

            Thomas nodded to him and then spoke to the group.  “Genetic engineering.  Someone has been taking Haemocrat and Lycan genes and splicing them.”

            Smith was taken aback by the looks of absolute disgust on Holfensteim and McCleod’s faces.  This was obviously a very big deal.  He noted that Sarah Roth laid a gently comforting hand on the vampires’ arm.

            “As abhorrent as we all find this.  It’s the evidence we now have that confirms it.”  She indicated the physician on her left.  “Doctor Julian Beverly.”

            The elderly man nodded to the group.  “In running a DNA analysis, we have indeed confirmed that our two guests have been artificially engineered using Haemocrat and Lycan DNA.”

            “How’d they compensate for the genetic drift between the two?”  Hamish asked, startling Smith with his knowledge of such a detailed field.

            Doctor Beverly sighed; it was obvious that he was exhausted.  “They didn’t.  This is how they got sick and why they’re dying.”

            Hamish squinted in thought.  “The genetic drift disrupted the immune system.  It would have viewed the new material as foreign and rejected it.  Then it would’ve started breaking down the cellular structures themselves.”

            Dr. Beverly nodded.  “They would’ve been unstable approximately two weeks after the procedure had been completed. But that is a rough estimate.”

            “Cellular mitosis would be incomplete.  Allowing for more and more degradation.” 

Hamish mused.  Dr Beverley nodded to the young man.

            “Prognosis?”  Thomas asked.

            “Terminal.”  Both Dr. Beverly and Hamish responded at the same time.

            “Nothing can be done.”  Beverly added before going back to his staff. 

            Thomas looked to McCleod and Holfensteim.  “Has the Haemocracy or the Pack ever done anything like this before?”

            Both shook their heads, but Holfensteim replied.  “We have never tried.  The risk is too great.”  Holfensteim looked to Hamish.  “There is no telling how our offspring would turn out.”

            Thomas smiled at Hamish who took it all in his stride.  “Just because we have one success story doesn’t mean more will follow.”

            Hamish smiled back.  “I don’t think you all could handle more than one of me anyways.”

            “Here, here.”  Benton acknowledged light heartedly.  Smith started slightly.  So far, the young acrobat had been silent, contributing nothing to any of their discussions.

            Smith was frowning.  “What’s the deal with Lycans and vampires being able to breed?”

            “Haemocrats.”  McCleod corrected him.

            Smith spread his hands apologetically.  “Pardon me.  Why is it that Haemocrats can only breed with Lycans and vice versa?”

            McCleod gestured to Holfensteim who nodded.  Only then did the vampire continue.  “We come from a common ancestor; a family of Haemocrats, except that the only daughter of the family had been born differently.”

            “She was a Lycan.”  Smith deduced.

            “Yes, more or less.”  McCleod replied uncomfortably.  Smith also noticed Holfensteim exhibiting the same discomfort.  This was obviously something that they did not like to discuss openly.  “She was a hybrid.  It was considered an anomaly, an accident.  In time, however, she began to breed.  Her first child was a male Haemocrat.  But her daughter was a full Lycan.  Of course, her daughter grew up and bred and so on.”

            “And that’s how the genetic stock all got started.”  Smith surmised.  “Where did you Haemocrats come from?”

            McCleod’s face darkened briefly.  “We don’t know.”

            Smith’s face, in contrast, was speculative.  “How long have Haemocrats been around?”

            McCleod looked the agent full in the face with a dead gaze that chilled all who saw it.  “Pick a number.”

            Smith decided against it.  “So before recorded history?”

            McCleod slowly nodded.  “At least.  We aren’t entirely sure of the point of our emergence.  Our best scientists put it at approximately one hundred thousand years ago.”

            Smith was slowly shaking his head.  “It’s hard to believe.”

            McCleod managed a grim little smile.  “Believe it.  We are everywhere.”

            Smith tilted his head to one side.  “How many of you are there?”

            McCleod simply smiled without responding.  Smith merely took it in stride.  Besides, he had decided that one could have too much information too soon.  He seriously felt like his head was going to explode.  For no reason, he walked up to the Perspex divider and looked into the isolation room.  The two captives were silent now.  They had finally given into the exhaustion of their illness.  There was no squirming, no screaming, and no flailing about in a futile attempt to loosen their bonds.  Soon they would be dead.  Smith took some comfort from that, but also wanted to know more.  Who had sent them and why?  Why here in Williams?  What were they attempting to achieve?  And why would they use such obviously flawed medical techniques?  Lycans were devoted to their kind and devoted to the Haemocracy.  Why would they turn away from that?

            Smith yawned.  It was late, almost midnight, and Thomas had adjourned the meeting till morning.  He was also hungry, so he decided to head over to the mess tent to get some food.  With one call, Director Thomas had been able to have two jets; with a full medical staff and lab equipment; at Williams within three hours.  They’d even brought a cook and a tent for them to eat in.  Smith was, again, amazed by the resources the C.S.D. commanded. 

Hamish fell into easy step next to him.  “Mind if I join you?”  Hamish asked with a playful leer.

            Smith shook his head.  Somehow, he found the look of hunger on Hamish’s face decidedly un-food like.  He liked the kid though.  He had colour and humour.  In short, Hamish was cool.  “Not at all.”

            Hamish was openly looking him up and down.  “I’m guessing you’re of northern stock.”

            Smith nodded.  “My mother is yes.”

             “Ever walk on the other side?”  Hamish teased salaciously.

            Smith simply stopped and smiled at the young man.  “No, Hamish.  I have never experimented.  Nor, am I interested in experimenting.  I like girls, and so far, they like me.  Thank you anyway.”

            Hamish put his hands on his hips and pouted.  “Who said I’m offering?”

            Smith could tell the young man was baiting him, and so he humoured him and bowed grandly.  “Oh, if I misread you then please do accept my most humble and sincerest apology, my most kind Sir.”

            Hamish stuck out his tongue.  “You’re cute.  But you’re too old for me.  I’m five.  You’re thirty-five.  People would talk.”  Hamish linked his arm with Smiths.  “Come on.  Let’s get some food and I promise not to attack you.”

            Smith allowed himself to be led towards the Mess Tent.  “Hamish, you’re an interesting young man.”

            “I know, Darl.”  Hamish smiled beamingly.  “I know.”

Chapter Five

 

              The next morning, the team was back on their plane heading back to Melbourne.  It was clear the C.S.D. was extremely well funded and resourced.  Certainly, the payroll receipt that Smith had received in his email that morning was a pleasant surprise.  As a member of the C.S.D., he was now earning four times the amount he previously had, and he had been very happy with what he had formerly earned as a data analyst for ASIS.  It was a fortuitous turn of circumstance.  His mother was now retired, and the cost of living was hitting her hard.  He would be able to assist her, so she was at least comfortable and not having to stress about money.  The thought reminded him to ring her.  Otherwise, he’d receive a phone call from her that would make even a Haemocrat shudder.

            When they landed, they were again met by the limousine.  Smith was starting to like his new job.  Previously, it was either an odorous taxi or a battered minivan from the agency fleet pool of many battered vehicles.  Unfortunately, he was going to have to work on his yuppie distaste as he found that their Melbourne offices were in the same building as the penthouse in the Docklands precinct that they had visited only 24 hours earlier.  His head began to spin.  It only been a day since all of this had started.  He was used to the slow and steady grind of governmental process and procedure which was glacial at best.  To be going from recruitment to interview to mission in such a short time was anathema to everything he had experienced in the service thus far.  It also excited him.  It was clear that the C.S.D. was dedicated to getting results and making a positive impact.  More importantly, he could see the results of his new teams’ actions.  They were tangible results.  Unlike before at ASIS, where his analysis and contribution would then be handed off to someone else who then handed it off etc. 

            Eventually, they arrived back at C.S.D. H.Q. (Oceania) and proceeded to a comfortably furnished conference room on the fifth level of their building.  As they took their seats, the attendant from the plane appeared from a side door with a cart that was laden with a full coffee service.  Smith could not help himself.  He leaned into the attractive young woman.

            “You pull double duty as the coffee chick?”  He asked her sotto vocce.

            The young woman smiled.  “I go with the team.  I’m here to keep everyone happy.”  Smith admired the woman’s curves.  She was certainly keeping him happy.

            Thomas cleared her throat, calling the meeting to order.  “I’d like to pool our results from yesterday’s task.”  She looked first to Holfensteim.  “Baroness?”

            The Lycan nodded to her in deference before speaking.  Smith noticed there was a lot of that.  “During my search, I found the bag that was the delivery mechanism.  It contained six storage vessels that had held the pathogen.  The origin of these vessels is the cause for my concern.”

            “Why is that?  Smith asked.

            She looked him full in the face.  “They are from my own laboratory.”

            “That’d do it.”  Smith replied in agreement.

            ‘It did indeed do it, Agent Smith.”  Holfensteim countered.  “The Pack’s Australian laboratory is heavily secured with only a handful allowed access.”

            Smith frowned.  “You don’t get sick.  Why do you need a lab?”

            “We use our labs for many uses, agricultural engineering, medical study and genetic research.   These are our commercial ventures.”

            Smith nodded.  “You have to make money.”

            Holfensteim inclined her head in agreement.  “Exactly.  But I know every individual who has access to that lab, and I find it highly improbable any would have been involved in this.”

            “How so?”  Smith asked curiously.

            It was Sara Roth who answered.  “Both the Pack and the Haemocracy are dedicated to preserving life.  It is the primary tenet of their cultural dogma.”

            McCleod nodded thoughtfully.  “None of our kind would participate in this.”

            Holfensteim shifted uncomfortably.  “Most of our kind.”

            McCleod immediately looked to her.

            The Baroness continued.  “The Red Council.”

            McCleod waved dismissively.  “The Red Council has neither the resources nor the ability to conduct this level of experimentation.”

            “So, we have been told.”  Holfensteim added.

            There was a palpable change of atmosphere in the room.  Thomas leant forward.  Her gaze locked on Holfensteim.

            “Can you clarify that please?”

            “Our Haemocrat cousins have held back information in the past.”  She stated bluntly.

            It was now McCleod’s turn to look uncomfortable.  “We have not done that in many centuries.”  He replied quietly through a rare look of emotion.

            Holfensteim cast a look of arrogance to him.  “You have not been an active member of the Haemocracy for some time.  How would you know?”

            “That’s enough.”  Thomas interjected forcefully.  “That’s a discussion for another time.”

            Both McCleod and Holfensteim went silent in acquiescence.

            “Hamish.”  Thomas requested.

            The young man shrugged his shoulders.  “Nothing.  All status quo except for the dead people.”

            Smith felt the edges of his mouth turning up involuntarily at the macabre sense of humour.  The kid was a riot.

            “Melissa?” 

            The young woman shifted in her seat.  She had only been with the team for a few weeks and was obviously still finding her place.  When she spoke, it was diffident and somewhat shy, but her summary was to the point and insightful.  “The shed where I was hit was obviously being used as a storage facility.  Maybe even a brewing station.  Trace elements were found there but nothing at quantities to suggest a second release site. The locks on the building were not what would usually be used for a storage shed of gymnastic mats and hurdles.”

            “How are you feeling?”  Marcos asked solicitously.

            The young woman managed a half smile.  “Like Hamish hit me in the stomach but getting better.”

            “Good to hear.”  Thomas commented.  “Agent Smith?”

            “Your turn, Robbie.”  Hamish teased.

            Smith ignored him.  “My only contribution is the complete lack of insects.  Or was I the only one to notice that?”  

            “They would have died, wouldn’t they?”  Marcos asked.

            Smith shrugged.  “Even if the resident population died, new flies and other insects would have come in to feast and breed on the remains.  I haven’t been anywhere in the outback where there aren’t flies.”

            Thomas agreed.  “Now you mention it, it was strange.  No moths around the lights.  No roaches wandering into the mess tent.  No flies in the sun.  Why would that be?”

            “I noticed an E.M.-field prevalent throughout the whole town.”  Sarah interjected.  “I thought it was just the local power supply, but it was constant throughout with no fluctuation.  It didn’t feel right.”

            “Have you encountered something like that before?”  Campbell asked politely.

            Sarah shook her head.  “No.  EM-fields usually fluctuate or taper off with distance.  This was constant.”

            “Can an E.M.-field be used to keep insects away?”  Melissa asked.

            Hamish shook his head.  “Not that I know of.”  McCleod also shook his head.

            “But it doesn’t discount the possibility.”  Thomas tapped a pencil on the desk in front of her.  “The analysis is still being conducted.  We should have results tomorrow.”  She noticed the unhappy look on the vampires’ face.  “Garreth?”

            “We need to meet with the Haemocracy.”  He said simply.

            Smith raised his brow in surprise.  “Are we allowed to do that?”

            “No.”  McCleod stated flatly.  “But we can do it just the same.”

            “They will not receive you.”  Holfensteim stated with authority, but also with some compassion.  Obviously, her relationship with McCleod was a complex one.

            McCleod.  “They will receive you though.”

            Holfensteim nodded to the fact.

            “And me.  They have no reason to keep me out.”  Hamish offered brightly.

            “They will if they’re good judges of character.”  Melissa offered sarcastically.

            Hamish stuck his tongue out at her, and then continued.  “Seriously.  I’m blood.  They have to let me in.”

            McCleod was nodding slowly.  “It’s true.  He has automatic rights as a member of the democracy.”

            “Democracy?  Like an electorate of vampires?”  Smith interrupted questioningly.

            McCleod looked at the man.  “We are a Democracy of the Blood, Agent Smith.  Hence our title.”

            Smith let it drop.  Looking back to Thomas he spoke.  “So where is this council?  Transylvania?” He got some satisfaction from the stiffening of the vampire across the table from him.

            Thomas shook her head.  “Sydney, actually.”

            Hamish clapped delightedly.  “Yay! Sydney trip.”

            Thomas smiled at the young man as she held up a finger chidingly.  “But not before evaluations.”

            The smile and exuberant look on Hamish’s face dropped and he slumped back into his chair.  “Evaluations, boo.”

 

            The next morning the entire team was taken by coach, along with a team of evaluation experts, to an unused aircraft hangar at Moorabbin Airport.  Smith was surprisingly not surprised when he found it was merely a front.  Inside, they entered what appeared to be a storage room, but was the top of an elevator shaft that descended, he was told, some sixty metres down into the ground. 

            When they exited the elevator, they all walked into what appeared to be an observation room.  Through the floor to ceiling length windows, one could look down into a square room approximately thirty metres in width, and some three stories high.  Thomas informed Smith that scattered in the complex were changing and locker rooms, equipment maintenance bays, an armoury and even a communications room.  Once again, the C.S.D. was bringing the bling.

            Smith had viewed the budgets of black ops departments and projects before, but the facilities available to the C.S.D. were very impressive.  The cars.  The plane.  The coach.  The offices.  His new apartment.  Their communications centre.  It absolutely reeked of serious money.  And yet, he was still unaware of where the money came from.  He was still adjusting to the fact that the organization existed in the first place, not to mention the team that he was now responsible for.  It was a readjustment of his world view that felt like a major earthquake.

            Smith had been given a ringside seat from which to watch the exercise.  He was very keen to see the abilities of the team tested in such a way.  Even the Greek boy, whose abilities were hardly tactical in nature, would be required to take a turn in the ‘Tank’ as it was referred to by all.

            First in the Tank was the witch.  Unlike her usual style of dress, in the Tank she wore a plain body hugging unitard.  Now that it wasn’t hidden by the usual long flowing and voluminous dresses she wore; it was a very pleasant body to look at.  She was fit and lithe, with a body very similar in proportions to a ballet dancer.  Smith also noted the absence of a hat or scarf on her head, and he was now able to see the back of her skull in some detail.  The entire back of her head was distended slightly from the crown and just behind the ears down to the top of her neck.  Veins and blood vessels that sat just beneath the skin were clearly visible, adding to the unusual appearance.  Referring to her file, he read that she had approximately fifty percent more brain matter than the norm – in effect, an entirely separate and unique lobe – that acted as an amplifier of her neural energy.  It also enhanced the active amount of brain processing she could utilise.  Most humans only ever used approximately thirty percent of their active brain.  The witch, per the report he was reading, could bump hers up to eighty percent or more.

            One of the agents conducting the test was providing instructions to her over a comm-system and asked if she was ready.  She replied she was.  Almost immediately after that, a haze that was her neural energy enveloped the woman.  It was similar in appearance to the way heat waves reflecting off a road in summer would distort the image of the horizon.  Smith jumped slightly as the test started with an almighty bang.

            Two doors slammed open on the side of the Tank opposite from Smiths vantage point.  From within, a hail of small projectiles raced towards the woman.  She was ready for them.  She extended both hands and arcs of white-hot electricity shot out from the air around them to instantly incinerate the small munitions.  As the smoke of their destruction dissipated, Smith was stunned to see a look of ruthless resolve on the witch’s face.  Until now, she had always seemed so serene and calm.  To see such a look was somehow upsetting to Smith.  For some reason, he found it rudely out of place on the otherwise gentle and caring woman.

            Next, small compartments opened at random around the room and fired either bullets or small metallic spheres about the size of a person’s fist.  Compartments seemed to be opening at random and with such speed that Smith could not quite follow it.  The witch had simply dropped her arms to her side.  Her aura of neural energy, however, began to oscillate.  The bullets and spheres appeared to get trapped in the aura.  Director Thomas leant back and explained to Smith the properties of the aura.  The witch was in fact entrapping the projectiles by modulating the magnetic properties of the energy at her command.  In this fashion, she could mentally reach out and ‘grip’ the metallic objects.  Director Thomas explained that whilst not actual telekinesis, the ability was a described in the file as a type of ‘neuro-magnokenesis’.  In short, the Witch was amplifying the naturally occurring electromagnetic properties of the brain and reaching out with them.  When the compartments had completed emptying their wares at her, there was a spinning ring of metal.  The witch brought all the objects together in a tight ball in front of her.  With a nod, she flexed her talent and destroyed them all simultaneously, causing Smith to jump slightly.

            Smith was finding that he was both simultaneously excited and terrified.  These were people whose gifts were completely beyond his capability to neutralise.  Now he understood why there were kept hidden.  If the public knew that people like this existed, there would be mass hysteria.  And these were just the ones he knew about.  Clearly, there were many more Lycans and Haemocrats out there, but how many other genetic anomalies were roaming the streets?  People like Melissa Benton, an otherwise normal looking girl – perhaps a little too thin, Smith thought – who could do the most abnormal things.  How many people could claim a friend who could jump six stories straight up?  Or easily beat the world’s long jump record by fifty metres?  Smith briefly imagined what would happen if someone like the witch decided to join the wrong team.  It was a most scary prospect indeed.

            His attention was drawn back to the Tank.  Small access ports had popped open on the floor.  Miniature nozzles had risen and were now belching forth concentrated flame not unlike an acetylene torch.  Smith put his hand to the glass observation window in front of him and was surprised by how much heat was now in the room.  Even now, Sarah did not sweat.  Smith surmised that the neural haze that surrounded her must have afforded the woman a level of insulation.

            With a curious flicking motion, the witch sent tiny little bursts of energy lancing out at the nozzles.  Each small explosion of energy was enough to extinguish the flames.  When she had extinguished all of them, one lone red light in the tank turned to green, signalling all clear and the end of the session.

            Director Thomas leant into Campbell and spoke to him quietly.  The young assistant took several notes.  The two then turned their attention back to the Tank.  As they did, Sarah Roth appeared in the observation room clad in a light bathrobe with a towel now wrapped around her head.  She jokingly chided the test crew for the torches, mentioning how the heat dried out her hair.  This drew a good-natured laugh from most of the agents.  Looking at her now, Smith was stunned at the difference.  Back in place was that serene quality she radiated effortlessly.  Gone, was the implacable look of a warrior who commanded the properties of her unique brain.  She sat in the vacant chair next to Smith and gave him a playful pat on the hand.  It was as if she knew what he was thinking.

            Next in the Tank was the Lycan.  This was one member of the team that Smith had been looking forward to.  To date, he had seen nothing of her abilities, and was keen to see how close to reality the werewolves in his novel were to the aristocrat who now stood in the tank below.

            Again, a ready signal was given.  Instantly, Holfensteim flashed into her hybrid form.  Smith jumped slightly.  He would extensively revise the characters in his novel later.  Sarah put a comforting hand on his wrist.  She had obviously chosen to sit next to him for a reason.  Oddly though, he found the touch to be having a tangible effect.  He would ask her later if she had consciously done anything.

            Doors banged open on all four walls and a dozen men raced in brandishing weapons, all pointed at the Lycan.  What happened next was a type of combat that Smith could easily have called ballet in motion, if he had been able to make out any of the details.  It was amazing.  Grinning like a feral maniac, the Lycan suddenly became a blur.  The men, armed with paintball guns, truly did try their best to hit her, but it was pointless.  It took only seconds for her to not only disarm the men but have them all on the floor in various states of pain next to their now discarded weapons.  Smith saw Thomas checking a stopwatch. 

            “New record.”  Was all she said in response to Smith’s questioning look.

            With a final look, and a mysterious smirk on her face, the Lycan, now back in full human form, sauntered out of the tank.  She seemed almost pleased with herself.  The men, many with openly embarrassed expressions, were gingerly assisted out of the room.

            “She’s always short and sweet.”  Sarah commented to Smith.  He wanted to respond but couldn’t.  It was becoming all too much.  Given that he was experiencing one of his depression related bouts of insomnia, his composure was anything but assured.

            Benton was next.  Like the witch, she too was dressed in a full body unitard, and appeared just as prepared as Sarah had been.  Smith glanced down at his file; Benton was tested the similar way each time.  Guns firing paintball rounds would pop out of hatches in the walls to randomly fire at her.  It was her job to dodge these and not get hit.  Thing was, they were all equipped with thermal tracking.  Once they locked onto Benton’s own heat signature, they followed her around the room.  Benton signalled she was ready, and the green light flashed to red. 

            Initially, it appeared like a simple test of reflexes.  A single gun would fire a single paintball and Benton would evade it.  Gradually, the number and frequency of rounds increased over time.  What had started as simple dodging and ducking was now a display of agility and athleticism that Smith could not tear his eyes from.  Her ability was virtuosic in its execution.

            She vaulted; somersaulted; twisted; ran; leapt; dived; rolled; rebounded; all with a level of skill that would make gold medal gymnasts weep in envious horror.  The room was splattered with paintball impacts and yet Benton’s unitard retained the pristine white as it was when she entered.

            She even changed her strategy from evasion to offence.  She started using the guns to her own advantage.  Knowing that they would track her, she began using one gun against another.  If one shot, she would evade it then race into the line of sight of another.  After a time, the guns were shooting at each other rather than Melissa.  When a gun was hit by a paintball, it would go offline.  Once she started the offensive strategy, it took only four minutes for her to take them all out.  And a couple of sweat spots notwithstanding, she walked out of the ‘Tank’ as pristine as she entered.

            “Isn’t she amazing?”  Sarah asked Smith with an almost maternal note of pride.  All he could do was nod as the sprinkler systems in the room washed the paint out and down into drainage grills set in the floor.

            Next was McCleod.  Smith was now expecting the unexpected.  Surely, even he was going to give a demonstration that would add to his already pole axed feeling.  The vampire walked in wearing a shirt and pants of what looked like cheesecloth.  It was loose and flowing.  Smith thought it was a peculiar choice given that the evaluation was essentially a combat analysis.  Oddly enough, Theonakis walked in from the other side.  It was clearly a double test.  This was common in other forms of combat, so Smith accepted it readily.  He did think it a strange pairing though.  The two could not have been more different.

            Smith looked to Roth with a question in his eyes.  She simply smiled radiantly and, again, patted his arm.  And, again, Smith was comforted by it.  What was the woman doing to him?

            The two signalled that they were ready.  Theonakis adopted a ready posture like one in karate.  McCleod simply stood and waited.  Like with Holfensteims time in the tank, men in tactical black ran screaming into the room.  Most of them were targeting McCleod, but a couple went at Theonakis.  Smith wasn’t expecting much of the former model.  There was little in the way of defensive training in his file.  Indeed, when he did engage one of the men who was running towards him, his movements were somewhat clumsy and far more at home in a pub-fight than a special ops team.

            Smith was impressed by the physicality of it.  This was no simple ‘block and rebound’ type of bout.  This was a genuine attack.  Theonakis was clad in a t-shirt and shorts, whilst the attackers wore minimal body padding.  They were obviously meant to feel some pain. 

            Smith was impressed.  Theonakis, though receiving the odd battering, was holding his own.  He had dispatched one of his attackers with a well-placed uppercut and was now defending himself from the second.  He was having a harder time with the second attacker who clearly knew a thing or two about martial arts.  Whilst Theonakis could block most of his opponents’ thrusts and kicks, he didn’t seem to be able to find an offensive opening.  Smith, a black belt himself, could identify several.  But Marcos just seemed unable to spot them. 

            McCleod on the other hand could not have been more different.  Whereas Theonakis looked as if he was putting a lot of energy into it – wide sweeps of the arms, copious sweat, and clear signs of exertion – McCleod utilised an efficiency of movement that was minimal at most.  One agent would run at him and McCleod would move to one side exactly as much as needed and no more.  He evaded punches by movements that could probably be measured in millimetres.  In this way, he could evade and attack one target, whilst another was almost on top of him.  He lashed out with lightning strokes, all of which connected.  He sent one agent flying into a wall whilst disabling another by simply grabbing the hand that was attempting to punch him and squeezing.  Another was sent to the ground by the simple expediency of McCleod planting a foot on the other man’s boot, grabbing the man’s arm and tossing him off balance.  The agent rolled around on the floor clearly winded by the impact. 

            The only time McCleod moved more than a centimetre was when two men rushed him side by side.  He bent at the knees slightly and back flipped up and onto the wall, adhering to the surface as he landed.  Smith had read about the ability of course but to see it was astonishing.  It was a huge advantage tactically.  Adhering to the wall with his feet, McCleod simply reached out to smack the men’s’ heads together.  They both sank to the floor unconscious.  Next to him Sarah simply shook her head with a resigned sigh.

            Keeping his position on the wall, McCleod looked over to Theonakis, who by now had simply grabbed his attacker by the shoulders and head butted him into unconsciousness.  Smith couldn’t help but smile.  It was a ballsy move, totally something he himself might have done.

            The thing that was disconcerting was that there were now seven men in various states of injury lying on the floor moaning.  McLeod dropped to the floor and began assisting Theonakis in grouping them all together.  Smith noticed that at least one limb of an agent was draped over another’s, effectively joining them in a collection of injured men.  Theonakis then knelt next to one man and put both hands on the injured man’s chest.  The young model took a deep breath, as he let it out, his face softened into a look of concentration that was almost ethereal, as if the models mind was now out of his body. 

            Smith turned to Roth.  “What’s he doing?”

            Sarah motioned for him to return his gaze to the Tank.

            Smith looked down and for several minutes noticed nothing.  Then, almost as if it was evaporating, Smith saw the blood trail from one agent’s broken nose start to disappear.  Then, the nose straightened itself slowly.  Other wounds were also apparently healing themselves.  Smith now realised that Theonakis had sent out the medi-nanites to heal the injured combatants.  By draping limbs over one another, Theonakis was making bridges of tissue that allowed the nanites to get to all the agents.  It took almost a full fifteen minutes, but even still, Smith was stunned.  When Theonakis removed his hands, all the previously injured agents could stand, and all were completely healed.  One by one, they shook his hand then departed the room.

            Next to him, Sarah stood.  “Now it’s Hamish’s turn.  Come on.”

            Smith wondered why Hamish wasn’t being tested in the Tank like the rest.  Truth be told, he was just too overwhelmed to care about asking.  He was led by Sarah, who in turn followed Thomas and Campbell, into a separate chamber that was roughly the same size as the Tank.  Standing in the middle of the room was Hamish.  Smith rolled his eyes.  The little exhibitionist was wearing the smallest and tightest pair of bike shorts Smith had ever seen on a man.  Socks and sneakers, coupled with a broad smile and the numerous tattoos, were the only additions to his ensemble.      

            “Hey Smithy.”  Hamish greeted him with a broad, genuine smile and an enthusiastic wave. 

            For the life of him, Smith could not understand why the young man had decided to take him in hand, so to speak.  But it seemed that the kid had decided to be friends with the agent, and that, apparently, was the end of that.  

            A compartment in the wall opened, and a treadmill slid out on coasters.  Smith could not help but notice that it was heavily reinforced and looked more like something a car might be tested on, rather than a single, compact male.

            “Industrial issue?”  Smith asked Thomas curiously, pointing at the piece of equipment.

            Thomas smiled.  “Hamish weighs some three hundred kilos.  When we first tested him on a regular treadmill, it lasted four seconds before crumbling apart from the vibrations.”

            Smith stared at the young man.  He was extremely well muscled, with the figure of a championship bodybuilder.  His physique was perfectly symmetrical and proportioned; however, having avoided that grotesquely imbalanced physique those other builders had fallen prey to.

            “Try and pick me up.”  Hamish challenged him.

            Smith held up his hands in declination.  “I trust you, mate.”

            Hamish simply chuckled as he climbed on the apparatus.  “Speed or endurance today, Penny?”

            “Speed, please Hamish.”  Thomas walked over and spoke into an intercom set into the wall.  “Thirty second warm up and then go to speed please.”  She instructed.  There was a reply of confirmation, followed by the noise of the treadmill activating.

            Hamish began jogging in a leisurely motion.  On a display screen above him, his speed was displayed along with his heart rate, oxygen saturation and step count.  Even though he only had the appearance of a brisk jog, the display showed his speed as seventy kilometres an hour.  At full speed, an Olympic sprinter might manage forty-two, and even then, only for several seconds at most.  A tone sounded, and the treadmill began to speed up.

            “Here we go, boys and girls!”  Hamish exclaimed enthusiastically as he began to run faster.  Smith was dying to see where the kid topped out.

            For the next thirty seconds, the treadmill sped up with Hamish increasing his own pace to match.  Eventually, the display reading topped out at four-hundred and six kilometres an hour.  Hamish was pumping his legs and arms at a shocking rate, but it seemed he was doing so with no ill effects.  Smith was certain that the human body was not meant to move at such speeds, certainly it wasn’t designed for it, and yet the kid was pounding away with glee.  Mind you, the kid hardly had a standard human body.

            Smith turned to Thomas.  “Is that his max?”

            Thomas nodded.  “Improved by four per cent.”  She replied as the treadmill began to power down.  Hamish jumped off before it came to a full stop and retrieved a towel handed to him by McCleod.  It was the first time that Smith had noticed them interacting in any way.  He wondered if their relationship was acrimonious, or simply one of interaction as needed.  Hamish wiped off the sweat and tossed it back to his father.  As he did so, Thomas spoke.

            “Heads up, Hamish.”  She instructed him, pointing at the ceiling.

            This, of course, meant Smith looked up as well.  Sections of the ceiling dropped open and hanging above the young man was a medium sized four door sedan. 

            “Aw, hell!”  Hamish exclaimed unhappily as he saw what was about to happen.  With a metallic clang, the car was released from the cradle above it and dropped down, right over Hamish.  Extending his hands above his head, Hamish caught the car, but not without being driven to one knee by the impact.

            “Lady, I hate you.”  He grunted as he held the car over his head.

            Smith was stupefied.  In front of him was a real man holding a real car over his head.  It was not a scene of CGI trickery from a movie, nor was it an old-fashioned special effect from a TV show using cranes and pulleys.  This was an actual man, holding an actual car, over his actual head.  Smith felt the room spin.

            “You okay, Smithy?”  Hamish asked with concern whilst still holding the car over his head.

            In reply, Agent Robert Smith, newly recruited Team Leader of the C.S.D. special ops ‘Theta’ team, fainted.

 

Chapter Six

 

When Smith came to, he turned his head to the right.  Unfortunately, he came face to crotch with Hamish’s barely clad mid-section.

            “Hamish?”  He asked quietly.

            “Yeah, Smithy?”  Hamish replied in his jovial manner.

            “Would you mind terribly moving your crotch out of my face?”

            Hamish patted the man on the head before standing and leaving the room.  Gentle hands reached out and helped the agent into a sitting position.  It was Theonakis.

            “You’re fine.  You just fainted.”  Theonakis informed him in his quiet voice.

            Smith nodded in thanks, allowing Theonakis to assist him onto his feet.  There was some residual dizziness but there were no other side effects.  Thomas took him by the elbow and led him out of the room and into a small meeting room.  Campbell was the only one that joined them.  Coffee was again brought the same attendant.  This time, Smith’s coffee came with a damp towel and a wink.  His head improved.

            Thomas looked him over.  “How are you Agent Smith?”

            Smith had taken several sips of his coffee and was now placing the cool, damp towel on top of his head.  “Permission to speak freely?”

            Thomas smiled.  “Of course.  But we aren’t the army, you don’t have to ask permission for that.”

            Smith leant back in his chair, breathing out as he did.  “Why the hell am I here?  These people don’t need me.  I just saw a guy hold a car over his head – a car… over his head - another dude stuck to the wall - and I’m not gonna get started on the woman who can control the electromagnetic properties of the atmosphere.  Why am I here?  What can I possibly bring to this team?”

            “Humanity.”  Campbell replied quietly in his gentle, deep voice. 

            Thomas was nodding as she placed her cup back on its saucer.  “Exactly.  These are exceptional people, but they don’t play well with others.  Their social skills are minimal at best, and they need someone to make the decisions and point the way.  They’re exceptional followers and work well with direction, but make any of them take the lead, and they fall apart.”

            Smith had his eyes closed and move the damp towel covering his brow over his eyes.  “What about the Baroness?”  In reply he heard Campbell splutter his coffee, but it was quickly covered by the young man.

            “The Baroness is a member of the European nobility, and the Leader of some sixty million people.  She gives orders and expects them to be obeyed without question.  She can’t do consensus planning or decision making.”

            Smith nodded slowly.  The now tepid towel was removed and a fresh, cool one took its place.  Smith reminded himself to thank the Attendant later.

            “What am I supposed to do?  I’ve never been a field agent, let alone a leader of field agents.  I don’t know how to organise my own shit, let alone six super-humans.”  There was a resigned tone to his voice.  Almost one of doubt.

            Again, Campbell chuckled.  Smith removed the towel and raised his head to look at the man.  “Something you wanna add, pretty boy?”

            Campbell controlled himself.  “Your profile suggests natural leadership abilities and the lead character in your novels is an exceptional motivator of his men.  Why do you think it’s any different in the real world?”

            “You’re kidding right?”  Smith looked to Thomas.  “You drafted me for this thing based on my novel characters?”

            Thomas gave him a disapproving look.  “Hardly.  But it does show that you understand the fundamentals of leadership.  Now, all you have to do is to put it into practice.”

            “That’s all I have to do?”  Smith asked sarcastically.

            Thomas nodded seriously.  “Yes.  And kill the attitude.  I don’t like it.”

            Smith’s mood sobered.  Thomas was the boss, but she wouldn’t make an issue of it, unless she had to, and she just had.  Smith nodded and sat up straighter in his chair.   “Yes, Ma’am.”

            Thomas motioned to the door.  “You might want to go get changed.  You won’t be needing a suit anymore, plus you look like a shower could do you some good.”

            “Yes, Ma’am.”  Smith responded feeling like a schoolboy who had just been rapped over the knuckles.  He stood and left the room, with no idea where to go.  Thankfully, the Attendant materialised and asked that he follow her.  She led him to the door of the men’s locker room and informed him that he would find his things in a locker with his name on it.  Smith went to say something further when she beat him to it.

            “Sorry.  But no, I don’t date colleagues.”  The attractive brunette said politely.

            Smith spread his hands in defeat.  “I can respect that.”

            She smiled and as she walked away, then looked back over her shoulder.  “Doesn’t mean we can’t have sex though.  A girl has needs.”

            Smith could not help but smile as he turned around and entered the locker room.  Then stopped.  Once again, it was nothing like he was used to.  Here, each person had an alcove to themselves that contained a chaise lounge, a locker, a dressing table, a work area, their own shower cubicle, and ample space for whatever they needed – each alcove was a mini room.  It was richly decorated in stainless steel, heavy wood, and marble.  It was more comfortable than Smiths previous apartment.  Smith reminded himself that this was a part time facility.  He could only imagine what the facilities back in HQ would be like.

            After taking a lengthy, hot shower, Smith changed into jeans and a T-shirt.  As he finished dressing, Campbell entered with a file, it was labelled ‘Red Council’.  Smith lounged back on the chaise and opened the rather thin file in his hands.  He would seek out McCleod with questions later.

            The Red Council had been formed approximately five-hundred years ago by a group of renegade Haemocrats unhappy with the status quo.  Originally, when the Haemocracy and the Pack had realised that they could only breed with each other, they began a formal alliance called ‘The Contract’. 

            The Contract had been written to define not only the relationship between the two groups, but also as a list of laws and duties: the primary one being the protection of man.  Clearly, the Red Council had a problem with this.  According to the sketchy summary, a few members of the Haemocracy had a serious problem with protecting those they considered little more than food.  This ultimately led to a schism in the Haemocracy, with a group of some five thousand Haemocrats leaving and establishing the Red Council.

            Information regarding the renegade’s activities appeared minimal at best.  For reasons unknown, the upper echelon on the Haemocracy, known as the Representative, had allowed very little information to escape their possession.  This information appeared to be the most highly protected information within the Haemocracy, next to their origins. 

            Smith continued reading.  One interesting part of the workings of the Haemocracy was that every ten years, general elections were held within the democracy for the nine positions on the Representative.  Any member could put their name forward and every member was expected to participate in the vote.

            For the previous nine years, the Representative had been based in Sydney, in an historic mansion in the upmarket suburb of Woolloomooloo.  According to the file, the Haemocracy was heavily involved in medical supply and research, most notably in research and development with regards to diseases of the blood.  It was hardly surprising.  What was surprising was the number of patents that they held on to various pharmaceuticals.  A significant amount of money was generated each year by these patents and the Haemocracy was thus able to live a substantial lifestyle.

            He leant back in his chair and looked to the door at the sound of someone coming into the locker room.  It was Campbell.

            “Agent Smith.  How are you feeling?”  The young man asked politely.

            “Better.  Thank you.”

            Campbell handed Smith a large envelope containing various papers and several keys.

            “What are these?”  Smith asked.

            “The envelope contains the lease to your new residence here in Melbourne; keys for the residence; your C.S.D. personnel forms; security card for H.Q.; keys for your personal office and locker area; and a security card for all transport in the discharge of your duties?”

            At the last statement, Smith threw a questioning look to the young man.   

            Campbell spoke again.  “Every time you use a company asset, give the security card to the driver or the attendant.  This ensures that you are C.S.D. on C.S.D. business.  We value our security.”

            Smith shrugged.  “What if someone wanted to forge these?”

            Campbell smiled mysteriously.  “I’d like to see them try.”

            The young man then left the room.

            Perusing the documents, Smith saw that his new house was in Port Melbourne and not the Docklands.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  Working near yuppie scum and living with yuppie scum were two very different things.  He noted that he would have a driver and a car now.  The realization that he would have his own chauffer, plus the new hefty increase in salary, meant that Agent Smith was now rapidly becoming one of the yuppie scum he most disliked.

            With a groan of displeasure, he dropped the envelope to the floor and settled back into his chaise.  A quick nap to get over the trauma was required.

 

            The room was decorated in vintage furnishings that were minimal but clearly very expensive.  Chairs were high backed and well padded.  Tables were of heavy, polished wood and richly carved.  The draping was thick velvet, and, like the rest of the room, a deep shade of red.  In place of overhead lighting, extensive candelabras stood around the room.  Dozens of large white candles, their flames gleefully flickering on the wicks, cast a low light that only added to the ambience.

            At one end of the room, there were nine chairs, all exactly the same size as each other.   They sat on a raised dais with several candelabras off to each side.  Behind each chair hung a banner with a symbol in the middle.  Each of the nine symbols were different and represented the function of the individual who sat in front of them.  Currently, the nine individuals seated in each chair were giving their attention to the single Haemocrat who stood before them. 

            He was heavily built and with long, brown, wavy hair that lent him a somewhat bohemian look.  He was handsome and his face, like most Haemocrats, was unlined and youthful, belying his seven hundred years.

            The nine men hung to every word of his report.  When he was completed, the nine members of the Representative spent several moments digesting the information. 

            “Has the information been verified?”  One member of the nine asked.

            The member nodded.  “Visually and forensically.”

            “Has the Pack been informed?”  Another of the nine asked.

            The member replied.  “Yes.  All information regarding the event has been hand delivered to their Embassy.”

            The occupant of the middle chair spoke.  “The information provided to the Pack was concise.  Nothing was omitted?”

            The member shook his head.  “No.  They now know what we do.”

            Another member of the nine spoke up.  “Thank you.  You may leave.”

            The member bowed deeply before leaving.

            “This is most concerning.”  Middle chair stated.

            “The Representative overestimates the abilities of the Red Council.”  The occupant of the far-left chair replied.

            Middle chair rose and walked down the three steps to the main part of the room.  “I do not believe so.  We have not had a member within the Red Council for many years.  They may have resources unknown to us.”

            “The fact that they have cross-bred the two Houses would certainly indicate resources almost equal to our own.”  Another of the nine remarked.

            The occupant of the far-right chair snorted.  “Their group should be sterilised.  Their existence is in direct defiance of The Contract that we have dutifully followed for six-thousand years.”

            This provoked outrage of those remaining in their seats.

            “You would sanction the elimination of our own?”  One asked incredulously.

            Middle Chair interjected from the floor.  “It is an article of our law that Man must be protected.  One-thousand, eight-hundred and three people fell to this… horror.”  His voice carried a thick revulsion that could not be ignored.  “They are criminals who will ruin not only themselves but the entirety of the Haemocracy.”

            One individual, Second Seat, had thus far contributed nothing to the conversation.  He was one of the most respected members of the Haemocracy.  When he spoke, others listened.  With a thoughtful expression and his hands clasped in front of him, he spoke.

            “It has only been through our Contract with the Pack that we have been able to survive.  Our secrecy is our security.  Man is not yet ready to know that we exist.  Man is but an infant, his civilisation merely a proving ground for his evolution – socially and genetically.  For the time being, Man must not know that we, the Pack, or other variants exist.  It would produce a crisis not seen since the Inquisition.  It would be madness.”

            All were silent as they mulled his words.  Only Middle Chair spoke.

            “Then it is agreed?”

            Second Seat nodded in agreement.  “There is no other choice.”

            Middle Seat sighed.  He went to say something but stopped when their adjutant entered the room.  He whispered to Middle Seat for several seconds before withdrawing.  Middle Seat spoke to the room but looked to Second Seat.

            “We will be having guests tomorrow.  Perhaps they will assist us.”

 

            Agent Robert Smith arrived at his old flat in Canberra to find his entire place had been packed for him.  C.S.D. certainly did not waste any time.  Although, if he was honest, he was glad someone else had done it.  It was no joke that moving to a new house was considered one of the most stressful activities someone could do.  He walked from room to room thinking back on his time in the national Capital.  He had enjoyed the last ten years.  His job had been interesting and challenging.  Plus, rather than socialise, he had decided to fulfil his goal of writing a novel and submitting it for publishing.  He had no idea at the time that it would prove such a successful side venture.  Two novels, seventy-thousand copies sold later, and he was more than pleased.

            His wanderings eventually took him out onto his balcony.  From here he could see Parliament, the National Museum, and Lake Burley-Griffin.  He had sat out here on many a mild evening typing away on his laptop.  It was a pleasant outlook which, by pure coincidence of course, overlooked the apartment complex’s pool.  His phone rang.

            Flipping open his mobile he answered.

            “Robert Smith.”

            “Hey, Rob!”  It was Roberts’s personal trainer and gym buddy. 

            “Hey Nate.  What’s news?”

            The young man spoke in a surprised and happy tone.  “You wouldn’t believe it.  A gym in Melbourne wants me to come down and manage their trainers!”  The young man gushed.  “Apparently, someone down there said something good about me and they checked me out and want me to go down ASAP.”

            Smith was suspicious but kept his voice light.  “That’s really cool, mate.  Which gym you going to?”

            His trainer told him.  It was literally around the corner from Smith’s new residence.

            “How cool is that?”  Nate asked excitedly.

            “Really cool, mate.”  Smith replied before going on to tell him of his own change in job and his reassurance that he would still be able to have Nate as his trainer.  The young man said an excited goodbye and Smith flipped the phone shut.  Thomas was a real piece of work.  One thing was rapidly becoming clear though, she had done everything possible, and some impossible, to get him into the job.  Clearly, she thought highly of him.  He would make certain he did not disappoint her.

 

            The next morning, he flew to Sydney.  After being met at the airport by a C.S.D. car, he dutifully handed his transport card to the driver who swiped it on a device no larger than a mobile phone (Smith was tempted to ask whether he got frequent flyer miles.)  He was then driven to the mansion that was the home of the Haemocracy Council.  He noted with some amusement that another car with Thomas, Hamish and McCleod was arriving at exactly the same time.  He was surprised to see McCleod here, and not Holfensteim.  Given previous conversations, he had assumed that McCleod would not be allowed to enter. 

            Smith walked up to Thomas.  “Nate says hi.”

            She smiled broadly.  “I know how attached you are to him.”

            Smith just shook his head as they approached the security gate.  Hamish spoke briefly to the black suited man who then spoke into an intercom for several seconds.  Almost immediately, the front gate clicked open and all moved inside. 

            The mansion was old but richly decorated in a minimalist Gothic style.  Smith could not help but smirk at the stereotypical design.  Mind you, for all he knew, the stereotype could have been initiated and maintained by the Haemocracy themselves.  They didn’t call Hollywood the land of the bloodsuckers for nothing he ruminated.

            The group was led into a large meeting room.  Dominating the room was an enormous circular table that could easily seat fifty people or more.  Sunlight streamed in through floor to ceiling French Windows at one end of the room.  On the wall were framed portraits.  Smith surmised that they had been or were people of importance in the Haemocracy.  Sitting in the seats closest to the windows were nine men.  Most appeared to be middle aged but well kept, although there was one with silver hair and matching, closely cropped beard, and another looked barely an adult.

            The young man who greeted them bowed to the nine and then left the room, softly closing the door behind him.  As it locked with a click, the silver haired gentlemen stood and indicated chairs with a gesture.

            “Please, be seated.”

            Smith and his colleagues did so.  The chairs were well padded and richly engraved, much like most of the furniture he had seen.

            The silver haired man looked to McCleod and smiled.  It was warm and welcoming.  It shocked the hell out of Smith.  This was not the welcome he expected.  “And our wayward brother returns to the fold.  Or is this just a visit?” 

            “Good Morning, Kael.”  McCleod replied equally as warm.  “Today I am visiting; my return to the fold is up to the Representative.”

            Kael went to reply but was rudely interrupted by another of the nine.

            “You bred with a human.”  His tone was one of pure disgust.

            McCleod, however, did not rise to the bait.  He replied with a voice devoid of emotion.  “I bred with a Genex.  The product of our union sits before you now, Mason.”

            “You had NO RIGHT!”  Mason practically shouted.

            McCleod simply looked at the man.  “No, I didn’t.  But I cannot choose whom I love.  Besides, she is worthy of inclusion.  As is our son.”

            “You bred with a Genex.  The filthy mother of a mongrel and the mongrel are unworthy of inclusion into our House.”

            Mason looked on the verge of apoplexy.  Kael merely held up a hand before him, silencing him before he could continue the rant.  He turned back to McCleod.  “We shall consider your return.”  Kael turned to look at Hamish.  “The mongrel.”  Kael said without any inflection, clearly just stating a fact.  “And what is your name, young man?”

            “Hamish Roth-McCleod.”  Hamish replied seriously.  Smith prayed that the irreverent young man would behave himself.

            “You are unique.  And you are of Haemocrat blood.”  Kael smiled.  “We welcome you into the Democracy.”

            Hamish, surprisingly, stood and bowed deeply.  Perhaps McCleod had schooled the young man.  “I am honoured.”  Hamish’s expression became resolute.  Smith almost groaned out loud at what he surmised was coming.  “But I will not be included at this table without my Sire.”  Hamish indicated his father with a sweep of his hand.

            Kael nodded.  “Then we will make certain that our deliberations are quick.”

            Hamish bowed again.  “I appreciate that.”  The young man took his seat.

            Kael sat down and looked to Thomas.  “We were surprised to receive the communication from the Baroness.  We were also saddened by the events at Williams.  We grieve for the loss of innocent life.”

            Thomas inclined her head.  “Thank you.  I trust you have your own intelligence regarding the event?”           

            Kael nodded.  “We do.  My agent confirmed the particulars.”  Kael’s face clouded.  “It was an abhorrent act of destruction.”

            Thomas nodded in acceptance.  “Indeed, it was.  However, I am more concerned about future events.”

            “You believe this will happen again?”  The member to Kael’s immediate left asked.

            “You have charge of many research projects, Mathias.”  McCleod replied pointedly.  “Have you ever been content with just one test?”

            Representative Mathias looked sharply to Thomas.  “You believe this event was a test?”

            “It had all the trimmings.”  Thomas replied ticking the items off on her fingers.  “Isolated location.  Diversity of subjects.  Easy containment.  That’s how I would have done it.”

            “Coincidence?”  Mason replied caustically.  Smith was starting to really dislike the man.

            “Actually,” Smith interjected in a trite tone.  “We’ll completely ignore the possibility if you can provide an answer for us regarding one small question.”

            Mason all but sneered at Smith.  “Ask your question human.”

            Smith leant forward.  “I preferred to be called Agent Smith if you please.  My question is how do you kill all the insect life in an isolated rural town?”

            Another member of the nine, a man who looked barely out of his teens spoke.  “All of the insect life?”

            Smith nodded and slid a file across the desk to the man.  “All of it, to a distance of ten kilometres outside the town.”

            The Haemocrat picked up the file and began reading.  It didn’t take him long.  Unfortunately, the forensics team had not been able to discover much more than they had already known. 

            Kael gestured to the man.  “Saxon is our chief scientist.  One of his many specialties is entomology.”

            Saxon closed the file and put his hand on top of it.  “This should not have happened.”

            “There was a pervasive EM disturbance within the town.”  Hamish pointed out.

            Saxon leant back in his chair.  “An EM field might keep out one species, maybe two, but it should not keep out all of them.”

            “And that doesn’t count the ones that were there.”  Smith explained.  “It appears we had a strain of anthrax that killed everything in a single location.  Everything.”

            Saxon was shaking his head.  “That just isn’t possible.  Even the most virulent strain will only kill ninety-five percent of a population.  And that’s ignoring the fact that insects, whilst acting as carriers, should not become infected.”

            “You can get a virus or bacteria to do almost anything, if you engineer it right.”  Hamish pointed out.

            Many of the Representative were outwardly horrified by the report.  Kael, however, seemed coolly reserved.

            “We believe it the work of the Red Council.”  He stated.

            Mason interrupted.  “We are considering that it might be the work of the Red Council.  I have not heard a resolution yet.”

            “Are you really that naïve?”  Hamish butted in.  Smith practically dug his nails into the arm rest of his chair.  Jesus, kid he thought.

            Representative Mason was on his feet in a millisecond.  “How dare you, mongrel.”  His tone was dangerously quiet.

            Hamish gave the man a look of concentrated pithiness.  “Sticks and stones can’t break my bones, so you can appreciate how I feel about names, Darl.”  He gave the statement a second to sink in before continuing over the top of the man.  “The Red Council is new to the game.  They might have the tech but I’m guessing that they’re low on intellectual resources.  They spent years cutting and splicing the genetics of this bug.  What else would they do but test it?  They can’t just let it loose in case it kills them too.  They need to see what it would do and how and to who.  And they needed to do that before the real objective.”

            “And that would be what, mongrel?”  Mason asked cuttingly.

            Hamish shrugged.  “No clue, love.  If I want to get inside someone’s head, I crush it.”

            Mason returned to his seat, glaring unhappily at the flamboyant Hamish.  Kael, however, appeared highly amused.

            “Your abilities must be impressive.”  He spoke.

            Hamish smiled at the older man.  “I’ve got some skills.”

            Kael chuckled.  “In spite of Mason’s reaction to you, I will welcome you here anytime.”  His face then became serious as he addressed Director Thomas.  “And the C.S.D.?”

            “I’ll be meeting with my counterparts this afternoon.  I am hoping that further information will be forthcoming.”

            “May we request any and all such information be shared with us?”

              “Of course.”  Thomas agreed.  She appeared momentarily uncomfortable but quickly covered it.  “May I ask if the Representative will be equally as forthcoming?”

            Kael agreed over the spluttering of Representative Mason.  “We shall do all we can.  This is a common threat.  It requires a common response.”

            With that, the meeting broke up.  Kael and Saxon invited their guests to morning tea with them.  Smith’s stomach started to churn at what exactly that meant.

            Thankfully, it was a proper service of coffee and cake offered to the C.S.D. members.  The Haemocrat Representatives clearly preferred not to ingest in front of outsiders.  The coffee was excellent and the banana cake sweet and heavy.

            “How is the food, Agent Smith?”  Kael asked.

            “Very nice.”  He replied politely.

            Kael was openly smiling now.  “We may not eat it ourselves, but we understand the needs of our guests.”

            “When do you eat?”  Hamish asked.

            Kael looked approvingly at the young man.  He was clearly impressed with him.  “We partake in private.”

            Hamish looked intrigued but chose not to pursue it.

            Kael sighed.  “I apologise for the behaviour of my colleague.  He is uncomfortable with Man and indeed, I believe him to be fearful of you.”

            “How could he be afraid of Smithy here?  He’s adorable!”  Hamish gushed, simultaneously spraying cake crumbs.

            Saxon laughed openly at the remark, before continuing.  “We do not fear you.  We fear the mob.”

            “As in pitch-forks and torches?”  Smith asked incredulously.

            Both Kael and Saxon laughed.  “No, no, Agent Smith.”  Kael responded.  “Not the mobs of lore, but the general population.  They are unable to cope with even the smallest amount of diversity.  To add us into the equation would be… catastrophic.”

            “Do you have an agent inside the Red Council?”  Thomas asked.

            Kael shook his head.  “Not for many years.”

            “How many agents does the Red Council have in the Haemocracy?”  Smith asked carefully.

            Both Kael and Saxon looked uneasy at the thought.  Smith was surprised at the honesty being presented to people thought of as outsiders.  It held some positive hope for future dealings. 

            “There are no Red Council agents here.”  Kael replied.

            Smith was shaking his head.  “My apologies, Sir, but if it was me, I’d have a dozen agents inside your upper echelons, all reporting back to me on a daily basis.”

            Kael fell back into his chair.  The older man seemed possessed of a genuine disbelief that the Haemocracy could be targeted.  Unfortunately for Kael and the Haemocracy, hatred could and did lead to unspeakable acts.

            “I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful, Sir.” Smith began.  “But this Red Council doesn’t seem to be interested in playing by the rules.  I am certain you will be attacked.”

            “Listen to Smithy, Love.”  Hamish started with Kael.  “We understand that you play nice.  But you didn’t see with your own eyes what we saw in Williams.  It was pretty gruesome stuff, and I’ve got a pretty strong stomach.  These buggers need to be taken down.  If we don’t, it’s going to end up as six pounds of shit in a half-pound bag with all of Hell looking for a pot to piss in.”

            Smith groaned outwardly.  The kid could not keep his mouth shut.

            Director Thomas, however, seemed amused with Hamish.  “Hamish may have a colourful vocabulary,” she started with a side-long look at the young man.  “But he does have a point.  We need a response to this Red Council.”

            Kael and Saxon shared a look of discomfort.  It was not lost on Thomas.

            “Gentlemen?”  She gently prodded.

            Kael sighed as Saxon responded.  “There are a small group of Haemocrats who believe the Red Council should be left alone and encouraged to leave Man alone, with an appropriate offer of isolation.”

            “Mason.”  McCleod stated.  Everyone else was thinking it.

            Kael nodded.  “There are those who believe the Red Council to be a simple and misguided group.”

            “I would doubt that.”  McCleod replied.

            Kael nodded.  “As would I, I do not believe that they could be persuaded to leave Man alone.”

            Saxon continued.  “In times past there has usually been a few who believe that our Contract to leave Man alone, to protect Humanity, was misguided.  They believe we are the next rung on the evolutionary ladder and to view Man as simply as Man views a cow.”

            “Meat.”  McCleod stated with disgust.

            Saxon tilted his head to one side.  “That is an odd statement from a hunter.”

            McCleod stiffened in anger.  “I hunt to enact justice.  I do not hunt with impunity like the Red Council would want us to.”

            Kael shrugged.  “They would say you are indulging your instinct and your heritage as a Haemocrat.  Either way, we do not hunt Man, especially when we have other methods at our disposal.”

            “What are those?”  Hamish asked, clearly curious.

            “There is a reason we own abattoirs in most countries in the world.”  Kael responded.  “We keep the blood and sell the carcasses.”

            “Wow.  That’s gross.”  Hamish commented, scrunching his nose up.

            Kael simply nodded to the point.  “For some, yes, it is.”

            “For the Red Council, definitely.”  Thomas commented as her PDA beeped.  She retrieved it from the case at her belt and read it.  She looked to Smith.  “Our meeting just got moved up.”

 

Chapter Seven

 

              After leaving the Representative, Thomas and her group were taken to an office building in the centre of the Sydney CBD.  After making their way to a secure floor, they entered a room set up with a meeting table and chairs at one end, and six very large, flat screen televisions at the other.

            As Thomas entered the room, she swiped her card and the screens flared to life.  Each one displayed an individual sitting in a similarly decorated meeting room.  Smith loved technology and this stuff appealed to him no end.  Thomas was talking even before she sat down.  Smith had no idea why Hamish had decided to crash the meeting, but then, the kid seemed to do whatever he pleased.

            “Good afternoon, everyone.”  She said in her most business-like tone.  “Before we get started, I would like to introduce the new Theta Team Coordinator, Agent Robert Smith.” 

Thomas motioned to each screen in turn as she spoke.  “David Wexley, Europe; Nina Esconda, South America; ‘Tex’ Melling, North America; Su-Ling Poi, Asia; Zafra Al-Mukhtar, Middle East; and, N’gembi Ontaro, Africa.” 

            Smith smiled in general greeting and took his seat.

            “By now you have all been briefed on Williams and the Red Council.  I am hereby declaring a Code White for the Agency.”  Several people on the screens blanched visibly.

            “Penny is that really necessary?” asked Director Melling, his thick south-western accent filling the room.  “Shouldn’t this be an internal matter for the Haemocracy?”

            “Tex,” she began.  “If this had been confined to the Haemocracy than I’d agree.  But over a thousand innocent people were killed, two Lycans were experimented on in the most hideous way imaginable, and, the Red Council is clearly developing biological weapons far in advance of anything we know of, and, can currently counter.”

            The North American Director nodded and went silent.

            Thomas looked to the upper right-hand corner.  “Zaf.  There’s talk that they may have recruited scientists from the old regime in Iraq, and quite possibly Libya.”

            Director Al-Mukhtar shook his head.  “Sorry, Penelope.  We just picked up the last of them not three hours ago.  All black market and ex-regime weaponists are accounted for.”  His richly accented voice seemed to heighten the tension in the room.

            Thomas muttered a profanity.  “Are you certain?  The Haemocracy speculates otherwise.”

            Al-Mukhtar shook his head.  “Absolutely sure.  We’ve been watching these targets for six months.  They have all been neutralised.  We even gave the CIA a couple of gifts.”

            Thomas slammed her hand down on the desk.  It seemed her favourite way to let of steam.  “Damn it!”

            “I’d be looking into former Soviet scientists myself.”

            This cause Thomas to perk up somewhat before looking to the middle left screen.  “Do you have something for us David?”

            The dapper man smiled condescendingly.  “Naturally.  The Soviets were far more advanced in this area than even the Americans.  Their biological weapons programme was so ahead of it’s time that the only reason it wasn’t put into action was that the delivery technologies they wanted were yet to be invented.”  Wexley looked to one side off screen for several seconds.  The sound of rustling paper indicated he was looking for something.  “A-ha!  I have four of the bastards unaccounted for.”

            “Let’s have them.”  Thomas instructed as she motioned for Campbell to take notes.

            Wexley continued.  “Antonin Antonovich – ex-head of the Viral Research Unit for the KGB; Tatiana Kamarova – Scientist in Charge of their military research unit; Michal Keraboski – previously Political Officer of the State Biorepository; and, Serafina Kilkatova – Director of the KGB’s Weapons Research Unit.  I don’t know how, but all four eluded their Watchers, and the entire associated surveillance.”

            On another screen, Director Ontaro gasped in surprise.  Smith surmised that the C.S.D.’s surveillance techniques were not easy ones to elude.

            Director Esconda of South America spoke up.  “This may not be anything, but we’ve had several ex-Nazis in Brazil suddenly go quiet.”

            “How long ago was that Nina?”  Thomas asked.

            The attractive Brazillian woman replied.  “Six weeks ago.”

            “What were their backgrounds?”  Smith asked curiously.

            Director Esconda answered without having to refer to anything.  “All were engineering.  No biotech whatsoever.  All had high level engineering skills but had been relatively low profile during the war.  We’ve kept watch on them but have so far been unable to tie them to war crimes.  So…”

            “Hang on,” Hamish interjected.  “How old are these guys?  Shouldn’t they be back in diapers with slobber cups by now?”

            Esconda laughed.  “I need someone like you around here, Hamish.” Then her expression became all business again.  “These men all have the appearance of early middle age.  We guessed that they may have had access to black market genetics research, but it still wasn’t enough to show on the radar.”

            “Consider them back on the radar, Nina.  We need to know where they are, and taken into custody if possible, please.”  Thomas requested.

            “Shall do, Penelope, however, the DEA have been sniffing around them which may have caused them to go underground.”

            Thomas looked to Melling.  “Tex, can you get the DEA to back off for a couple of months?”

            The Texan American laughed boisterously.  “When have I not delivered for you, Penny-Darlin’?”

            Thomas smiled in spite of herself.  “Rarely.”  The American was typically over the top but completely engaging.  She tapped a few commands on her PDA then looked back up.  “Alright, I’ve just sent you everything we have, including our travel itinerary for the next week.  We suspect that they will try again.  What we don’t know is where.  It could be here in Australia, but it could be anywhere.”

            Director Ontaro spoke up.  His voice had that richly accented basso common to African men.  “Penelope, Williams was on a route for heavy weapons smuggling.  Now, there are not as many of those, as there are isolated small towns.”  Ontaro left it hanging.

            Thomas replied crisply.  “Good thinking.  All of you intensify your Watchers on known heavy weapons smuggling routes and I’ll ask our friends to reposition a couple of satellites for us.  Anything further?”  No other comments came from the conference participants.  “Then I’ll check in with all of you in three days.  Thank you.”  With that, all the screens went dark.  Thomas handed Campbell a file.  “Get onto our friends at the Pentagon and get some assets put over the routes that the D’s specify.”

            “What’s with the heavy weapons link?”  Smith asked.

            Thomas leant forward in her chair.  “When you put all those individuals together in one pot and stir, you immediately think heavy weapons.  There are nineteen preferred routes for heavy weapons smuggling in the world.”

            Smith understood.  “So, a heavy weapons shipment could identify a target.”

            Thomas rocked one hand from side to side.  “It’s hit and miss.  Thankfully, the satellites will also be able to pick up Haemocrat heat signatures.  Combine those with the location and we might get a hit.”

            “And Watchers,” Smith continued.  “They’re what I think they are?

            Thomas nodded.  “They are.  We have at least one Watcher in each major city and most major towns.  Other areas depend on importance whether or not an asset is put there.”

            Smith waited as Campbell left the room to attend to his task.  As soon as the door closed, he spoke.  “We have people in the Pentagon?”

            Thomas looked to Hamish.  The young man sighed in the manner of a jilted teenager.  “Okay, okay” he started.  “I’ll go ogle Campbell and leave the James Bond stuff to you grown-ups.”  Hamish and his pout left the room.

            Thomas spoke.  “We have someone in every organisation, country, town, or company that we deem of import.  Always remember that.”

            “How many of us are there?”  He asked breathlessly.

            Thomas tapped on her PDA for a few moments before bringing up some data on one of the screens.  “Each Director has total control over their area.  It’s entirely up to them how many agents they have – their generous budget permitting.”  Thomas switched the picture to a map of the world.  Dotted all over it were small green dots.  “Each dot is a Watcher.  Most are ours.  Others are agents in Intelligence Organisations that do work for us as well.  Others are just the right people in the right place that we recruit on the side.”

            Smith gestured at the map.  “We have Watchers in countries that hate us.” 

            Thomas nodded.  “Countries may hate us.  But that doesn’t mean that all the people in that country do.  We seek those people out.”

            “How do the agents maintain their integrity?  Being the servant of two task masters must put them between a rock and a hard place sometimes?”

            Thomas again nodded.  “True.  But we don’t do that.  We will not violate the internal policies of an Intelligence Organisation of an ally.”

            Smith raised an eyebrow.  “And those we don’t consider an ally?”

            Thomas smiled grimly.  “Then it’s open season.”

            Smith smiled knowingly.  He had read reports about the actions of so called ‘Good’ agencies when it came to destabilising the ‘Bad’.  Smith had understood the intentions behind the activities but had not always agreed with them.  Making a country come around to your way of thinking by increasing the level of fear and paranoia in its own government did not seem quite the right approach to him.  Mind you, he had been a data analyst looking at the issue through an intellectual window, far from the actual event itself.  He now understood how so many agencies could so easily get things wrong.  However, it did not alter his particularly moral view of the phrase ‘the means justify the ends’.  For him, that would never become an accepted axiom.

Most of the decision makers sat in offices in downtown areas of capitals or major cities.   Few, if any, were out in the field doing the hard work.  It explained any number of incidents that had gone horribly wrong over the years.  The bosses did not experience the nuances of the situation whilst the field agents were focussing on their own issues but had trouble seeing the bigger picture.  Unfortunately, there seemed to be no middle person who could translate for both. 

            Perhaps this was why Smith was developing such a deep respect for Thomas so quickly.  She was a Director who got out amongst her agents and experienced the events first hand.  She handed very little off and was involved in every step of an investigation.  Interestingly though, she did not micromanage.  She was involved but was more than comfortable delegating to her team and letting them do the actual work, including the decision making for that task.  It was evident that she was still very much in charge though.  She knew everything that was going on in the Agency and with all their operations.           

 

            It squirmed underneath his touch.  He did not care.  He pulled back momentarily to realise that not only did he not care; he did not hate the creature either.  In place was an ambivalence that seemed to lay over him like a familiar blanket.  It comforted him; soothed him; eased the last few concerns of his.  It was a liberating feeling.  With a sigh of release, he turned back to his project.

            Before him, on a raised marble dais was his subject – a Lycan.  The thing was perhaps just reaching maturity.  Its body was still underdeveloped, and it was quite unable to break its’ bonds.  A fortunate thing, it seemed, as it was very angry indeed at the treatment it was receiving.  He took a large syringe from a side table and, checking the quantity, injected it into his subject.

            It would be several minutes before any change began, so he wandered around his lab, tidying up where necessary and maintaining the integrity of his space.  And he did so enjoy his space.   A converted Hammam, it was predominantly marble with high set windows in a domed roof that allowed light to bounce around and provide some truly glorious moments in the day.  That it was constructed mainly of marble also meant it was much easier to keep clean, and he was most meticulous in that.

            He stopped by his computer and consulted the read outs.  Everything was proceeding according to his projections.  The genetic drift was a disappointment, but it did save him the thorny issue of what to do with them after their tasks were completed.  At least it was quick.  Previous attempts had resulted in agonising deaths that took weeks, and in some cases, months.  A few days were nothing to complain about.

            He turned back to his subject at the sound of a low growl.  It had begun.  The enzymatic compound that had been introduced to the Lycan had now begun its’ work.  The Lycan was now experiencing a level of pain hitherto unknown.  The thing would be experiencing stimulation to its nervous system that would feel as it was being sliced into by white-hot knives.  Again, he did not care.  All he was curious about was the intended effects and what happened.

            The Lycan was forced into its hybrid form by the solution attacking its system.  It screamed a unique cry of human and canine.  It was almost a howl, but it was marred by the excessive screeching that was a human-like scream.  He rolled his eyes.  This was precisely why he and his kind should no longer be signatories to the Contract.  These beasts may be physically stronger and faster, but they had no spirit.  Indeed, he had postulated many times that he believed they did not even possess souls or emotions such as them.  They were merely beasts who had managed to pass themselves off as respectable members of the gene pool.

            Now, the subject was beginning to manifest actual physical change.  Its incisors shortened, and its eyes were slowly turning a pinkish hue – a mix of the Lycan silver and the Haemocrat red.  Its’ skin was also losing some of the bronze tinge peculiar to Lycans in their human form, in its place was the pale, almost translucent white of a Haemocrat.  Further, its’ ears lengthened whilst its claw-like nails began to have a more Haemocrat appearance.  Brushing his hand against its’, he noticed the change in skin texture that would allow it to adhere to most surfaces. 

            He smiled as he administered a tranquilizer to silence the beast.  Everything had proceeded according to his research and planning.  Sitting in front of his computer, he sent a message to the Council informing them of his success in further refining the genetic change.

            He was quite pleased with himself.  A lesser scientist would have bungled it.  As it was, there had been times when he himself had wondered if he would succeed.  It goes without saying that his musings were internal – of course.  He would never have admitted his concerns to the others.  After all, he had an image and a position to maintain.  Even if it meant the cost of such personal consolidation would be several Lycan lives.  They were just dogs after all.  And he had a duty to end the suffering of rabid animals.

            He carefully washed and disinfected the hand that had been forced to touch the unconscious beast on his table.  He had to fight not to physically gag.  It was the one thing that he disliked about his vocation.  To experiment on them was one thing – he could use instruments for that – but occasionally he was forced to actually touch them.  It turned his stomach. 

            His family had stretched back for thousands of years.  And yet, he despised the female side of his lineage.  Even with the knowledge that his genetic makeup was mostly Haemocrat, he could not help but be sickened by their need to breed with Lycans.  He had doubled his efforts to find a way for his kind to successfully breed without the need for Lycan assistance.  He had conducted several trials using fully human females as incubators.  Sadly, all of them had perished either mid-term or at birth, and none of the infants had survived.  Their genetic dependence on the Lycans was proving most difficult to break.  But break it he would.  It was only a matter of time.

            An alarm broke his concentration.  Looking to his screen, he saw the vital signs of his subject dropping faster than he could read them.  He moved quickly to the dais and began attempts to keep the creature alive, but it expired before he could make a meaningful attempt to keep it alive.  It was most concerning.  This was the only subject to react in this fashion.  All the others had successfully mutated then lasted several days.  This one had barely lasted several minutes.

            He summoned his assistants and immediately began examining the still warm corpse.  As one assistant took a blood sample for analysis, another assisted him in quickly opening the torso of the corpse.  He cut deeply, through the skin, muscles, and ribs to expose the cardiac cavity.  What he saw shocked him.

            The heart had all but exploded.  Looking at the remains it appeared as if an explosive had detonated from the inside, blowing out one side of the primary chamber.  The lungs had also reacted in a similar fashion and had practically shredded themselves.  He wondered if other organs had suffered similar fates and commanded his assistant to open the cranium. 

            He moved to the assistant conducting the blood analysis and looked over his shoulder.  On the screen before them was the magnified image of the beasts’ red blood cells.  Right before his eyes they were exploding, his enhanced hearing clearly detecting the barely audible ‘puffs’ of the cells demise.  The analysis clearly identified a type of runaway gaseous expansion that was compromising their cellular integrity, resulting in an explosive end.  Given the subject had been in his care for the previous month, he knew that the beast had not arrived with this condition.  Someone had sabotaged his work.

            With a steady, careful step, he moved to the intercom on his desk and summoned four security staff.  When they arrived, he ordered his assistants taken into custody for questioning.  The two men were dragged away despite their extensive protestations.  He knew that someone within their organisation had done this, and he would start with those closest to him. 

            His facility possessed the highest level of security and yet, it was clear that someone had tampered with his experiment.  He was not happy.  It would take days, perhaps weeks, to understand how it had been done.  It would require the most meticulous work and would not be made any easier by the pressure he knew he would come under from the Council as to answers.

            His pressure was exacerbated when another security officer ran into his domain and breathlessly advised him that his remaining five subjects had all escaped.  Fighting down his own fury, he ordered the retrieval team to be deployed and the subjects to be brought back alive.  He amended the order to include deadly force should they prove to be too uncooperative.  The security officer acknowledged the order and bolted from the room.

            With a roar, he spun around and, with his fingernails extended, tore a chunk of marble from one of the columns, which in turn landed on the floor, the force of its’ impact causing it to explode into fragments.  As he fought to regain his control, he was annoyed with himself for making such a mess.  As if his day was not bad enough, he had to add a mess to his clean lab on top of it.  With a final deep breath, he went off in search of a broom.

 

            Kael put aside the small glass of red liquid.  He found his hunger had deserted him after his guests had left.  Strange.  He had not thought of Gareth in many years.  To see him in the flesh had been welcomed and long overdue.  Kael had been one of the five of nine members of the Representative that had voted to expel him from the Haemocracy.  It saddened him deeply at the time, in spite of his acceptance of their policies.  Mating with a human was simply far too dangerous.

            Kael chuckled.  The progeny – Hamish – was as outrageous and as outspoken as his father had once been.  Not only that, but he was possessed of abilities that Kael would be eager to see demonstrated.  More than that, as a scientist, he was eager to see how the boys’ DNA had successfully and healthily merged the two sets from his parents.  An outcome that would be fulfilled in a day, after their lab had processed the small biological sample that Kael had deliberately taken from the utensils the boy had used. 

            Though underhanded, Kael had a responsibility to the Haemocracy to know.  Never had such an individual walked the Earth.  The few matings that Kael had been privy to had all ended in either still births or hideously deformed freaks that could have never been mistaken as human.  The Haemocrat DNA was simply too alien to Human DNA.  Haemocrats and Lycans had essentially been inbreeding for thousands of years.  For the average human couple, this would produce any number of genetic deformations resulting in any number of illnesses and malformed offspring.  For his and their allies’ kind it produced only a healthy line of ‘children’ that went back hundreds of millennia.

            He sighed nostalgically.  It was only in recent time that this sort of disgrace had begun to surface as an issue for the Haemocracy.  Kael longed for the centuries before modern medical technology.  He longed for his old estate in the Loire Valley.  He had long ago sold his chateau and the accompanying vineyards to move to Australia in furtherance of his duties to the Haemocracy.  Kael had served as a member of the board for one of Australia’s most powerful telecommunications companies for the decade previous, as were most of the Representative.  Indeed, there were few technology and medical companies that did not have at least one Haemocrat on their board.  It was vital to the Haemocracy’s interests to have their fingers in those specific pies.  His musing was interrupted by the arrival of the Haemocrat that served as his attached.  Kael looked up.           

            “Yes, Ty?”

            The youthful appearing blonde man nodded respectfully.  “The data sent to us from the C.S.D. has confirmed our own findings.  The mutation is currently being genetically broken down, but it is definitely an attempt to merge the two Houses.”

            Kael shook his head slowly in revulsion.  “It is an abhorrence.”

            Ty nodded slowly.  “Their attempts do not suggest that they will cease their efforts.”

            Kael stood quickly with a grunt of disgust.  “No.  If anything, their failure will simply spur them on to continue refining their ghastly technique.”

            Ty paused uncomfortably before asking the next question.  “If I may ask, are there truly members of the Haemocracy who support the Red Council?”

            Kael turned to look at his charge.  “Indeed.  It is regrettable but true.”  Again, he sighed.  He thought to himself he did that too often of late.  “They are misguided, of course.  But we do not tell our members what to think.  They may support the Red Council – in principle only.  As a Democracy, they are entitled to think what they like.  They may even leave to join them should they please.”

            Ty was openly shocked.  “You would let them go?”

            Kael shrugged.  “What would you have me do?  Chain them?  Bind them?  Imprison them?  Kill them?”

            The younger Haemocrat visibly drew back at the idea of one Haemocrat harming another.  Indeed, it was part of what made the actions of the Red Council so appalling in their eyes.

            Haemocrats were barred from harming another of their own kind.  They were also barred from harming their Lycan sisters.  These two laws, along with the protection of Mankind, formed the very foundation of their societies.  For eight hundred and two years, no Haemocrat had ever harmed another.  The last to do so had only acted in self-defence to protect a group of humans who were in danger from the blood lust of a deranged Haemocrat.  Even now, Haemocrats everywhere will pause at the stroke of midnight every March 24^th to mourn the act. 

            “What are we going to do, Sir?”  Ty asked gently.

            Kael walked to the window to overlook the fountain splashing outside his study.  “Nothing.  The C.S.D. must be the key player in this event.”

            Ty could not believe what he was hearing.  “They are humans, Sir.  They cannot possibly understand or access the inner workings of the Red Council such as we could.”

            Kael continued to gaze at the dancing fluid without.  “We have no choice.  To openly confront the Red Council could invite a disaster on us all.  We must, as always, protect the Haemocracy from external forces.”

            “Sir,” Ty began, choosing his words carefully, “The C.S.D., even with its unique agents, will most assuredly fail.  Unquestionably, we should assist them.”

            Kael slowly turned in his chair and looked up to his charge with undisguised shock.  “You would tell me what we must unquestionably do?”

            Ty took a step back and bowed his head.  “My apologies, Sir.  I do not seek to rise above my station.  My concern, as always, is for humanity and their protection.”

            Kael allowed his temper to dissipate.  Truth be told, the younger man was correct.  “Of course, you are right.  And we shall assist them in whatever way we can.  But we will not attempt to penetrate the Red Council.  To do so would lower us to their level.  Understood?”

            Ty bowed in acceptance, then left the room. 

            Kael walked over and sat at his desk.  He picked up his PDA and began scanning the contents of the documents he held on it and it alone.  Given that the device was never out of reach of his person, it was the most secure place he could store such inflammatory information.

            He quickly composed an email that detailed everything the C.S.D. had told him.  He then further attached all the documents they had provided.  When completed he sent it before erasing every trace of its existence on both the PDA and his personal server.  When he was certain that everything had been taken care of, he summoned his steward and requested a new glass of lunch.  The previous had sat for too long.  The two drinks were efficiently swapped, and Kael sat back and slowly savoured his lunch. 

            Whilst one issue had been taken care of, yet one more now presented itself - The C.S.D.  Their involvement would no doubt draw yet more attention to the Red Council, and quite possibly to the bonds it still shared with the Haemocracy.  The information had been closely guarded by all but the most senior of its members, and yet a collection of genetic misfits, an outcast and a couple of humans could potentially discover what he had sought so valiantly to keep hidden for so many years. 

              Kael, respected member of the Representative, and one of its most senior advisors, was the Red Council.  The hierarchy of the Red Council reported to Kael and Kael alone.  And Kael would not have it another way.  After all, you don’t change the world without the small changes along the way.

 

Chapter Eight

 

She was exhausted. 

            Well... as much as she could be.

            The previous week had been a search of blind leads and obvious clues.  She had personally spoken to every one of her Australian Watchers.  Whilst there had been many sightings, there was little in the way of substance.  Yes, they had been seen.  Yes, they had been followed.  No, they had not done anything that warranted interception.  Yes, some had disappeared.  It was so frustrating.

            The other Directors had sent a disappointingly small amount of Intel.  What was happening in Penelope’s backyard appeared to be happening in others as well.  Leads became guesses then evaporated into nothing.  Director Oscondo was particularly irate.  She had been so upset that in mid-sentence she began speaking – and swearing – in Spanish.  For a full minute she had spewed forth a stream of consciousness that was very unlike the beautiful Latinx Spy Boss.  Nina Oscondo was usually like ice when it came to an op.  To witness her give in to her irritation made Penelope feel decidedly nervous.  Once she had gotten hold of herself, Director Oscondo had profusely apologized for both the lack of information, and the lack of her control.  Director Oscondo had no explanation for how three, seemingly old men had eluded her Watchers when, for months, they had been under tight surveillance. 

            The one time they had something substantial, Director Thomas had sent The Baroness and McLeod out to surveil a drug dealer with a known connection to the Red Council.  This drug dealer dealt in high grade pharmaceuticals, and it had been hinted at that he was supplying various compounds and drugs to the Red Council for their experiments.  What could not be hinted at was how.  There were only a few facilities in Australia that could supply the grade and type of ingredients that he was trafficking.  The primary facility was in Melbourne, right under Director Thomas’s nose.  For three nights, her two best, covert operatives had the facility under their steely gazes.  On the third night, they witnessed their target pull up in a dark SUV, then enter the facility.  They had waited, poised to apprehend him, and yet, he never exited the facility.  The Baroness and McLeod, in no danger of being caught, had even conducted an internal reconnaissance of the facility.  He was not there.  The two had returned to HQ most annoyed that a sleazy drug courier had somehow slipped past them.  

            The Red Council was proving to be smarter than Penelope had initially believed them to be.  Whilst their technology and scientific expertise was lacking, their ability to confuse was not.  Directory Thomas had enjoyed several conversations with the respected Haemocrat Elder, Kael.  Even he had reluctantly been forced to concede that the Red Council’s spy craft was more sophisticated than he had thought.  He promised a more diligent approach.

            Penelope found Kael to be an enigma.  She also could not displace a warning her highly trained mind was telling her.  He had done nothing nor said anything that gave her pause, but she could not budge her concern.  At first, she had put it down to English being his second language.   And naturally, it meant his speech emphasis and cadence were different.  And yet, he had been so open in his exchanges of intelligence and source data.  She cast aside her concerns. 

            Director Thomas had spent most of the day in conference with assorted members of ASIO, ASIS, and the Australian Federal Police.  She had even contacted The General to apprise him of her failures.  In a surprising change of heart on his part, he had reassured Penelope that this type of failure happened often in Intelligence circles, and that she would, not doubt, bounce back.  He had told her to take some time to relax and regroup.  And so, this evening, she had dressed in her pink night-dress, pink night-robe, and fluffy pink bunny slippers, grabbed some reading material, and a pot of Lady Grey tea, and lowered herself into her favorite, deeply padded easy-chair.  Her quarters in their Docklands HQ were impeccably decorated and furnished with only her own items that she had brought with her from England.  Penelope Thomas adored her possessions.  They all had meaning.  From the Art Deco clock she had haggled over in a Parisian market.  To a framed, hand-written love letter from Mark Twain.  And then there was the onyx cat statue that had been gifted to her by a member of the Egyptian nobility.  It all had meaning.  And everything had a place, and everything was in its’ place.  Just how Penelope liked it.

            She sipped her tea and read her book.  She could consciously feel her body repairing itself after such a harried seven days.  It was the secret she was not allowed to tell.   Penelope Thomas, Director of the Commonwealth Security Directorate (Oceania), and current Director of the entire C.S.D. (by virtue of the rotational nature of the position), was a genex.

            Unlike the more fantastic abilities such as Hamish or the Witch, hers were almost benign in nature.  She was long lived and required no sleep.  That was it.  And yet, it was remarkable in and of itself.  For three hundred and fifty-four years she had been alive.  For most of that time, she had not taken, or required, one bit of sleep.  In recent years, thanks to advanced genetics, she had come to understand that her cells were self-sustaining.  She did not need to eat, though she definitely enjoyed it, and she would never say no to a piece of cheesecake.  She did need to drink water or fluids like her favorite blend of tea, however.  This was something that her amazing cells could not manufacture.

            Penelope Thomas had been born to Lord and Lady Thomas in London on June ninth, sixteen-sixty-four.  Her Father was an accomplished diplomat and trusted Adviser to the then King, Charles the Second.  Her family had been sent to France when she was six so her Father could serve British interests in the court of Louis the Fourteenth.  The young Penelope found France fascinating.  And the court had found her equally fascinating.  Courtiers fell in love her Cherubic face and her near perfect French. Her mother had taught her French as soon as she started talking.  Indeed, her mother had continued teaching her languages throughout her childhood and youth.  Her mother had a genex trait of being able to take on new languages within days.  Given how much it had helped her husband’s work, she knew it could only assist her daughter.  By the time Penelope was fifteen she could speak French, Spanish, Russian, Italian, and Danish fluently and with an almost native accent in each.  Even Louis the Fourteenth himself had marveled at the proficiency of the young child who had flown around a corner and unceremoniously crashed into the King’s person.  After picking herself up off the floor, the young Penelope had boldly stated in her near perfect French “Praise be!  I have flown too close to the Sun, and thus, my wings have melted, and I have fallen!”  The King had laughed delightedly, planted a kiss on both cheeks of the young child and then grandly proclaimed her “Icarine”, the best feminine version of Icarus he could think of.  For the entire six years they were at court, she was known by the King and the Court as Icarine du Soleil and considered a favorite of Louis and the Royal Family. 

              After that, the Family returned to London, where Penelope excelled at her schooling and the other things young ladies of class were to learn during that time.  Piano, needlework, singing, dancing, she excelled at them all, even if she was not motivated by them all.  Recognizing her intellect, her father would spend time at the end of each day recounting the goings-on at Court.  Penelope would sit at his feet as he sipped his beloved Scottish Whisky and would ask questions.  She impressed her father with both her acumen and her ability to learn.  During this time, women were merely pretty things that young men – and not so young men – were to obtain as a wife.  They were little more than property for the gentry.  With her parentage, Penelope was beginning to be noticed in many areas of society and so, in sixteen-seventy, she debuted to English society to much interest.  From Dukes to Diplomats, Barons to Businessmen, she had no end of suitors.  Her father, busy as he was at Court, was besieged by offers for her hand.  Sizeable dowries of land, money and titles were offered.  And whilst he was willing to allow his only child to be courted, he would not permit marriage.  He and her mother had noticed the small, tell-tale signs of their progeny.  She never got sick.  To their knowledge she barely slept.  She was never tired.  And the usual bumps and bruises young people get growing up healed much quicker than any of her friends.  Their daughter was undoubtedly a Genex.  This presented a serious problem in England in the late 1600’s.

              Young ladies of her station rarely did not marry.  Even if only for the continued success, or elevated station, of their parents, young women in society married.  By the time she turned twenty, the young woman was developing a reputation as a ‘Rose’; very pretty to look at, but far too prickly to be held for any length of time.  The invitations diminished.  The suitors thinned.  

Then, at age twenty-two, she experienced the ultimate grief, her mother died.  Margaret Anne Thomas had been experiencing headaches that became all too frequent.  English medicine did what it could, but it could not save her.  At the time, it could not even comprehend a slow bleeding in the brain.   And so, in mid-sentence, Margaret Thomas died, with her daughter and husband beside her.  Penelope took to her bed.  

              There she stayed for months.  Her father was desperately worried that he was to lose both Wife and Daughter in the same year.  His love and his care eventually got her out of bed and slowly back into life.  But the loss of her mother had left her angry and bitter.  She found she could not tolerate the empty platitudes of her suitors and dismissed them altogether, much to the chagrin of her father.  And so, by her mid-twenties, she was being addressed as the Spinster Thomas.  In truth, she had never wanted to be married.  The lives of her friends appeared inane by her judgement.

              They bared children.  They attended book readings.  They accompanied their husbands as little more than jewelry to be paraded at the dinners that occurred.  Penelope had no interest in that.  She wanted to read, and learn, and explore.  On her twenty-sixth birthday, she advised her father that she was to be a scholar.  She would not entertain suitors or attend parties where one was expected simply to look pretty and barely eat.  She would devote herself to science and art and people.  She would study Mathematics and Physics.  She would appreciate DaVinci and Verrocchio.  She would listen to – and dissect – the almost mathematical Concertos of J.S. Bach.  She would pay surgeons to allow her to witness autopsies.  She would begin a pursuit of knowledge that would never cease or tire.  Upon the natural death of her father at one hundred years, she would sell her family home and embark on a wandering that would encompass the world. 

              Though the lifestyle she chose was risky and potentially life threatening at times, she reveled in the new experiences that every new country afforded her.  There were only two corners she would not venture to – The Arctic and the Antarctic.  Penelope Thomas hated the cold.  And yet, in the mid-nineteenth century she went back to her beloved London.  After arriving, she went in search of her old home and, for many hours, sat across from it reliving her memories of her parents.  It was just before she was going to go back to her hotel, when a smartly dressed young man dropped an envelope on her lap and continued walking away.  Thinking he had simply dropped it accidentally, she called out to him and yet before she could rise and follow him, he had vanished.  She had turned the envelope over and saw that it had been addressed to her.  With the intended curiosity, she had opened it and read the invitation to her to join a gathering of ‘unique people’ such as her.

              That evening she had knocked on the door of the address accompanying the letter.  She was admitted by a doorman of Indian heritage.  She was taken to a small room where she was introduced to the gentleman who would change her life.  He had introduced himself as the Lord Langworth – Director of the Commonwealth Security Directorate.  From that evening on, she became part of something much bigger than herself.  She would leave the Directorate for only thirteen years, when MI6 came calling.  She viewed her time there as punishment.  Her superior at the C.S.D. had ‘loaned’ her to the British Foreign Intelligence Service at the explicit request of the Foreign Secretary – a friend of the C.S.D. Director.  However, she did not get the satisfaction at the posting as she had previously.  So, after a suitable length of time, she requested, and was rewarded with, a position back at the Directorate.

            She found she could not focus on her book.  She was attempting to reread an Anne Rice novel, but it was not giving her the usual joy and escapism she sought.  Given they were on the chase for a group of rogue vampires that were testing a biological weapon of mass destruction, Anne’s ordinarily layered and nuanced characters were not quite bringing it for Penelope.  She tossed aside the book and borrowed further down into the chair.  She retrieved her tea and began sipping it again.  As she did, she heard footsteps on her stairs.  Given it was past three am, it could only be one person.

            “Hamish, why are you awake?”  She called out with some annoyance.

            The young genex with the inexhaustible smile finally appeared and walked over to her day bed.  It had been a gift from the final High Governor of India.  She put her left hand out.

            “Don’t flounce.  You’ll destroy it.”  She warned.

            Hamish briefly paused and then simply sank to the floor.  Her rug was from Turkey and was as beautiful as only a piece of handmade art from that part of the world, and that time period, could be.

            “I can’t sleep.”  Hamish muttered through a pout.

            Penelope smiled gently whilst gesturing to the floor.  “Hence, why you decorate my rug.”

            Hamish chuckled.  In Penny he found a kindred spirit.  Though she chose to hide it most of the time, her long life, experiences and multiple educations had resulted in a genius level mind.  Not quite as bright as Hamish, but she could hold their own.  This was especially true during their late-night talks on subjects ranging from chaos theory to gender fluidity to why one always lost the left sock in the dryer.  Hamish would be exacting a pound of flesh using his razor-sharp logic, and she would recall something from her life and burst his bubble with an evidence-based anecdote that she herself had taken part in.  Hamish would momentarily pout, as Hamish often did, but would rally and come back with something completely unexpected.  She loved it.  However, she would have preferred isolation this night.

            Hamish turned his face to her.  “What’s in your bra?”

            She raised her eyebrows.  “I beg your pardon?”

            “Well,” Hamish continued, “you kinda sound pissed off.”

            She put down her tea and attempted to give Hamish her best and baddest stare.  “Hamish, we have been all over the Eastern Seaboard and more trying to find this Red Council.  And we haven’t found squat.  And I’m a little tired.  And I have nothing but occasional sightings and hearsay resulting in a whole lot of nothing.  It’s exasperating.”  She exhaled loudly at the end of her remarks.

            Hamish’s eyes narrowed.  “You don’t get tired.”

            She laughed without much conviction.  “Everybody gets tired, Hamish.  I’m just better at not showing it.”

            Hamish went from laying down to sitting in front of her cross-legged.  “So, this Red Council is pissing you off?”

            She nodded wearily.  “Yes.  I think we’re being played.  Solid sightings disappear into nothing.  This doesn’t usually happen when I’m looking into something.”

            Hamish put both hands to the sides of his and comported a look of pure, sassy horror.  “Oh....my...gawd.... Penny...... you too are fallible.”

            “Hamish?”

            “Yes, Penny?”

            “Shut up.”

            Hamish continued to look at her.  Now, his chin rested on one hand, the other played with his blue-black hair.  “You know, there is nothing wrong with being human.”

            It was now or never.  “But I’m not human, Hamish.”

            Hamish stretched up and shrugged.  “Well, I agree your pretty bloody fantastic but you’re obviously more hum...”

            “Hamish,” she interrupted, “I’m like you.”

            Hamish slowly looked to her.  “Oh my god, you’re a dyke!”  He exclaimed with great surprise and happiness.

            This caused Penelope to guffaw.  If only it had always been something as simple as sexuality.  She got herself composed and then replied.  “Hamish, I am a genex, like you.  Unlike you, I don’t have any active abilities.  Mine are passive.  I am long lived, and I never need to sleep.”

            Hamish seemed speechless.  A rare thing.  Then he spoke.  “Get out with your bitch self.”  His tone was tight and devoid of emotion.

            Penelope smiled and gently shook her head.  “I am very serious.  I’m over three hundred years old.  There are only two parts of the world I haven’t seen.  And they are the Arctic, and Antarctica.”

            Hamish was still lagging behind.  “Genex?  You?”  Realization dawned on him in a sudden wave.  “You don’t get tired.  You can’t get tired.  You are always in that bloody chair in that god-awful wrap at night because you don’t need to sleep.”  The statement sounded like a threat somehow.  Clearly, Hamish was not happy.

            Penelope nodded again.  “That’s it.  I sit here and let my body regenerate.  Although, technically, it is constantly regenerating.  At night, when I am quiet and settled, it allows me to notice the sensation.”

            For almost a minute Hamish said nothing.  He was staring at her with a look that Penelope had seen before – in battle.  Hamish was going to strike somehow.

            “You didn’t trust me.”  He accused with a softness that drove a spike into Penelope’s heart.  His voice had dropped and was very quiet.  It was the antithesis of how he usually spoke.  This was serious.

            “It isn’t about trust.”  She responded carefully.

            Hamish was not having it.  “Bullshit.”  This time there was spite and anger and betrayal in his voice.  “This is about trust.  I have told you things no one... no one... has ever heard.  I have poured out my heart to you and exposed myself.”  He paused and took several deep breaths.  “You...did...not...trust...me.” 

            Penelope was careful not to answer straight away.  The quick and deep rise and fall of his breaths belayed a risk that she could not ignore.  Hamish looked like an adult, but in reality, he was a five-year-old child.  And children did not always play nice.  Hamish could easily pick her up and throw her out a window and she would not land for several kilometers.  It was not something she wished to experience.  She had once seen Hamish rip a door off a car with the most meager of efforts in a fit of pique.  It had landed eleven kilometers out to sea, where a fishing trawler coming into port had seen it and reported it to both the police, and the evening news.  At this moment, he was not Hamish, valued and dedicated member of Team Theta.  He was currently Hamish, angry and upset five-year-old.  She had to answer very carefully.

            Keeping her face neutral, she spoke.  “Hamish.  I am the head of an Intelligence Organization.  I cannot always tell you everything.  Even about myself.  Sometimes, especially about myself.”  She continued talking in a soft and measured tone.  “I would like to have told you, and the rest of the group.  However, even I report to superiors.  I have orders from those that I report to.  I am not permitted to break them.  I am breaking it for you because I feel you should know.”

            Hamish was not settling down.  “I told you about Byron Bay.”  His hands were clutching Penelope’s cherished rug.  She genuinely hoped that he wasn’t about to tear it.  It was irreplaceable and well over a century old.

            She tried a different tact.  “Hamish, my love.  When we talk, I do not sit here as your boss.  I sit here as a friend.  You are my favorite.  You are the one I worry about.  You are the one who so personally chooses to spend his time with me.  You are the one who bares his soul to me.  You are the one I feel closest to above all others.”  She paused and smiled.  “You are the one that I love, Hamish.  No others.”

            Hamish’s lower lip started to quiver despite his anger.  “You love me?”
            Penelope smiled broadened.  “Yes, my sweet fool.  You have captured a part of my heart and I cannot imagine life without you, my adorable little clown.  You’re my favorite.”

            The anger dropped from Hamish’s face like a waterfall.  He also, to Penelope’s relief, released her rug.  “I don’t know what to say.”  He replied in a tiny voice.  “No one has ever said that to me.  Not even Mother, ever.”

            Penelope shrugged slightly.  “Your mother has said it to me on several occasions.  She’s also in a very complex situation herself, and it wouldn’t hurt you to give her a break.  But you know she loves you.  And ever is a word that you should use sparingly, until you’re older.”

            Hamish giggled.  Penelope relaxed.  They sat there in companionable silence for several minutes.  Penelope sipped her tea, waiting to see what Hamish would say next.  She did not have to wait long.

            “Pity about not being a lesbian.”  Hamish muttered through a pout.

            Penelope chuckled.  “Not everyone in the world has to be gay, Hamish.”

            Hamish’s pout increased.  “No.  But it doesn’t hurt.”

            Penelope’s chuckled ceased abruptly.  With his pout, Hamish looked like someone she once knew.  Someone who could possibly assist their current situation.  She rose quickly.  “Hamish, go put on something respectable and meet me at the car in five minutes.”  Penelope did not give Hamish time to disagree.  She almost ran into her dressing room and began changing.

 

            “What a dump.”  Hamish stated.

            Penelope could not disagree with him.  However, she had a feeling that the externally ugly warehouse they stood in front of would be possessed of a very fine interior.  That is, if her hunch was correct.  Penelope walked forward and pressed the button to the side of a standard door.  She heard nothing.  She did not expect to.  She adjusted the scarf around her neck as she waited.  She wanted to make certain she appeared as he would remember her.  A viewing slot opened in the door.  She spoke to the pair of eyes in a language quite unknown to Hamish.  Aramaic, not surprisingly so, was quite unknown to most people.  The viewing slot shut with a clang.  After a few moments the door was opened by a tall, African appearing gentleman with significant musculature, and very full lips.  Penelope caught the look on Hamish’s face. She hoped she would not have to chain him. 

            The two C.S.D. agents walked down a long, white, impeccably clean corridor.  Their guide walked ahead of them.  In time, they reached another door which he opened and bade them entry.  Upon entering the next room, Hamish whistled long and low.  The room was enormous, easily the size of a Federation style tennis court.  At one end was a raised dais.  On it was a single chair not unlike a throne.  It appeared to be made of marble.  In front of the dais were two short and stumpy blocks of marble that clearly served as seats.  Penelope hid a smile.  All along the walls were hung long, gorgeous strips of royal blue silk.  Penelope recognized the floor tiles as being Queensland slate.  A rather interesting contrast to the gleaming white, terrazzo marble.  Dotted along the edges of the room were various couches and armchairs.  They were of an eclectic and almost random style.  Penelope recognized them for what they were, periods of time her host had lived through.  All these years and he had not lost his style.

              The spaces between the various seating were pedestals with what Penelope knew to be priceless pieces of art.  Sculptures.  Paintings.  Jewelry.  Crowns.  Tiaras.  Venetian glassware.  One pedestal even had several bars of solid gold.  Penelope smiled openly.  She expected nothing less.  It was core to who he had always been.  She remember a very different room she had once walked into.  In one corner of that room there had been a pile of diamonds sitting on the floor.  Next to those, a pile of emeralds.  Those two gems were his favorite things.  She had chosen her jewelry with care to match.

            Standing on each side of the man were what Penelope surmised to be his current attendants.  The male on his right was tall, muscled, red haired and red bearded.  His skin was paler than pasteurized milk.  His eyes were a light blue.  His torso was bare, hairless and perfectly muscled.  He was an Adonis, as Penelope expected him to be.  And he was dressed in a long, turquoise sarong style of wrap that hung from his hips.  On the left was a woman of stunning beauty.  Her skin was perfect.  Her lustrous coal-black hair was made up in a complex French Bun, with strings of pearls woven into it.  She wore a long dress of a powder blue hue.  Gold chains wound their way around her body, accentuating her assets.  Her eyes were the deepest of brown orbs to lose yourself in.  Her only flaw was her thin, almost shrewish, lips.  This was a hardened woman.  One to be wary of.

            Hamish looked at the man sitting on his throne.  It was impossible to guess his age.  His skin was unlined, and he was hairless.  No hair on top of his head, and no eyebrows. He had large eyes that bored down on one.  They were green.  It was a startling contrast to his bronze skin tone.  He wore a long style of what appeared to Hamish as a maxi dress.  It was then that Hamish noticed that the man was wearing lipstick.  As they approached, the man rose, descended the two steps, and held his arms out to Director Hamish like an old friend.

            “My darling Penny-Pea.”  He spoke with full vowels and the voice was deep and controlled.  He delicately kissed her cheek and held her hands.  “It is so lovely to see you again.”  He gestured to their stools.  “Please.  Sit.” 

            Hamish and Penelope sat on the marble stools.  “You’re looking well, Luka.”

            The man had returned to his throne and looked to her in reply with a small smirk.  “You really think so?”  Then he sat up straight.  “When did we last meet?  Was it Cairo?  Or could it have been Stockholm?”  He affected a mock pose of confusion. 

            Penelope replied.  “Definitely Cairo.  It was the day after the end of Ramadan if my memory proves, correct?”

            The man nodded slowly.  “Yes.  Yes, it was.  After that dreadful business with the Ha-Shashin I believe.”

            “Indeed, it was.”  She replied.  “Thankfully, a satisfactory outcome was achieved by all.”

            Luka’ brow dropped demonically.  “Except for the Ha-Shashin.  Terrible day wot?”  He and Penny chuckled. 

            Penny gestured at his clothes.  “Are you transitioning again, Luka?”

            Luka screwed up his face.  “Yes.  The second time this century.”  He shifted his position on his throne as if uncomfortable.  “Never get used to the damn process.”

            “Transitioning?”  Hamish spoke up.  “To a woman?”

            Luka looked directly at the young man.  Hamish felt his skin crawl.  Luka spoke in a dry monotone as he addressed the young Genex.  “Yes, little bastard.  Although in my case no surgery is needed.  My body simply rearranges itself.  And in my home, minions have the manners to wait until they are called upon.”  He looked away from Hamish, snapping his fingers as he did.  “But where are my manners?”  He gestured to his male attendant.  “Allow me to introduce my companion?  His name is Seamus.  He is from Ireland.”  Rather than acknowledge Penelope and Hamish, Seamus leant down and softly kissed his Master.  There was no embarrassment or self-consciousness.  Luka then indicated his lady friend.  “And this is Devanya Elenskya Romanov.  She is my concubine.”  Again, there was the ritual kiss.  Her eyes never left Director Thomas.  Her initial assessment was clearly on the money.

            “You always did like the lovely things in life, didn’t you Luka?”  Penelope innocently stated.

            The lady hissed in fury.  Patches of her skin began to mottle and change colors between the light tones of her skin to a dark blue-black.  Her lips pulled back to bare teeth more at home in a Nurse Shark than a gowned beauty.  It was all a bit startling.  Luka, however, silenced her with a snap of his fingers.

            “Forgive my concubine.  She does not appreciate being addressed as an object.”

            Penelope put a hand to her heart.  “My apologies.  No ill intent was implied.”

            Luka waved the notion off.  “Of course not, Penelope.  Now.  Tell me why you visit me.”

            Penelope decided to simply lay it out for Luka.  Whilst she remembered his fondness for long and extended conversations dripping with banter and innuendo, now was not the time.  “What do you know of the Red Council?”

            Luka smiled broadly and leant back on his throne.  “What do you have to do with those mongrels, my old friend?”

            “Now,” Penelope held up one hand whilst affecting a naughty smirk.  “I asked you the first question.”

            Luka nodded to the point and sprawled on his throne, absently rubbing one hand over the abdominal muscles of his Irish Adonis.  “I know that they are idiots.  Stupidity of the highest order infects the Red Council.  These are the moronic vestiges of a once great line that will get all the rest of us either imprisoned or killed.  They are the true Intellectual cripples of our world are they not?  Luka looked again to Hamish.  “Not like you, little bastard.  You’re something entirely different.”

            Hamish spoke up.  “Why do you keep calling me little bastard?  Coz, I’m all good to call you Daddy and all, but that would need a whole different change of venue.”

            Lukas’ smile dropped.  “Such sass and venom in your pleasant little self.  Consider yourself lucky, you mixed gene minx.  If not for that completely divine woman sitting next to you, my companion would have beaten you bloody for your impertinence.”

            Hamish smiled and Penelope inwardly winced.  “Your companion is probably eighty kilograms sopping wet.  He’s a distraction.  At best.”  Now it was turn for Hamish’s face to darken.  “Don’t try me.  You’ll be a smear on the bottom of my shoe if you do.”

            Luka grinned almost manically.  “Well, well little minx.  Fangs and bite in your little self.”  Luka leaned forward almost hungrily.  “You interest me.”

            Hamish simply met his stare with brutal honesty.  “You don’t interest me.  I have plenty of play-pals who satisfy my crazy quotient.  You’re nothing new.  You’re pretty cool with the whole going girl thing.  But Penny and I aren’t here to stroke your……. ego.”  Hamish waved a hand dismissively.  “Such that it is.”

            Luka sat back slowly, never taking his eyes off Hamish.  “Very well.”  He slowly turned to Director Thomas, and he was now all business.  “Let’s talk about the Red Council.”

 

Chapter Nine

 

              Director Thomas was stunned by Luka’s knowledge of the Red Council.  It was clear that he had experienced significant interaction with The Red Council, and, because of that, compiled a large and verifiable amount of intelligence.  What he had not experienced first-hand had been relayed to him by close and trusted associates.  The Red Council, per Luka’s descriptions, were akin to the Haemocracy as Muslim Extremists were to Islam.  They were radicals with little restraint and much in the way of perverted desire.  They wanted anarchy.  This much was clear.  They also wanted to rule the Haemocracy.  Given there were, according to Luka’s sources, no more than twenty-five thousand members of the Red Council, Director Thomas was at a loss as to how they thought they could best the twenty million Haemocrats.  And, of course, that did not even consider the forty million Lycans who would rally to the Haemocrats call.  What seemed clear was that whilst the Red Council was a threat, it appeared to be a disorganized threat.  Director Thomas was already thinking of several strategies that may defeat them. Halfway through a sentence, Hamish raised his hand.  Luka nodded to him.

              “Let’s back up a bit.”  Hamish started.  “I’ve seen the splicing they’ve done.”  Hamish’s face screwed up.  “It’s messy.  It’s basic.  A three-year-old with a Barbie Chem Set could have done better work.  Why are you afraid of them?”

              Luka replied.  “You understand the science behind all of this?”

              Hamish smiled tightly.  “I’m a genius, darl.  There’s little that gets by my pretty face.”

              Luka nodded slowly.  “Clearly not.  You are aware of chaos theory then?”

              “Pfft.  Yeah.”  Hamish replied in his usual inflection of attitude mixed with apathy.

              “Then you should have worked out that all the Red Council wants right now is chaos.”  Luka was sitting up and there was a business-like air to him that bespoke a great seriousness.  “They want to destroy the world, and then remake it in their image.  One strategy they will implement will be the unmasking of us to the public.”  Luka’s expression was one of horror.  “Can you imagine the repercussions of the public knowing about us?  We would all be akin to the Jews during the Shoah.  We would be rounded up into ghettos, or worse.  The monsters that they’ve been making are also an end to that means.”  Luka stood and stepped down to floor level.  He began pacing.  “Imagine for a moment, that they let just one of those...things... loose in a city like Sydney, or Melbourne, or even London or New York.  Imagine the horror those crazed beasts could inflict!  It’d be madness.” 

              Hamish was waving his hands.  “Which is why the C.S.D., The Pack or the Haemocracy would take care of that.”

              Luka shook his head in dismay.  “But the damage would be done, little bastard.  We cannot have a Lycan and a Haemocrat standing on every street corner in the world.  We can only ever react.  We cannot predict.”

              For some reason Hamish wasn’t having it.  “Let us worry about them, Darl.  Meanwhile, we still haven’t heard about how you’re gonna be getting your girly hands dirty to help.”

              Luka stopped dead in his tracks.  With a look of stunned anger, Luka walked to a place in front of Hamish.  When he spoke, it was such a low tone that Director Thomas had to concentrate to hear him.  “Listen to me, little bastard.  If I truly wanted to remove myself from this wretched scenario, not even the skills of your lovely Director would be up to the task of finding me.  You are allowed to be here because I have seen this.... horror.... before.  I have seen people whose only crime was one of being different dragged off into the night never to be seen again.  I have heard the wailing of those left behind.  I have seen the damage that enthusiastic cruelty can do to people like you and me.  Even with all your impressive gifts, even you may not be up to the task of stopping the evil.”

              Hamish stood and smiled a broad, youthful smile.  “Wanna test me?”

              Director Thomas put a hand in the air.  “We really don’t have time for this.”  Her tone was strained.  She had been in this situation before.

              Luka was grinning in a manner very much akin to Hamish.  “Oh no, we have much more important things to do than to indulge in sport.”  Luke held up a pointed finger at Hamish.  “But one day, we may accept your offer, little bastard.”  Luka sighed.  “The dreadful happenings that we are all about to be dragged into require a seriousness that we wish it did not. My safety and the safety of our people are being entrusted to those outside my control.  I am fearful for us all.”         

              Penelope spoke.  “Which is why we are here, Luka.  Will you help us?”

              Luka moved to stand in front of Penelope.  “If it was anyone else but you, I would say no.  It is so very dangerous for me to be involved.”  He reached out and gently caressed the side of her face.  “But I have so few treasured friends left.”

              Penelope stood and embraced Luka.  As she pulled away, she smiled a small, yet somewhat sad smile.  “You know I understand, my dear.”

              Luka nodded.  “Yes, my darling.  Which is why you and I will build a new relationship.”

              “I am so glad.”  Penelope patted his shoulder.  “Now.  Have all the information you’ve amassed so far sent to me, so that we can work a strategy.”

              Luka nodded in affirmation, and then looked to Hamish.  “I believe I shall be seeing more of you, little bastard.”  His look became inscrutable.  “I charge you with the security and safety of my darling Penny-Pea.”

              Hamish put his hands on his hips and pouted.  “Sure, darl.  Coz, you know, I hadn’t thought about that at all.”

              Luka went to reply to the jab, but Penelope got there first.  “Hamish.  Mush.”  She pointed to the door.  As Hamish started to move, he again heard that unusual language being spoken.  This time, it was Director Thomas and Luka.  He made a mental note to ask about it at a later date.  Director Thomas caught up with him and they made their way back to the Docklands HQ.

 

              The next day, Director Thomas sat in her office pouring over the data that had arrived earlier that morning.  She found the contents of the external hard drive to be both illuminating and horrifying.  A terabyte of information reinforced what Luka had said only hours earlier.  The Red Council – for the most part – was comprised of idiots.  All they wanted was anarchy.  Their self-lauded goal of first tearing down, and then ruling the world had no solid plan behind it.  Like most extremist organizations, they could only operate in the moment.  They inflicted themselves on the present, wanting to reap instant gratification rather than long term success.  Whilst this would make them easier to beat in the long run, it also meant that they were possessed of a fervor that was not always easy to counter or predict.  Certainly, there would be no turning these people back to the Haemocracy.  Red Council members would see that as surrendering to the enemy, rather than returning to the status quo.

              As Penelope made her way through the data, one thing that was missing was a leader.  In even the most ramshackle group, there is ultimately the singular voice and the decision maker.  But Penelope could not find any such mention.  Who was it?  Who was it that was herding the sheep?  Penelope tried several search algorithms, yet none could find anything.  Whoever this person was, they were doing an excellent job of remaining hidden.  Given the average IQ of a Red Council member was in the single digits, that person must also be hiding their identity from their followers.  People this stupid could not help but talk.  If they knew, everyone who encountered them would know as well.  Idiots love to feel superior to others.  One way they do that is to show off.  Whilst it meant that eventually Penelope would find out who their leader was, it did nothing for the moment. 

              She turned to the scientific efforts of the Red Council.  Their desire was not simply to meld the genetics of Haemocrat and Lycan, they were actively trying to generate monsters.  She read through several case studies of their experiments to create a common gene pool of Lycan, Haemocrat, Human and Genex.  The thought turned her stomach.  She had once joked that one of Hamish was enough, but in reality, it was no joke.  The offspring of the Contractors and Humanity had so often produced monsters.  Lycan and Haemocrat genes just did not like Humanity’s biology.  With the exception of Hamish, she had known only one other that had survived and even then, the poor thing had to hide from the world, so disfigured its anatomy was.  Thankfully, its’ mind had been spared the insanity that had was so commonplace in hybrids.  But even then, its’ emotional state was brittle at best, dreadful to itself at worst.  She made a mental note to check on it when her current duties permitted.

              Hamish, naturally, had been correct as to their lack of expertise.  But that they could do what they had accomplished, even imperfectly, was anathema in the extreme.  Genetics was still a relatively new science to Humanity, and it was a field that demanded finesse and the most painstaking of detail.  It had only been a century and a half since the first models of DNA had been postulated.  Watson and Crick had only identified the double-helix in theory in the middle of the twentieth century.  The Haemocracy, with its millennia of accumulated scientific knowledge and cutting-edge research was still only wading ankle deep into the field.  The great military-industrial complex of America, with its almost unlimited finances and intellectual resources, had made scant progress.  Their biotechnology was haphazard and clumsy at best.

              The two perversions that the group had encountered at Williams had clearly been their handiwork.  The poor things had suffered dreadfully in the end.  The question that plagued Director Thomas was the ‘why’.  Haemocrats and Lycans were super-beings in themselves.  There was no reason to merge the two, given that it would mean a dilution of at least one set of abilities.  Only one set of genes could be dominant.  There was no known way to merge the genetics to produce equal traits.  Hamish was the obvious proof of that.  His great strength, speed and intellect were offset by his accelerated physical aging.  Currently, Hamish would most likely only live until a chronological age of twenty.  It was a sad reality, but nature often exacted a price in exchange for her gifts.

              She looked up as Garreth McLeod entered her office.  He was dressed casually in jeans and a white collared shirt.  It was his standard off duty ensemble.  As always, his feet were bare, and he strode across the room not unlike a Puma in its natural habitat.

              He spoke without preamble as he sat.  “Luka is dangerous.  Are you certain in your decision to seek him out?”

              She nodded.  “This is an unusual situation.  It requires an unusual response.”

              His eyes darkened.  “His first loyalty will be to himself.”

              “Herself,” Thomas corrected.  She then waved it aside.  “There is common skin in this game.  All of you are at risk.”

              McLeod’s visage was slightly less animated than that of a statue.  Even now he seemed completely apathetic to everything around him.  It was an excellent trait in an operative, but it unnerved Thomas, even after all the years they had worked together.  “We know nothing of his current operation or his companions.  The female seems of particular concern.”

              Thomas chuckled.  Clearly, he and Hamish had spoken.  It was another welcome step in a series of recent small steps in their relationship.  “She’s more bark than bite.  Though she is very much armed for the bite.”  She handed him a page and allowed him to read it in silence whilst she poured herself another cup of tea.  The door to her office opened again and Agent Smith entered.

              “Progress?”  She asked.

              He shook his head.  “None.  Mossad, in a stunning turnabout, isn’t talking.”

              Thomas raised an eyebrow.  “That’s troubling.”

              Smith sat in the second chair opposite, though he pulled it away slightly from the Haemocrat.  It was clear he was still uncomfortable.  “Bloody annoying, considering how much I’ve done for them.”

              “They will always do what is best for the Agency first, then for Israel.  We know the complexity of their existence.”  Thomas replied sagely.

              Smith nodded but was clearly unhappy.  He had a long and productive relationship with the Israeli Intelligence service and to be not repaid in kind was irritating, but not altogether unanticipated.  Mossad held knowledge in tight control and rarely shared.  This was an instance where they were being asked to give up knowledge with only one man’s assurances that it was necessary, but with no explanation or quid pro quo.

              McLeod handed the piece of paper to Smith without looking at the man.  Inwardly, Thomas groaned at the work that would be required between the two.  True, she could simply order the two to act like adults, but it was her experience that their sensibilities would chafe at that.  Smith read the page and handed it back to Thomas with a look of disbelief.  She simply nodded.

              “How?”  Smith asked.

              Thomas leant back in her seat with her teacup.  “We have a new ally.  She provided the information.”

              “He.”  McLeod interjected.  Thomas merely gave him a withering look.

              “It’s complicated.” Thomas explained. “But this individual has access to resources we need.  It’s not without potential for risk.”

              Smith nodded.  “I think we need to revisit the Haemocracy.”

              McLeod now looked to Smith.  “Why?”

              Smith returned the look.  “Because I want to know everything that they do.”

              McLeod stiffened.  “They have given us everything they know.”

              Smith looked back to Thomas.  “I don’t believe that.”

              Thomas leant forward.  “Explain.”

              Smith shrugged.  “You and I have been in the game long enough to know that you give exactly the information required, and not a word more, over to other parties, even to friends.  This isn’t about information being power.  This is about too much information producing unexpected and unforeseeable results.”

              McLeod looked to Smith with a raised eyebrow.  “Fascinating.”

              Smith nodded.  “The best of intentions has resulted in many a playing field being muddied by allies who thought they were doing the right thing, only to have a molehill become a mushroom cloud.  I’m willing to bet that there are several key pieces of information that Kael and the leadership have not given us.  They want to help us, but they also want to preserve two things.”

              “Those are?”  McLeod asked with genuine curiosity.

              Smith turned to address the Haemocrat.  “Their own intellectual property, and their escape route.”

              Thomas was surprised to see a widening of the eyes on her most collected agent.  McLeod spoke.  “This is all very logical.  And very much in keeping with the Haemocracy.”

              Again, Smith nodded.  “You said that they have held many things back in the past.  Even with this shared enemy, why would their behavior change?”

              “Haemocrats – on the whole – do not change.”  McLeod answered quietly.

              “Exactly.”  Smith started to talk faster.  His realization was producing excitement.  It was an unusual and obvious loss of control for him.  “They have a winning formula in all things.  For well over a millennia and half they have done what they’ve done, and it’s kept them hidden, wealthy, and informed.”  Smith gestured at McLeod.  “You’re the only Haemocrat in a thousand years that did anything remotely unusual and it had you blacklisted and exiled.  And yet, even then, you were kept mostly in the communication and information channels regarding your brethren, correct?”

              McLeod simply nodded.

              “Your people don’t need to evolve.  You’re perfect as you are.  Your society is perfect.  So why would your leadership suddenly do everything it can to assist a third party?  Even if it is the C.S.D.?  Would you do that with The Pack?”

              McLeod was now visibly uncomfortable.  “I don’t know.  No.”

              “No.”  Smith repeated.  “And they’re Family.  The C.S.D. is just a bunch of Humans completely removed from your world.  Granted, there are self-interests, and serious ones at that, but why would your chosen leadership, with all its history of secrets, suddenly become Sally Sharehappy?”

              McLeod looked to Thomas in confusion. “It means open and free with information.”  She looked to Smith.  “This may confirm something I’ve had rolling around in my head.  Kael hasn’t felt... right.... to me.”

              McLeod spoke over her.  “Kael has led the Haemocracy honorably for almost a decade.”

              Thomas waved that off.  “Honorable leadership is easy.  Being honorable in all things when a leader is slightly more problematic.  We see it all the time in humans.  I am sure it’s happened in Haemocrats as well.”

              There was an awkward silence in the room.

              “I will organize a meeting.”  McLeod stated flatly.

              Thomas nodded crisply.  “Do that.  And with their whole leadership.”