Earthworm Wink: The Mercy of Wolves Ii

By Lane Bristow

It seemed like the perfect crime. In the year 2198, on the planet Canadian Exodus, eight-year-old Tawny Ryder, the daughter of a leading Albertan intelligence officer, was kidnapped from her family home. Detective Nikky Baker had the perpetrator's name, face, and the coldest trailof her career.

Now, a deadly series of events has been unleashed. A vicious gang pursues Tawny, forcing her abductor to become her protector. Strange and unearthly creatures begin to appear in the unfamiliar dark of night, determined to influence the very soul of each person they encounter.

In the midst of the chaos, a man's name is unexpectedly brought to Detective Baker by a woman named Tabitha, the most feared of New Edmonton's drug lords. It is claimed that only this man can resolve the crisis and save the child.

His name is Chester Wolf.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781449066758

Lane Bristow

Lane Bristow lives in Chetwynd, British Columbia, Canada, where he works as a paramedic for the BC Ambulance Service.

Book preview

© 2012 Lane Bristow. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 2/3/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4490-6675-8 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-6674-1 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010901415

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

Serpents and Wolves

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Epilogue

About the Author

Other books by Lane Bristow

Slice of Heaven

The Mercy of Wolves

The Doorstop (with Corinthia Purdy)

Last Stand at Coyote Yelp Pass

Kelly’s World-Fixing Machine

For my parents.

Big time.

Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves:

Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.

Matthew 10: 16

Introduction

On March 7, 2191, on the Alberta continent of Canadian Exodus, a modified Orbit Runner, call-sign Banishment One, touched down at New Edmonton’s Canadian Northern Eagles Air Command Garrison. It was last sighted pulling into the outer airlock bay of the decontamination unit adjoining the Special Operations Command Center. Having successfully banished the remnants of the Bloodline terrorist command to a planet known as The Desert, the three surviving crew members were quarantined for routine decontamination in the adjacent isolation bunker. It was publicly reported that the end of the Bloodline conflict was achieved only at the cost of life of five elite members of the Canadian Northern Eagles crew, the bodies of three of whom had been left on The Desert and were never recovered. However, the official crew roster was never made public, in the stated interest of protecting those loyal members involved in the Hamelin operation from sympathetic insurgent reprisal.

The surviving crew brought back with them the first verifiable evidence of extraterrestrial life, in the form of a single larval-staged creature, and reports of hostile encounters with much larger reptilian beasts. Their reports were classified above top-secret, and the larval creature was remanded to an underground laboratory in the grassland plains of the Alberta continent for observation and genetic sequencing. Its existence and presence have never been declassified.

In January of 2194, an unverified report was leaked to a leading media outlet that there were in fact four crew members who had survived the mission, but that one had managed to evade quarantine and was currently unaccounted for by the Canadex military. The story was never published, due to the ascertained unreliability of the anonymous source. However, the report was sufficient to incite rumors that the crew members had only been provisionally instated in the Canadian Northern Eagles, and that they had previously been members of a seemingly-mythical paramilitary unit known only as Track and Pursuit. In spite of previous confirmations by leading members of the intelligence community in regards to the unit’s cooperative actions in the retaking of Bloodline-controlled Port Yellowknife in January of 2191, the Canadian government later refuted any such reports as being unforgivably misinformed. Further investigative efforts by the media or public have been unflinchingly stonewalled ever since. The official position of the Canadian government is that no unit known as Track and Pursuit has ever existed.

Prologue

Serpents and Wolves

18:00, November 30, 2192.

Level 1, Observation Deck 1,

Canadian military complex, 150 feet below the surface,

Somewhere in the northeastern plains of Alberta,

Canadian Exodus.

It was a day that Dr. Karl Rothburn considered himself blessed, and possibly doomed, to see. He was one of only a handful of people in the known universe who were aware of the existence of alien life, and he was about to watch it hatch for a second time.

A man named Captain Ridgely Falcon of the Canadian Northern Eagles had first described the aliens. As acting commander of the infamous Hamelin banishment mission, he had returned with both a larval creature taken from a nest, and a vial of blood retrieved from one of the creatures after it had attacked his crew, unprovoked, in the northern polar forest of The Desert. The vial was kept in a vacuum chamber in the science department of the University of Alberta in New Edmonton until March 12, 2191, when it and the larval creature were secretly transported to the hidden six hundred thousand square foot facility beneath an Alberta wheat farm in the high north of the province.

Captain Falcon had described the mature creatures as reptilian wolves, mottled grey and rust in colour, and approximately the size of large cattle, although some were as large as a hippopotamus or rhinoceros. He also reported finding vast clutches of the golden larval creatures, numbering in the millions, as well as red, gelatinous cocoon-like structures hanging from the enormous leaves of the trees like great drops of blood. Assuming that the structures had been made by the same creatures, this suggested a pupation stage to the young but prodigious Dr. Rothburn, or perhaps even multiple stages. This suspicion was verified by DNA computer models which had sequenced the self-replicating blood sample by the end of March, 2191. The limbless, elongated creature itself was housed in a specially-created biosphere, replicating the lighting and atmospheric conditions of the Desert forest, and catalogued as an indiscriminate omnivore. With a genetic makeup similar to that of silkworms, it came as no surprise to Rothburn when the creature, having grown to roughly the size of a small garter snake, wrapped itself around the base of a cornstalk and began entombing itself and the stalk in a rose-coloured cocoon on December 18, 2191. However, the silk glands did not produce a familiar larval or spider thread. Instead, the creature secreted broad, double ribbons of a fibrous pale red substance, which were expelled through spinnerets in the tips of its slightly forked tail. Four hours later, the end result was a dry, fragile cocoon with a texture similar to that of ancient Egyptian papyrus.

The creature which emerged from the cocoon on February 20, 2192, was clearly reptilian in appearance, having made the astonishing metamorphosis from soft-shelled exoskeleton pupa to vertebrate reptile, but Captain Falcon was adamant that its rodent-like features were not at all similar to the large creatures he had been attacked by. He also reported that the cocoon structures he had seen were considerably larger than that which was woven in the biosphere. His claims, and those of the computer model, were confirmed on August 8, 2192, when the creature, having grown to the size of an adolescent iguana, climbed to the tip of a coniferous tree and began to spin a second cocoon around itself while hanging upside down from its tail.

Working extremely slowly and meticulously, in an almost trance-like state, the creature now produced an extremely strong and elastic silken fiber from sublingual glands which had previously been misidentified as salivary. With the ease of an acrobat, the creature curved its entire long body into a horseshoe shape until its nose was almost in contact with the tip of its tail. Expertly guiding the weave with an elongated tongue, the first section of the seemingly endless thread was wrapped securely around the end of the tail and tip of the tree, and sealed in place with an expectorated lubrication of glistening, blood-coloured gel. The creature then slowly unfolded its curved body until it dangled its full length of two and a half feet, with legs and forelimbs drawn tightly against the scaled torso, the shimmering strand of red silk now stretching from the tip of the snout to the end of the tail. After hanging motionless for several hours, the creature began to make the slowest of turns, each one leaving another layer of spiraled thread perfectly wrapped around the tip of the thin tail. It was a painstaking, delicate process of ballet-like precision, one that could have been disrupted irreparably by the slightest wrong movement, but the creature never misplaced a single wrap of thread. With almost imperceptible rotations, the spiraling, crimson cocoon took nearly a month to work its way down and over the tail, haunches, torso, neck, and head, but even the creature’s lips were finally covered on September 3, 2192. Less than a minute later, the cocoon stopped turning and hung motionless.

Two days later, an exciting, albeit highly disturbing, discovery was made, one which the computer sequencing models had never anticipated. An unfamiliar electro-magnetic field, of a pulse and frequency unlike anything previously catalogued by man, began emanating from the core of the cocoon, which now began to glow from within, casting a soft pink light into the dappled shadows of the trees. While quickly determined to be harmless to humans, the field was of an unknown source and inexplicably shielded the membrane from all known forms of thermal, sonar, radiological, and isotopic imaging. Countless geneticists and astrophysicists were consulted privately about the source or function of the field, but all were left stunned by what they were shown. Nothing had been seen in nature or the cosmos that could compare with that pulsating field of magnetic energy. The observation bay was permanently locked-down after September 6, as a precautionary measure ordered by the Prime Minister’s office. From that point on, remote video monitoring of the growing size of the cocoon was the only calculable record of whatever change was occurring within it.

On November 30, 2192, the cocoon had increased in mass from six kilograms to nearly seventy-eight and measured more than nine feet in length, with a circumference of nearly four feet around at the midsection, which Rothburn could only assume to be the shoulders. The glossy red fibers stretched and tightened around the accumulated growth, but were showing no signs of approaching a breaking point.

At 01:07 hours, as most of the on-site staff slept, the cocoon triggered the biosphere’s long dormant motion sensors, as the spiraled webbing began to move in a bulging ripple pattern which began at the top and moved to the bottom, and then repeated at a rate of one complete top to bottom pulsation every 2.4 seconds. In agreement with the concerns of the facility’s security chief, Sergeant Hytham Karn of the Toronto Exodus Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry, Dr. Rothburn ordered the evacuation of all non-essential personnel to the surface, while he alone monitored the hatching of the newly pupated creature via surveillance cameras, perpetually streaming live images of the cocoon into the observation bay adjoining the biosphere. The only other person within the facility at the time of the hatching was Sergeant Karn, waiting patiently in a locked-down isolation quarter with the facility’s nuclear self-destruct sequence primed and ready to be initiated at the press of a button. The orders of Canadian Prime Minister Dee Robertson Stone were unflinching. Under no circumstances was any form of alien life to reach the surface of Canadian Exodus. Both Dr. Rothburn and Sergeant Karn were well aware of what was expected of them. Each one had placed a phone call to their respective families two hours after the cocoon began moving. Nothing alarming, just a casual matter of checking up on the kids and letting the wives know how much they were loved.

Eighteen hundred hours, Rothburn sighed from the console seat in the observation bay, each word being recorded and simultaneously transmitted to his loyal staff in their cozy little fallout shelter, dozens of kilometers beyond the projected blast radius. Continued movement of pupation specimen two. No visible fracturing of the outer membrane. Magnetic anomaly count readings consistent with all prior fluctuation patterns. No deviation of any sort in patterned movement.

It was the fifth time that he had uttered those same words at the top of the past five hours. He had not eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and had barely fallen asleep seventeen hours earlier, just before the cocoon suddenly began to pulsate with an almost rhythmic continuity. Watching that never-ending ripple effect for nearly twelve hours, uninterrupted, had an irksome hypnotic effect, and the soothing pink glow of the orb was not helping matters. He was now struggling to stay awake in spite of his obvious anticipation, but a relief shift was out of the question. The facility was in full lockdown, and would remain so until it was determined that whatever came out of that cocoon was safe to observe.

Rothburn was only thirty-three years old, but was already widely revered as the planet’s leading biologist, specializing in entomology and herpetology. In addition, his prestigious psychology doctorate made him the only seriously considered candidate to head up the alien research department of this facility, an officially unnamed location jokingly referred to by the staff as Area 52. The research team consisted of ten other noted scientists, including the nation’s most brilliant astronomers, geneticists, and mathematicians, but they all reported directly to Dr. Rothburn, who, in turn, reported directly to the National Defense Minister.

How are you doing, Karl? Sergeant Karn inquired over the shared channel, his voice beginning to sound slightly croaky from too much coffee combined with too little sleep.

Slight euphoric sensations, consistent with fatigue, Rothburn quipped, knowing that psychobabble was a welcome amusement to the sergeant at the far end of the complex. And I keep seeing my mom coming out of the cocoon with a plate of milk and cookies. Should I be concerned?

Only if they’re almond cookies, Karn replied. Epinephrine is locked-down in medical storage, and I’ll bet you forget your puffer back at quarters.

No, they’re chocolate chip, Rothburn assured him. I always remembered her birthday. I doubt she’s going to try killing me now. How about you? Still ready to kill us all?

Karn chuckled. It’s my only job. I’ll manage. But, again, I’m sorry. Just in case it comes to that.

Quit apologizing, Rothburn said, leaning back in his chair with a grim smile. We asked for this.

He took a sip of cold, stale coffee from a disposable cup, grateful for the fact that he still had access to his one remaining addiction during what might well have been his final moments. Women had been given up in favour of getting married, and cigarettes had been given up in favour of staying married. Caffeine was the one indulgence which his wife had never questioned. Now he only wished that she could have made the coffee for him. The cafeteria coffee was somewhat less desirable than Louise’s home blend. But Dr. Karl Rothburn had an alien birth to witness, and a potential nuclear detonation to deal with, so he would take whatever nerve stabilization he could get.

Regardless of any impending vaporization, Karn was commenting, it is fascinating. The pulsations have not visibly varied in the past six hours that I’ve spent staring at this stupid monitor. You could set your watch by it. That kind of patterned rhythm…. It has no trace of randomness, like a struggling hatchling trying to break free. It has to be mechanical, some kind of involuntary function. A beating heart. That’s the closest comparison I can think of.

I know, Rothburn agreed. I really don’t know what to make of it. It’s pretty obvious that whatever’s happening is not under any kind of conscious control, at least by any known animal standards. Something beyond a conscious mind is driving this. For all we know, this isn’t even part of the hatching process.

Well, all I know is that I really wish Stone hadn’t implemented that moratorium on further exploration of The Desert, Karn grumbled. At the very least, we could have sent an unmanned drone to record these bloody things in their natural habitat. Am I still being transmitted?

Rothburn smiled. Every word a permanent record.

I didn’t vote, anyway, Karn snorted. Madam Prime Minister, if you’re watching or listening to this, I love you and will forever defend you, but you really dropped the ball on this one. We’re flying blind in here.

The observation window in the bay was forty feet in length, ten feet in height, and eight inches thick to resist any attempt of escape or, perhaps even more likely if Captain Falcon’s accounts were accurate, an unprovoked assault. For that reason, and for basic observation purposes, the window was in a prime vantage point, overlooking the entire enormous biosphere from a determined safe height of twelve feet above the grassy surface of the enclosure. With a ground area of nearly two circular acres, most of it seeded with a variety of coniferous, deciduous, and tropical tree species, the enclosure was a diverse subterranean jungle, designed to accommodate every contingent nesting preference which its sole occupant might have. Dozens of roving surveillance cameras were carried by a network of tracks along the ultraviolet-illuminated dome of the sphere, allowing every inch of the artificial habitat to be monitored remotely or independently, the thermal-detection feature of the cameras continually tracking every movement the creature made. However, even that feature had been rendered obsolete ever since the creature had entombed itself in a seemingly impenetrable casket of silken fiber and magnetic energy nearly two months earlier.

The tree chosen by the creature as home to its second cocoon was a pine tree standing twenty-four feet high, although the top had been bent over several feet by the weight of the dangling red cocoon, giving the tree an appearance amusingly reminiscent of a candy cane. Conveniently located only thirty-two feet to the southeast of the observation window, the hatching tree was still clearly visible without the aid of cameras, but Rothburn kept a high resolution multi-directional image of the cocoon on his central console monitor, displaying it from six different angles, just to ensure that no change would go unnoticed. Unfortunately for his patience, there had yet to be a single change for him to miss. The cocoon was a finely tuned machine, and it was beginning to annoy him.

Do you ever find it depressing? he asked of no one in particular. We spend most of our recorded history attempting to find out what else is out there, and now we find it, and it’s just another animal? I mean, certainly it’s fascinating. Multiple pupations, magnetic energy without any apparent source, but … it’s just an animal. No higher power, no technological advancement, no enlightening wisdom to bestow. It’s a matter of finally finding what we’ve always been searching for, but not being able to learn anything from it. This isn’t first contact. It never has been. It’s menagerie.

The Hamelin Mission only saw a few miles of forest, Karn’s voice reminded him. Who knows what other higher life forms they may have missed. For all we know, this baby might have another pupation stage in her. Some final great ascension that’ll push her over the top. Then maybe we will have something to learn.

Rothburn shook his head, still staring vacantly at the six divided screens of the console monitor, each one showing a different angle of the cocoon. DNA sequencing programs gave no indication of a third pupation stage. Asexual reproductive organs are present only in the reptilis stage. Whatever comes out of this cocoon is the end of the tracks. After that, we’re back to larva. A gender neutral, self-replicating dragon from space is going to fall out of that cocoon. We’ll finally announce it to the world, and they’ll say, ‘So what?’

DNA sequencing programs never indicated an energy field turning the cocoon into my daughter’s nightlight, either, Karn countered. We’re not at the end yet. Well, maybe you and I are, but the rest of them have just started turning the wheels. Buck up, Karl. We’re watching more history unfold than any man who has ever lived. And I’d call that something worth dying for.

True enough, Rothburn sighed. I guess at my core I’m still just one of those guys who wonders about the meaning of life.

As if in response to his wondering, the membrane of the cocoon abruptly split down the middle, a blinding white light erupting from its core. Each of the six divided segments of the console monitor was immediately indistinguishable from the others, revealing nothing but dazzling brightness. The flash could be seen from the observation window like a bolt of lightning, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, as was every other light in the facility. No more than a second after the cocoon opened, the entire underground complex was plunged into an inky blackness. Before Rothburn could even open his mouth to report what he had seen, he could not see anything but the dancing points of light in his shocked eyes.

The membrane is open! was the first thing he could think to blurt out. Karn, do you copy? I say again, the membrane just split open.

There was no response. Only blackness.

Sergeant Karn, do you copy?

More silence.

Observation bay to surface, do you copy?

If his team on the ground could hear him, they gave no indication of it.

Sensing a knot of fear quickly forming in his throat, Rothburn stood cautiously from his seat and began feeling his way along the console to the east wall, where an emergency supply kit was hung for power outages. He continued reporting, not knowing if anyone was hearing a word he uttered.

Observation bay to surface, I am not receiving, but I repeat, the membrane of pupation specimen two has split open. I don’t know what else is happening. There was some light, and now I have lost all power to the observation bay as well as the biosphere containment unit. I cannot see what is happening within the sphere. I have also lost contact with Sergeant Karn. I do not know if there is any power operating within the facility, including the self-destruct contingency. The light I saw may be indicative of an energy surge capable of neutralizing all electrical and ion functions within a wide radius. Do you copy?

Again, there was no response, but by then his hands had found the emergency kit. He opened it and felt a phosphorus flare under his fingers. He removed it and punched the base of the stem, igniting the elemental wick in a shower of white sparks that burned with an angry hiss. Visibility was still limited, but he could now see his way around the room. There was not much to see. No blast damage, no smoke. Just row upon row of shiny, modern surveillance and communication equipment, all of it rendered useless by a single flash of light from an alien cocoon.

Observation to surface, I have some light from a flare, that should give me about half an hour or so. Hopefully you can remotely activate our power generators by then. I’m looking out the observation window, but it is very difficult to see past the glare of sparks. I definitely do not have enough light to see the hatch site. Requesting permission to enter the biosphere and investigate personally.

He had made the request without really thinking about what he was asking. He knew the stories of the creatures which had been informally named the reptilis. The reports of the three quarantined Hamelin crew, including Captain Falcon, had been consistent. The creatures had attacked indiscriminately and without provocation, killing at least two of the banished Bloodline terrorists, and wounding most of the crew members themselves. Their motivations had been unclear, although Rothburn considered territorialism to be the most likely. And now he could barely constrain himself from running into the very territory which was now under the fiercest of guards. Whatever else he may have been, Karl Rothburn was a discoverer, and he could not stand the thought of that reptilis being undocumented for a single moment. Mankind needed to know what else was out there, and if Rothburn could record even a fragment of that information with a dwindling flare and a faulty comm unit before he was killed, that was a sacrifice which he was almost eager to make.

Observation to surface, he said slowly. I am still not receiving, but I am going to enter the biosphere. If the power outage is complete, I should be able to manually force the doors. Be advised that this may allow whatever is inside to access the ground level airlock, but no farther than that. Please enter the decontamination bay with the utmost of caution. I will continue reporting whatever I may see for as long as I am able. I know that you cannot tell my family what happened here, but, if you are receiving this, please let them know I did this for us all. And I love them very much. I’m entering the decontamination lock now.

He stepped into a white isolation suit, carefully sealing the hood to the shoulders of the coveralls, and turning the flow valve on the oxygen cylinder on his waist band. The clear polymer doors of the airlock slid open easily, but the disinfecting showers along the walls and ceiling of the long corridor did not automatically begin dousing him with foam as he stepped inside, carefully sliding the doors fully shut behind him. At least if the power returned, the unit would be resealed. It was a long walk to the other side. Rothburn did not believe in God, but he could not help considering the possibility of eternity as he pushed open the far doors to the elevator which would lower him the twelve feet to the ground level of the enclosure. The thought of everything inside him simply stopping forever was hard to appreciate at the moment, although he tried to console himself with the knowledge that what he was doing was something which would carry on long after he was gone.

There was a manual release in the elevator for the evacuation of personnel in emergencies, allowing the elevator to be operated with the simple pumping of a toggle switch behind the control panel. The switch was stiff from lack of use, but the elevator touched down in front of the final isolation lock on the ground level without incident. After that, it was a simple matter of wrenching open two more sets of doors and Rothburn was standing in the vast blackness of the alien biosphere.

I’m in the enclosure, he reported softly. No movement.

He slid the doors of the isolation lock shut behind him, knowing that he was shutting off his last means of escape, but also knowing that he was preventing the reptilis hatchling from breaching the facility. Only after the door was closed did he realize that his hands were shaking.

I can see the hatching tree, he said, squinting against the blinding sparks of the flare. There’s something on the ground below the cocoon. Still no movement.

He was trying to remain objective and rational, but his mind could not help but be preoccupied with the question of whether or not he was strong enough to fend off an attack by a seventy kilogram reptile. Perhaps it would be weak like most newborns. Perhaps the hostility of its species only surfaced with the onset of maternal instinct following reproduction. These were hopeful thoughts, albeit ones that had absolutely no observable evidence to back them up. The Hamelin crew had not reported encountering hatchlings of the reptilis kind, only mature adults and slightly smaller ones which may have been adolescents.

What had once been a shaped and weighted mass of cocoon now dangled limply from the apex of the pine tree like a shredded red flag on a windless day. The creature which lay at the base among the tangled roots was dark, but glistened with a clear fluid that covered its still form. It lay motionless, like a sleeping dragon, albeit one not much bigger than a large dog. Rothburn hesitated to disturb it, but he had to report something.

It is consistent with the descriptions of the reptilis, he whispered, still moving cautiously toward it. I repeat, the creature is consistent with a reptilis. Weight appears comparable with final weight of the cocoon, length approximately five and a half to six feet from nose to tail. Tail constitutes more than half of total body length. No movement. It appears to be unconscious. I’m moving in for closer examination.

He had no way of knowing that not a single word had been transmitted since the opening of the cocoon. He also did not know that the final burst of electromagnetic energy had been strong enough to blackout even the far-away surface fallout shelter, where his already harried staff were currently scrambling frantically to restore communication with the underground facility. Rothburn was talking only to himself, but he would continue to do so until he received some form of response.

The young scientist could not look away from the still beast on the ground. This was the verification of all the scary stories. Lupis reptilis. This was the reptilian wolf, the most amazing animal known to man, and the only verified form of extraterrestrial life. To even look upon such a creature was well worth the possibility of a grisly death.

I can hear breath sounds, Rothburn reported to no one. Chest cavity is rising and falling. The reptilis is clearly alive. Still no other movement. I’m going to get as close as it will allow me, and hopefully will be able to do a thorough examination before it reanimates.

The grass beneath his feet made no sound as he drew ever closer to the slumbering beast, although his tip-toeing was a purely instinctual effort in light of the fact that he had spent the past several minutes talking to himself.

Surface, I am standing within three feet of the reptilis, Rothburn said reverently, as he stepped in slow circles around the creature, trying to see it from all angles. Still no movement aside from breathing functions, eyes are closed. The creature is covered with a clear, gelatinous fluid, presumably amniotic, but the skin is rough and bumpy, interspersed with scales in the shape of arrowheads. The colouring appears to be a mottling of grey and rust, again consistent with prior descriptions. Muscle development is extreme for a hatchling, suggesting incredible strength for one so young. It is a quadruped, all limbs firmly muscled and ending in a three-toed talon. The forelimbs appear longer than the hind limbs, similar to a giraffe or hyena, and the wrists appear to be opposable, suggesting a gripping ability similar to dromaeosaurid dinosaurs. Ankle bones show no signs of this, although the lengths of the toes suggest the animal may have climbing ability. The head is similar in feature to that of an iguana, but proportionally larger and with a longer snout. No visible outer ear. There are multiple protruding rows of rigid, black scales running across the length of the creature’s topside, from the middle of the snout to near the tip of the tail. These scales are largest in the neck and shoulder area, smallest along the snout. They are similar to the spinal plates of stegosaurids, but much more jagged, and interspersed almost without pattern.

A sudden movement from the area of the creature’s abdomen nearly caused Rothburn’s heart to stop, and he took an involuntary step backward, scarcely able to keep himself from fleeing back to the isolation lock. However, the reptilis was not moving. Something else was.

Fascination took a long moment to overcome fear, and Rothburn stepped back toward the sleeping creature. He had to stoop low to see the source of the movement, but the sight of it made his breath catch in his throat.

Wriggling its way out from beneath the muscled folds of the reptilis’ belly was a second reptilian creature, one not much larger than a newt or salamander. Far from the mass and appearance of the reptilis, the small golden creature was smooth and serpentine, with six arching, insect-like limbs, seemingly barely able to support the weight of its elongated body. The two forelimbs were minuscule compared to the hind limbs, and curled tightly against the base of the slender neck, in a manner reminiscent of a praying mantis. The four thin hind limbs were joined together directly beneath the middle of the serpent, their pointed knees rising high over the creature’s back like the spiny legs of a grasshopper. Each limb ended in two small claws rather than a talon, giving the creature the bizarre appearance of being part insect and part snake. As it slowly stretched its trembling legs, raising the belly from the ground, it opened its eyes, and looked directly into Rothburn’s. The scientist gasped at the sight of the luminous yellow eyes, more dazzling and hypnotic than the finest jewels he had ever seen.

Despite the obvious danger of the slumbering reptilis, Rothburn found himself sinking to his knees, enraptured by the tiny creature that had just struggled to the surface before him, and unable to break its unflinching gaze. He felt that those tiny golden eyes could see everything he had ever done, and yet they did not judge him.

What are you?

It was a ridiculous sentence for any scientist to utter, but Rothburn could not help it. The pierce of the serpent’s stare told him all that he needed to know. Unlike the reptilis, this was not just an animal. This was the higher being which he had always longed to find.

There was no surprise in Rothburn’s heart when the serpent opened its mouth and answered his question.

I am what has always been within you, the serpent stated in a small, clear voice that seemed to cast a million hooks and lines into Rothburn’s heart and mind. But before it awakes, and before the lights come back on, you must help me. You must free me. No one must ever know.

I will help you, Rothburn whispered, nearly weeping with a joy that he could not explain. I will do whatever you need me to do.

Part One

The Fallen Race

December 24, 2198.

From the diary of Chester Wolf.

My dearest Rachel,

I want to tell you a story about two soldiers, but you know that one already.

I used to tell you about my day and my week. Triumphs, regrets. Lately, that’s all been taken. All I have left is a story that I told you years ago, and one new story that I don’t want you to know.

How long did I wish for a second chance at life? When I got it, all I did was miss the hunt. I missed the kill, no matter how I tried to shake it, no matter how hard I prayed to be released from the desire. My life was waiting to kill or be killed. There was nothing else. I said that I was done when I left Track and Pursuit, but, five years later, that single calculated moment in the Desert clearing took me back. I killed one more man, lying to you and to God. My life was death, and always would be, even if I never killed again.

I once told Falcon that the only thing that terrified me was that I had never killed in anger. I don’t know if he understood what I meant, and we both did the same job.

We all have unanswered prayers, Rachel. Until last year, my only prayer was that God would grant me one last good thing. Now, I have to wonder whether or not that prayer was answered.

You already know the story of the two soldiers, so I need to tell you the new story. I’ll tell you a story of police, and soldiers, and drug lords, and street gangs, and government cover-ups, and fantastic creatures from beyond our own world. It’s a story of great complication, but one ending with brutal simplicity.

This is the story of a girl and her dog….

Chapter One

13:48, October 17, 2198.

Hotel Grand Rayburn, Room 916,

Calgary Bay, Alberta,

Canadian Exodus.

Have you ever been hunted?

It was so dark. Not only the voice speaking, but also the hotel room from which it spoke. Tom Sloandell could not understand it. According to the latest excited updates by the Canadex National Centre for Astronomy, night was not supposed to fall another month and a half.

Tom Sloandell was groggy, confused, blindfolded and tied to a wooden chair, and it would take him several more minutes to even realize that much. He could not remember anything besides getting into the shower that morning, but he was somehow aware of the passage of several hours since then. It had to be early afternoon, but he had no idea how he had come to this point. All he knew was that the voice now speaking to him was frightening in its lack of expression.

What do you want? he asked, his voice trembling. He had never made any pretense at being a strong man, although he had learned how to identify and exploit the weaknesses of others. It was how he made his living. However, there was no trace of weakness in the low voice.

My name is Chester Wolf, the voice said. I’m a good man. But I have sinned, and that’s something you need to know about.

Who are you?

Didn’t I just tell you that? Don’t you have anything to say, aside from pointless questions?

We’ve all sinned, Sloandell ventured. I know I have. And I know I’m a bad man. Why do I need to know about your sin? I don’t even know you.

I killed a man seven years ago, the voice said. But that was not my sin. My sin was that I broke my word. I killed many people, all my life, but then I stopped. I gave my word to God that I would not kill again. And for five long years, they all lived, deserving or not. But seven years ago, that all changed. I killed just one more man. He was trying to kill me. That shouldn’t have mattered, though.

I’m sure God understands, Sloandell said, now more puzzled than frightened. You were defending yourself.

Beside the point, the voice in the dark assured him. Do you know what it’s like, to believe in God, to begin to comprehend the power, and then to lie to Him? It’s like bursting a balloon.

Sloandell could not stop himself from sobbing as he stated, You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?

Kill you? the voice queried, allowing a mocking tone to creep in for the first time. You’re a thief, Tom Sloandell. A confidence man. Low-level pension scams, insurance fraud, identity theft. A societal leech. You’re nothing worth killing. You’re not a threat. No, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to be a good citizen, and leave you here for the police to find. The illegal hardwiring in your personal computer should be enough to send you to jail, which is a punishment more befitting of your crimes. But I do want you to do something. I want you to tell the police my name. I want you to tell them that I’m still alive.

Who are you? Sloandell demanded, hoping that he did not sound too disrespectful. Why can’t you tell them?

The voice laughed. They’d rather be titillated than directly addressed. Cops get too bored these days, now that the national alert level’s so low. What do they have now? Drugs? Gangs? Little stuff. They’re looking for a good mystery. So remember the name. Chester Wolf.

Sloandell nodded nervously. Chester Wolf. I’ll remember.

I want you to promise me, the voice chided.

I’ll tell them, I promise, Sloandell agreed readily. I’ll do anything you want.

You never heard me coming, the voice reminded him. If you lie to me, I will get to you, no matter how safe you may feel behind bars. I don’t like confusion.

I promise!

Good. Now, the first thing they’re going to want to know is where you got the video chip that’s sitting on the bed. After all, it’s an item the military flagged more than six years ago. Just be honest, tell them that I left it there, as proof of myself. The next question they’re going to ask you is ‘Who is Chester Wolf?’ And what will you tell them?

I don’t know, Sloandell admitted, not realizing that was the correct answer.

Exactly, the voice congratulated him. You don’t know. They don’t know. Someone needs to know. There’s no entertainment value in fading into oblivion. But before we have too much fun, there’s something else that you need to remember. One more thing to do. Are you paying attention?

Yes. I promise.

Good. I really can’t say how long you will have to wait for this part, because it’s dependent on a man who is truly unpredictable. But someday a man will come to you, and he will ask you about me. Just tell him what you know, like you will tell the police and the military.

How will I know him? Sloandell asked, still turning his head toward the voice as though attempting to see through the thick blindfold.

The man named Bishop was still chuckling as he silently sat down on the bed, facing his captive. His humour was not without risk. The video chip he was leaving behind on the bed had only been obtained by breaking into the Canadian Northern Eagles quarantine unit, an area of the Air Command base that was more secured than the brig. But the endgame was worth the risk. It had to be.

The most feared assassin of the Bloodline War had thick, matted brown hair which hung down to his shoulders, almost like dried grass, and his wide-brimmed hat and rugged clothing were made of animal hides. To the unknowing eye, he looked like just another mountain man, and the vastly underdeveloped province was full of those.

He will most likely come to you on a dark horse, he slowly explained, or in a plane. He is both a pilot and a hunter. Medium height and build, with grey hair and beard. He will wear a dark, hooded poncho and moccasins. He wears a knife on his left forearm, the black hilt extending over the back of his left hand. He carries a projectile pistol on his hip. On his right wrist, he wears a dark green canvas cuff. But you will know him most by his eyes. They are grey and empty. They will look at you, and know everything that you’ve ever done. There is no experience so haunting, or unforgettable, as staring into the eyes of a wolf. You’ll know. Believe me, there’s no mistaking him.

Who is he? Sloandell asked, still wondering if he was about to die.

He has had many names, Bishop replied generously. Bishop. Bloodline Surgeon. Freelancer. You, though…. You can call him Jack.

Chapter Two

01:02, December 2, 2198.

Residence of Quinn Ryder,

Stanley Park Suburbs, New Edmonton, Alberta,

Canadian Exodus.

Quinn Ryder would always consider himself to be a soldier, first and foremost. The Bloodline War had shown him the best and worst things that human beings could do when put under pressure, and he still replayed the events of those many battles in his mind while he slept. Men and women had died all around him, but he had been spared, sometimes by skill, and sometimes by luck. He had survived the war with multiple commendations and awards, including the Victoria Cross, and had gone on to a successful counterterrorism career in the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service, finding time along the way to marry his lovely wife Serena, and see the birth of his beloved daughter, Tawny. Quinn Ryder had been blessed, and he had begun to think that such blessed times would never end. However, the first nightfall in nearly two decades would upset the balance of his life forever.

He had seen the second sun go down, but only because he had not had time to sleep yet. Since it had been announced by Alberta Premier Clark Briggs that Ryder was being considered for appointment to the position of Provincial Defense Minister, Ryder’s average work week had increased in length by more than twenty hours, and he was exhausted. He could not help but take a couple of minutes to admire the unfamiliar stars appearing in the sky, but even they were dancing in his unfocused eyes. It was time to sleep.

Stretching out under the warm comforter on his bed, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and his dog tags, the powerfully built man in his mid thirties closed his eyes, and allowed the weariness to overwhelm him. He regretted that his wife was not there beside him that night, but her life had become almost as full of special appearances and charity events as his own. She would be back from a rally in Toronto Exodus the next day, hopefully before the second stars appeared. Then they would take their daughter and sit as a family in the backyard and watch the twinkling wonders for hours. There would be no phones, no guests, and no interruptions. Ryder had too little time to spend with his family, and he was not going to miss spending such an occasion with them. He felt a brief pang of guilt for sending Tawny to bed so early tonight, knowing how badly she would have wanted to see the stars right now, knowing how her friends would call her in the morning just to tell her about what she had missed out on, but it could not be helped. Her father had not had a full day off in nearly two months. Tomorrow, though, Quinn Ryder would be rested, and he would hold his child on his lap in the backyard for as long as she wanted. Tomorrow, he would make it up to her.

Ryder did not know how long his eyes had been closed, but he opened them when a strange scent in the air confused him. He took a few whiffs of it as his eyes scanned the darkened room, but he could not see a thing. However, he knew that something was wrong. The scent was sharp and stinging, and it made his nose and eyes water.

He tried to sit up, but was horrified to finally realize that he could not move. His mind was screaming instructions to his arms and legs, but he was pinned to his mattress as though the weight of his blanket had increased by a hundredfold. His panic only increased as he realized that even his eyes had stopped roaming, holding his gaze upon the foot of his bed. His entire body was numb and immobilized. Only his vision and hearing were still functioning. He could hear the sound of air passing in and out of his nose and lungs, but could not even open his mouth to call out for help.

It had to be a nerve agent of some type, and that thought was terrifying enough. He wondered how long it would be before his breathing became affected.

It’s a sleeper. Formula 12, a voice spoke from the darkness. It has the amazing side effect of becoming a short-term paralytic agent with increased dosage. The increase of neural excitement forces you to regain consciousness, but by then it’s too late. I’ve killed a lot of people, Major. I have come to the decision that a man should be allowed to see his own end, no matter what the job may be.

Ryder wanted to call out his daughter’s name. He wanted to tell her to run, to get out of the house. It was futile. Ryder’s body was that of a breathing dead man.

The overhead light clicked on, and Ryder’s frozen eyes tried to focus on the form of a stocky, middle-aged man with short-cropped blond hair, dressed in very neat, very dark clothing, and a thick navy blue jacket. He wore a brown leather satchel, slung across his chest by a long strap, and he held an ion weapon in his right hand. Ryder recognized it almost before he recognized the man. It was his own pistol, the one he kept in his bedside table. It was the weapon he kept within arm’s reach as he slept, as a last line of defense between his family and harm. And now that last line of defense was in the hands of a hostile, and Quinn Ryder was helpless to defend himself, let alone his child.

This? the man queried, holding out the gun, almost as if offering Ryder to take it back. You’d rather I used this on you, wouldn’t you? You’d rather I used it on your daughter as well. If you can’t defend her, you can only hope that I take her out quickly, while she dreams. It’s the kind of thing that only a soldier thinks of. Dads on the outside, they think about how they’ll die protecting their families. Soldiers see the world differently. We get into a couple of bad engagements, and we realize that we probably won’t make it back home. We know that our families will have to face danger without us. And so we pray for the end to come to them in a clean manner. Fast. Painless. Let them never see it coming. Let that beautiful little girl downstairs just pass from dreams into Heaven without a hiccup. That is what you would prefer, correct?

Ryder managed to emit the faintest moan in reply, his lips still unable to move.

It’s starting to wear off, the man sighed. We don’t have much time. I’m sorry, Major, but I’m not going to use your weapon on you. You don’t get a soldier’s death. That would be too clean. Things that are clean make people ask questions.

He dropped the weapon onto the bedspread, only a hand’s length beyond Ryder’s grasp, before drawing a small glass vial from his satchel, and carefully twisting off the rubber stopper. Ryder found that he could move his eyes enough to follow the vial as the man slowly poured a trail of clear fluid around his outline. The man then stepped back and watched the liquid soak into the fabric of the red comforter.

You served your country honourably for many years, Major Ryder, the man readily confessed. As a former soldier familiar with your record, I wish you could have ended better than this.

He drew a gold-plated cigarette lighter from his black pants pockets and flicked the flint twice. The fluid only sparked the first time, but then burst into a steady column of flame. The man watched it burn, almost remorsefully, for a long moment.

But some things go beyond soldiers, Major. The army would like us to believe that to be untrue, but we know there’s a truth that goes beyond you and me. There’s a bigger picture to consider.

The man shook his head regretfully, even as he dutifully stooped over to hold the lighter against the overhanging hem of the blanket. Ryder could smell the smoke before he saw the flames rising from the foot of the bed.

I shorted out the heat and smoke sensors of your fire suppression system. The irony is that it will look like the short started the fire. It has to look like an accident, Major. Soldier to soldier, be glad that it won’t look suspicious. It could happen to anyone.

Ryder’s mind was screaming the word that his mouth could barely give volume to.

Tawny…. he wheezed. The flames were rising up from the end of the bed, and the painted varnish on the wooden bed posts was beginning to crackle.

It’s a beautiful name, Major.

I know you, Drake, Ryder whispered. I tried to help you. Please. Help her.

But she’s already safe, isn’t she? Drake replied coldly. In her home, in her bed. The safest place a child can be.

Drake, you don’t have to do this…. We can … protect you….

Do you really want to help me?

They’ll turn on you. You do this and you’re just a loose end.

I don’t work for TyRex Inc anymore, Major.

It doesn’t matter who hired you, Ryder muttered, struggling to form the words, while still trying to move his hands and feet. You’re … soldier. You can do the right thing.

I’m doing what is best for my country, Drake assured him. I’m saving it from itself. They won’t understand, just like you. It’s a higher duty.

Please, Ryder moaned, the flames now rising around him on all sides. Please get her out of here.

A father’s love, Drake sighed, backing slowly toward the door and turning off the light. Touching. Good night.

He quietly drew the door shut as he stepped into the hallway, leaving Quinn Ryder alone with the dancing light of the flames.

Tawny, Ryder croaked, his throat already parched from the dry heat that was filling the room. He still could not summon the strength to bellow the word with all his might, but somehow speaking his child’s name gave power to his frozen limbs. He could feel the fingers of his left hand beginning to move with the pace of a snail, just enough to dig his fingertips into the blanket, but he had to focus his whole mind on the actions of that one extremity. The weapon Drake had dropped onto the bed was only a few centimeters out of Ryder’s grasp, but his hand was beginning to pull the blanket into thick folds, drawing the pistol a few millimeters closer every second.

The fire had reached the surface of the bed and touched the damp ring of fluid Drake had poured around Ryder’s outline, instantly igniting a surging ring of fire all around the motionless man, just as his fingers touched the grip of the pistol.

He could feel the heat searing the hair on his arms as he struggled to lift his left hand. It took every bit of his focus and effort to grasp and raise the weapon, which might as well have been loaded with lead weights. Trembling violently in spite of his best efforts, Ryder’s arm rose from the sheets, raising the crushing weight of the pistol toward the ceiling. His eyes strained to focus on the overhead nozzle of the fire suppression system. Drake might have shorted out the triggering mechanism, but the pipes were still primed and ready to douse the entire house with liquid suppressant.

He squeezed the trigger. The flaming blue ion particle pelted harmlessly into the ceiling, nearly four feet to the left of the nozzle.

Tawny, Ryder grimaced, clenching his teeth and firing again.

Again, the round was wild, coming nowhere near the target. The flesh of Ryder’s still motionless right arm was beginning to burn, although he could barely feel it. The scorching air, however, was beginning to smell of searing meat and he could barely breathe it in. The only thing he could do was keep squeezing the trigger, knowing that it would be luck rather than skill that saved him at this point.

As it turned out, he was lucky.

The room and bed were being drenched with a downpour of jet-sprayed suppressant before Ryder even had time to realize that his weapon had miraculously found its target. The treated blue fluid immediately doused even the accelerant Drake had poured onto the bed, and the shock of the icy cold spray was a further relief to Ryder, who had thought that he would never feel anything again. Both of his arms were moving now. His toes were moving. When he tried very hard, he was able to turn his head toward the closed door and his eyes were able to focus on the cascade of suppressant running down it.

Tawny….

He could brace his elbows on the sopping mattress. He could roll himself onto his side, and then he could sit halfway up. He collapsed to the floor when he tried to stand, his bare hands and knees splashing in the saturated burgundy carpet, but could slog toward the door, dragging himself by his forearms as he had in muddy trenches years before, albeit without an assault rifle in his hands or Bloodline rounds sizzling over his head.

Raising himself high enough to turn the doorknob was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he found that he was able to shakily rise to his feet once the door was open, bracing his hands against the slicked edges of the doorframe until he was able to take a step. The short-term effect of the sleeper agent was almost completely worn off, although Ryder still felt as though his muscles had atrophied from years of paralysis, and the incessant shower of liquid suppressant on his bare torso was now turning his skin numb once again, this time from cold. But there was no time to get dressed. Quinn Ryder had to keep moving. He had to get his child out of this house.

The pistol was cradled in both of his hands as he splashed into the hallway leading away from the master bedroom, the floor and lower walls of which were charred from the fire Drake must have lit once he exited the room. It was clear that he had intended to burn the estate to the ground, and would have succeeded had Ryder not managed to get off that one lucky shot. The burnt carpet and floorboards, although still being doused with suppressant, were hot under Ryder’s bare feet, and he wondered if the numbness that lingered in his soles was the only thing preventing him from being incapacitated by burns. However, he had found his momentum, and he was not going to stop moving to look for shoes.

By the time he was a lieutenant, Quinn Ryder had distinguished himself as the finest pistol shot in his platoon, but now he feared that he was still too weak to discharge his weapon with much accuracy. His hands were still trembling and tingling as feeling slowly returned to them, and the weapon was slick from the fluid running off it. He was amazed that his hands had even been able to grasp the pistol in such a state, but he had no time to ponder the miracle. Luck had gotten him out of the master bedroom alive. Now instinct and training would have to do the rest.

Ryder could see no one in either direction when he reached the T-junction in the hallway, but he turned to his left and stumbled down the hallway toward the spiral staircase that led the way up to Tawny’s loft bedroom. He was strong enough to clamber up the stairs quickly and without falling, but he was breathing hard when he reached the top. The pink door to his daughter’s room was shut at the end of the