Virgin Birth

By Rollin Miller

Hiding within the mountains of Andorra, those chasing after the dream of eternal life are busy at work. Building upon the remarkable success of his son, Eldrige Hollenpege searches for the next step in the transhuman evolution, one which would forever free them from the bondage of this world. Realizing the stakes involved, there is only one person who can stop the madness from continuing. Follow her as she fights to put an end to it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rollin Miller
• Release date: Aug 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201534820

Rollin Miller

Rollin Miller, the author of Are We Monsters?, Virgin Birth, and the dystopian thriller 2520 The Last Day, recently retired and lives with his wife in Las Vegas, Nevada. Rollin is currently at work on a series of novellas titled Havoc Tales. The title comes from the lead character, Jack Havoc, who leads a specially chosen team in dealing with the frighteningly unimaginable. 

Book preview

Virgin Birth

Chapter 1

THE ROOM, WHETHER ONE identified it as an office, a library, or a study, was a holdout from a different era when Gothic Victorian was commonplace. Even before turning on the lights, you could smell the history, the influence, and the money that has long saturated the walnut columns, archways, stairways, and mahogany bookshelves.

It was, with its vaulted ceilings and myriads of nooks and crannies, a maid's nightmare, as you can imagine. Despite tenacious pursuit with duster and mop, it remained impossible to keep clean from the continual creation of spider's webs and the settling of dust, though the situation of the house, perched on a remote peak, high in the mountains did help mitigate the latter. Artwork adorned each wall. Framed in ornate moldings, the paintings, for the most part, cast brooding images of masters of the house long past and their wives, eyes cast down in a sad state, reflections of a dark family history best left to faded memories.

The room's atmosphere was sullied in shadow, dimness of light being the preference for many years now. Muted chandeliers and heavy curtains, pulled tight and pinned closed, maintained the ambiance with only a few well-placed candles allowed. One stood firmly in its crystal holder on the corner of a cluttered desk, behind which the current master of the house, with all of his ample girth, sat. The other candle, far enough away that the two flickering lights would not aid each other too much, sat on a side table in a brass holder, filled with the drippings of wax. Next to it was a leather wingback chair occupied by a shadow of a man, much younger and slimmer if one could see, who sat quietly waiting, his only movement to lift the glass of brandy to his lips.

Theirs was a meeting hastily arranged in the last forty-eight hours at the urgency of the corpulent host. A recent report from his doctor provided the necessity of it.

The younger man toyed with his drink, exhaustion nipping at his heels. After ten hours in the air with an unintended layover due to engine problems made for a long flight and a stiff back. Four more hours on the road, escaping the dirge of city traffic before navigating the narrow, winding roads of the mountains, had emptied him. He was both famished and exhausted, but neither was addressed by his host—only the offer of brandy.

The invading phone call was unsettling and interrupted their meeting, but it was not entirely unexpected considering the timing of things. The younger man crossed his legs, placed his brandy on the table, and drew his wrist close. He peered at the softly illuminated dial of his watch, noting the time as well as the sharp rebuke given by the irritated man behind the desk. Then, he took another swallow of his drink.

I expect a report as soon as you have secured the area, the older man said, still sharp but always in control. I want you to make certain that the overwatch is in place. We don't want to miss an opportunity. Now get it done! And with that, the phone was returned to its cradle, and the interrupted conversation resumed.

Trouble?

Not at all, the older man said. His beefy hands, leathery face, and white beard coming into view as he lifted the candle holder and drew the flame close to light his cigar. They just needed a reminder applied with a firm hand. The cigar glowed brightly as he puffed. Of course, had you been in the lead on this, I would have felt more at ease.

It was your call.

The white beard slipped back into the darkness as he sat the candle holder down. Yes, it was. The end of his cigar glowed bright again. One that called for a man of your particular talents. As if on cue, his hand reappeared out of the shadow, sliding across the smooth surface of his desk. Beneath the tips of his chubby fingers, a small business card was pushed forward. For you, Mr. Jackson.

Without hesitation, Bridger Jackson dropped his crossed leg and stood up. Then, placing his glass on the table, he walked up to the desk, the beefy hand having retreated, leaving the card behind.

The card was mat white with a simple emblem of a black acorn in the center. As Jackson ran his thumb over the acorn, his mind immediately looked back at all of the acorns he had encountered on the property. Some were cut in stone, raised granite reliefs along the perimeter wall. Others were finials, metal ones crowning the main gate, and wooden ones on chairs and posts inside the house. So the symbol of the acorn undoubtedly was important. He thought of asking but changed his mind, looking again at the card. Absent from the card were any ink-embossed words or numbers, even on the back, as he examined it in the flickering light. Instead, what was present was a man's name, Dr. Hugh Bentley, scrawled in shaky blue handwriting.

Start there, the older man said as Jackson returned to his seat. Bentley—a brilliant man, though a little off-center if you ask me, who is essentially lost to the outside world, apart from the classroom. He generally hides within the confines of his study, laboratory, and mind. He leaned forward, smoke bellowing. Bentley can tell me if what I am after is even remotely possible.

And if it is?

Well then, I will have ample opportunity to explore that with the good doctor once you have brought him here.

Here? He stunned himself by his sudden lack of professionalism as a short burst of laughter escaped. You want him brought here?

The older man was not amused. His face twinged in annoyance, but he held back any comment. His hand came down hard on his desk. I want him here, Jackson, as soon as possible.

And what if he is unwilling to make the journey?

The cigar glowed brightly before being dowsed in a cloud of smoke. As I have said. You are a man with particular talents. I cannot imagine that one old man would be a problem for you. Am I correct?

Taking his last swallow, Jackson set his glass down, the thick base clunking the wood. So, where do I find him?

BLACK AS INK. THAT'S how Luther described it, getting little to no relief from the moon's thin fingernail dangling high in the night sky. It had been a little more than two hours since the sun tucked itself away behind the mountains, and driving that remote stretch of desert highway would have gone a lot easier had Luther replaced the dim headlights on his truck like he had been promising for months now.

As it was, the high beams barely penetrated more than a few gloomy yards in front of his pickup. And Luther was driving too fast, at least too fast in Jerry's estimation, particularly since this old crate of a truck didn't have any seat belts, and they were pulling a trailer with a '67 GTO on its back.

But that was Luther, living fast and hard, not concerned about three thousand pounds of Pontiac ramming into the back of the cab and too busy to give most people the time of day. He rarely gave into those little life details that most other people consider important. Sometimes he didn't see what you were sayin'. Other times he just didn't see you. It wasn't always easy being Luther's friend.

In the fourth grade, Jerry Billings first met Luther Chandler, the two crossing paths when their butts were planted side by side on the chairs outside of the principal's office. Lucky for Jerry, while the school administration wasn't too keen on his disruptive antics in the classroom, they really didn't like what Luther had done.

His latest adventure had extended well beyond the boys-will-be-boys line. Thinking that jamming old dead tree branches up the drain spouts on the back wall of the school and lighting them on fire would be a lot of fun, Luther gave no consideration to the possibility that he could burn the school down. He only wanted to see the fiery display. He imagined that it would look like three giant Roman candles going off at the same time.

Though the school hadn't burned down, Jerry, like every other student in the school, had heard the story and saw the blistered paint and scorched wall with their own eyes. Jerry saw it as a break for him, figuring that if you had to be taken to the principal's office, it is best to follow behind the boy who almost set the school on fire and let him bear the brunt of whatever was coming.

You doin' okay, Luther? Jerry asked, his body bracing as the truck and trailer swayed in ways that didn't feel right to him.

I'm okay. It's the load back there, Luther said, pointing his thumb at the back window. Been actin' pretty squirrelly since we left Winnemucca, like the tail waggin' the dog.

Jerry's eyes were wide with fear. Uh, maybe we should slow down a little. Jerry swallowed hard and held his breath as he girded himself for Luther's reaction.

Surprisingly, Luther gave Jerry's suggestion a rare consideration, his deep-set eyes lingering on Jerry's panicked face. Finally, he nodded. Maybe a good idea, he said, startling Jerry as he eased off the gas.

That's about as good as it gets with Luther. Maybe a good idea. It had been that way between the two of them all these years, and it still bothered Jerry that he wasn't seen as an equal. Luther's ideas were always great, while Jerry's rarely rose above a 'not bad' and always with suggestions on how they could be better. But at the moment, all that mattered to Jerry was that they were finally slowing down.

Relaxing his grip on the door handle, Jerry let out a quiet sigh of relief and started breathing again as he watched the speedometer needle inch its way down the curved scale until it was hovering around fifty. At that speed, the swaying was still present but more manageable, at least as far as his stomach was concerned.

You, uh, ever think about gettin' a fifth-wheel? Jerry asked, his fingers slightly trembling as the effects of the adrenaline surge in his body began to fade. He wiped the sweat from his brow.

Yeah, I have, Luther blurted with a big grin. If I had us a fifth-wheel trailer with that old GTO on top, this road trip wouldn't feel like it was the load taking control.

Well, maybe you should talk to Bill Henson.

Why's that? Luther asked, his eyes back to staring at Jerry instead of the road.

Jerry's voice shrank a notch, and his eyes fell to his hands that were busy dry washing, one inside of the other. Talking with Luther often had that effect on him.

I stopped by Henry's the other day. Had to pick up a case of oil, and while I was there, I overheard Bill talking to Henry about selling his rig, Luther said.

Is that right? Luther said, his stare softening into a look of genuine curiosity and interest, which helped to elevate Jerry's confidence slightly. But the moment was short-lived as they found themselves in an unexpected roller-coaster ride, curving to the left and taking a dip, down and out of an asphalt ravine. Luther's eyes were pulled back to the road as he gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Hang on!

There was no need to warn Jerry, who was back in full brace mode, which probably wasn't a good idea if they had an accident. Nervously, he turned and looked out the back window. He fully expected to see the GTO untethered and airborne, dragging the trailer and their rear bumper with it. He took some measure of relief when he saw everything still connected, bobbing and weaving right behind them.

Man! I didn't see that one, Luther said with the terrified excitement of a little kid who just climbed out of a Matterhorn bobsled and was ready to go again. Releasing his foot, he dropped the speed a little more.

If Jerry had been on that same ride, unlike Luther, who would be clamoring for another snow-peak go around, he would have been screaming and running as fast as he could in any direction, his heart pounding as he struggled to catch his breath. Grabbing the hand crank, he rolled down his window and shoved his head outside, gasping in the night air. He squeezed his eyes and mouth shut to keep out any little flying objects as his hair and cheeks fluttered in the wind.

As big as it was, even if Jerry's eyes were open and he had been looking up, it's doubtful that he would have seen the faint outline of the military cargo plane flying overhead, its rear cargo doors slowly opening. As noisy as the aircraft was, it was flying high enough that it would have been difficult to hear under any circumstances, let alone with the night air buffeting past Jerry's ears at fifty miles an hour. He didn't notice the large rectangular object covered in canvas tarps and rope sliding down the plane's ramp on rollers, over the edge into the night sky, static lines immediately deploying four large black parachutes, one securely attached at each corner.

Careful, Luther grinned as they bounced and swayed. Keep your head out there much longer, and you'll be eatin' bugs.

The blast of air did wonders for Jerry's anxiety. It stripped his tension away and left it somewhere on the stretch of the highway behind them, his heart rate and breathing slowing to normal. Pulling his head back inside the truck, he missed the opportunity to see other parachutes following behind the large object, opening and descending silently toward the desert floor. Jerry was also unaware that a few miles ahead, a panel van was parked just off the road's shoulder in a clearing next to a nest of Joshua trees.

THE VAN WAS CRAMMED with enough detection, communication, and computing equipment, making it impossible for the man inside to get comfortable. A recurring cramp in his leg and no room to stretch didn't help matters. Flat LCD screens were lit up, backgrounds of soft green and blue with framed windows of scrolling numbers, bouncing bars, and squiggly lines, one of which had a distinct EKG look to it.

He was obscured in darkness, with only his face glowing in the pitch. The curvature of his glasses reflected green, red, and amber spots blinking on and off from the glowing LEDs. Now and then, the patterns of flashing lights aligned just right, illuminating his thick hair sprigging up out of the top of his head like weeds because of his radio headset.

Keep your eyes open. If the tip we got was right, we should be seeing something anytime now. Stephen Ballard's voice was calm and reassuring as he monitored his screens. Rubbing his on-again-off-again cramping leg, he reached down to the cooler next to his foot and grabbed a cold can of soda.

What details have you got for me? Five's voice wasn't nearly as calm as his, carrying a not-so-subtle edge of anxiousness from her headset to his as he closely monitored her core temperature, heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels through embedded sensors in her suit.

Stephen couldn't help but be happy with the advancements they have made, or he should say, Dig made with Five's new suit design. But his feelings were overall a mixed bag since the suit was still in beta phase, and tonight was its operational debut. While the suit had proven itself at every stage of testing, he struggled to put the gnawing feeling in his stomach to rest.

You are fading a little bit, Stephen said, adjusting the radio gain. Can you hear me, okay?

You're coming through just fine, Five answered.

You sound better on my end, but when we get back, I want Dig to take a closer look. I wouldn't want to have any interference or worse—a complete loss of comms out in the field, he said, his eyes making another sweep of the screens. The suit is working great on this end. Telemetry is up, and everything is in normal range. Pulling with his fingernail, he popped the tab of his soda just as his cramp returned. Damn it!

I heard that.

Stephen dropped the can as he gripped his leg and started massaging it. Foam sprayed upward, dousing his leg and covering the floor in a sticky mess.

You okay? Five asked. I thought I heard something. Sounded like you were moaning.

All he could do was keep on rubbing his muscle and hope that it would let up soon. Just a leg cramp. Getting better, he gasped.

Sounds like it, she teased. How about infrared?

The cooling system is optimal, Stephen said, still rubbing. I can't pick up any trace of you. As the pain started to subside, he reached behind him and grabbed a box of tissues. Pulled out a handful, he patted down his wet leg, cussing quietly that he was too late to stop it from running down his leg and into his shoe.

Great. That means the bad guys can't see me either.

He tossed the wet tissues into the cooler and grabbed the nearly empty can. Swallowing the remainder, he threw the empty in with the soggy tissues and closed the lid. Let's hope not anyway. But what I do see on the radar is a vehicle approaching. There may be two if the one in the rear has its nose up the front's tailpipe.

Where? she asked.

It's heading south on the highway coming straight at you.

I don't see anything, she said, streaking north, following the highway's center white line.

They are about four miles out, but at night you should be able to spot their headlights. I'm not sure why you don't.

Even with all my enhancements, she said, uh, hang on. She swerved at the last moment, barely missing a coyote that ambled out of the night to cross the road. Anyway, as I was saying, even with my enhancements, my eyesight is normal, just like yours.

Stephen shook his head, mumbling a hushed not quite as he pushed the bridge of his glasses up his nose. I'm only picking up a heat signature for one engine, so whatever is following him close behind isn't an obnoxious tailgater. More than likely a trailer.

Problem?

Nothing says trouble yet, but I'll keep an eye on them.

Suddenly, an unending series of loud beeps and a flashing red box with the word ALERT in it went off.

What's the alarm? she asked.

The zone sensors just tripped an alarm, Stephen said, sliding over on his stool and pushing a button to silence the alarm, and—hello—we have several targets dropping in. Nine of them, to be exact. Checking infrared. His voice went silent for what seemed the longest time to her, and then, Four targets have heat signatures. I repeat, four on infrared.

Got it.

Stephen leaned back and watched her numbers climb as she kicked into high speed.

Wow! I can't believe it! he said, pushing back the other way. His fingers began flying on his keyboard.

Talk to me, she said.

Sorry. I forgot to record the real-time data from your suit. Just give me— The text of various commands, switches, and pipes began to appear on the terminal line, then the following line and the next. Stephen's fingers were in overdrive as he set up to capture the data and have it automatically dumped to his backup computer.

You still there? she asked, having covered the last half mile in just a few seconds. I'm going to be turning off the highway and heading up the hill to the perimeter gate in a few moments.

Sweat began beading on his forehead with one drop sliding down his nose, his glasses following right behind. He stopping typing on the keyboard long enough to push his glasses back up as he tried not to worry about her and remain focused on his part of the job. The problem was that she was heading where the guns were.

Okay, I've got it. I'm capturing the data. He eased back and stared at the flurry data from all his monitoring equipment. One of the five cold targets is pretty good sized. The others have a much smaller signature. They are dropping about a quarter-mile south of the site entrance. The four on infrared are not adjusting their course. They are headed your way and not chasing their equipment. At least not for now.

Makes sense. They need to take out the on-site security team as quickly and quietly as possible. Do you have locations for the guards?

I have them on infrared as well as their pearly whites on the perimeter cameras. One of the guards is in the guard shack as expected, probably listening to a little Coast to Coast on the radio. The other three are spread out, equidistant, walking the fence line. The farthest one is nearly due west of the guard shack. They are completely unaware of what's coming.

How long? she asked.

Best guess is just under a minute before engagement. Can you get there in time?

I'm fast, but not that fast, she answered as she kicked up a spray of dirt and rocks, making a hard turn off the highway. I can make the shack with plenty of time to spare, but the others? I don't know. I could break protocol.

Negative, Stephen said, leaning forward in his chair as he watched her dramatically picking up speed, running up the low sloping hill. We can't show our hand, particularly to these guys.

I get it, government, she said, her mind racing as fast as her feet. Hold on, I think I have an idea.

In the time they have been together, Stephen really put Five through the paces, measuring her abilities and helping her improve even more. But now, running up the slope of the hill, she was running faster than he thought she was capable of. He glanced over, verifying that the data from her suit was still being captured.

Just about there. I can see the light coming from the guard shack. I'll let you know how things work out.

He slumped back in his seat, rubbing his tired eyes as he continued monitoring, but his mind remained focused on her. He was worried. Be careful out there. I don't know if you're fast enough to outrun a bullet, and I don't think we want to test that tonight.

THE EXPANSE OF SKY between the plane and the jumpers had grown large enough that the sound of its Allison turboprops was barely a whisper in the distance. They dropped long into the night, the rush of wind against their cheekbones crisp, slightly numbing. Below their feet, the ground began to swell, and the voice of the team leader in their headsets said, go green.

Four hands reached up and flipped down their night vision tactical goggles, changing their field of view black to grainy green. Details on the ground quickly emerged as they raised their automatic rifles.

By the time she arrived at the fence line and the guard shack, the response, target in sight, was repeated three times over the radio. Without hesitation, she burst through the door, splitting it down the middle and knocking the surprised guard against the far wall. Banging his head, he slumped to the wooden floor unconscious. Walking over to the desk, she grabbed the microphone.

Danger! Danger! Intruders above! she yelled into the keyed mic, the guards on the ground startled, wide-eyed, and looking around when the team leader gave the order to shoot. The first two guards silently fell in rapid succession without any opportunity to defend themselves. The third guard survived the first shots, spinning around and tripping over a rock. Panic took over as he crawled a few feet, rolled on his back, and began firing blindly into the air. He didn't even empty his clip before taking a bullet to the throat.

His head fell back into the dirt, and his arms opened wide, his rifle slipping from his fingers as he struggled to breathe, his throat and mouth filling with blood. The light of his eyes began to fade as the first jumper touched down a few feet away.

Stephen wiped the sweat from his forehead as he helplessly watched their bodies fall. The security guards. He took a hard breath and swallowed. Whatever your plan was, it didn't work out very well.

All of them? she sighed.

The shack guard is on you, but as for the others, yeah, it looks that way.

Damn, she said, staring out the window. He's unconscious, a big part of my failing plan. Movement outside, in the distance, caught her attention. She looked back down at the guard. He's dead if I leave him here.

Well, you're going to have to do something and quick. They are moving in on you.

I know, she said, reaching down to pick the big man up. Maybe I can take him down the hill and hide—

The sound of gunfire reverberated through Stephen's headset. He jumped up and cracked his head, falling back in his chair. What happened? Stephen asked, silently mouthing a few well-chosen words as he rubbed his head. Are you okay?

Yeah, I think so, she said, her body shaking as she leaned against the wall, but I took a hit. Hang on. The pain in her side was excruciating as she probed with her hand. Through and through on my right side. The shooter has to be close; otherwise, there's no way that bullet would have penetrated.

He is, Stephen said. Not more than thirty feet or so, north of you. You've got to get out of there now. Can you make it?

I don't think it hit anything vital, Five said, looking at the blood in her hand. At least I'm not dead yet. But as for the guard, that's a different story. She stared at the bloody pool forming around his head. He's gone, and so am I.

Then, in an instant, she had vanished, running out of the guard shack and into the darkness.

LEAVE NOTHING TO CHANCE. Make sure they are all dead, the team leader ordered as he unclipped his harness and stepped out of the tangle of his parachute rig. Once the scene is secure, we will rendezvous at the truck, due south, visible on your...

The punch to his jaw came out of nowhere, striking him so hard that it snapped his head over his left shoulder, dislodging a couple of teeth. He hit the ground hard, his head bouncing once before laying still. Kneeling down at his side, Five grabbed the small flashlight clipped to his vest and shined it over his face to see if he was breathing. She held the spotlight hovering over his left eye. A small blueish-gray star tattoo, prison quality, was partially obscured by his bushy eyebrow. His