Sentient Serpents

By Dean C. Moore

OMEGA FORCE's and ALPHA UNIT's usual assignments involve taking down warlords, overturning coups, or triggering some of their own in the name of a stable world order.

 

So when the Special Ops teams are called in to babysit a multi-billionaire and his wife on their vacation of a lifetime in the Amazon rainforest, they are none too pleased. The assignment is a new low.

 

Little do they know their charge, Natty Young, is the Tesla of his times, within whose mind many of their next-generation-tech toys are born. But he refuses to cooperate any longer with RevoCorp that holds so many DARPA contracts. Hence the attitude check of a series of war games disguised as a "vacation getaway;" maybe once he gets a taste of the real world, he'll get over his idealism.

 

The men and women of OMEGA FORCE and ALPHA UNIT are about to be challenged in ways they never have before coming up against the transhuman era head on.

 

The human upgrade technology they must face down calls more than their survival into question; it calls the survival of the human race into question.

 

Pick up a copy of this page-turner today—if you think the sheer terror won't be too much for you!

 

OTHER OMEGA FORCE AND ALPHA UNIT NOVELS:

 

THE STAR GATE (SPACE COWBOYS 1)
MOVING EARTH (SPACE COWBOYS 2)

OTHER FAST-PACED TECHNOTHRILLERS WITH A SENSE OF HUMOR BY THE AUTHOR:

NANO MAN

NANO MAN 2
SETUP: ANDROID ASSASSINS
IT TAKES TWO: MINDBENDER

IT TAKES TWO: DUELING TIMELINES
BIOHACKERS: CYBERNETIC AGENTS
BIOHACKERS: PHANTOM MENACE
BIOHACKERS: SINGULARITY NEWS
THE FUTURIST
AGE OF ABUNDANCE: THE GOD GENE
AGE OF ABUNDANCE: TIME BANDITS
AGE OF ABUNDANCE: TIME WEAVERS
FUTURESCAPE: TERRAFORMING EARTH PHASE 1
FUTURESCAPE: TERRAFORMING EARTH PHASE 2
FUTURESCAPE: OUT OF THE DARKNESS
RENAISSANCE 2.0
BORN FREE (A SPY, INC. NOVEL)
SENTIENCE
ESCAPE FROM THE FUTURE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean C. Moore
• Release date: Sep 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9798215361153

Book preview

ACT 1

WALK IN THE PARK

ONE

Nelson DeWitt flopped down beside Leon DiSparta just abrasively enough to disturb his sniper rifle and perfectly lined up shot, earning him an ugly stare in the bargain.  What country is this again? Nelson asked.

Does it really matter?  Leon returned his eye to his scope.

I just thought a clear notion of who the good guys and the bad guys are mightn’t be a bad idea.

The bad guys are the ones shooting at us.

You’re joking, right?  My two year old gives me better back talk.

Leon smiled.  His guys were all balls to the wind, otherwise they wouldn’t be around him.  He gently squeezed the trigger and sent the bullet on its way.  Two and a quarter seconds later, the target, nearly a mile away, fell still with the bullet to the forehead.  That was an impossible shot, by the way, even without you compromising my position, and rubbing your dick against the rooftop hard enough to throw off my targeting.

I was afraid you’d fall asleep from boredom without the extra challenge.

To make the shot, Leon had had to factor in for wind speed and direction, both by the shooter and along the whole flight path to the target.  Air pressure, altitude and humidity also had to be considered; as did temperature, including air, ammunition, and barrel temperature.  The spindrift, an effect caused by the rotation of the bullet, couldn’t be left out; nor the Coriolis effect, caused by the Earth’s rotation.  The nextgen computerized scope technically did all these calculations for him, but Leon was old school, and tended to ignore it.  It could also correct for itself in the absence of a spotter, which was well and good, considering DeWitt had arrived late to the party.

Leon tilted his eyes down from the rooftop of the building to the rebels throwing rocks on the street.  A few of the rogues lobbed Molotov cocktails with the same lack of finesse in which they carried out the rest of their lives.  The bad guys are also the ones with the most advanced weaponry.  Hence our insertion to help balance the scales.

Got ya.  And that language they’re speaking?

Whatever it is, it’s only slightly more incomprehensible than what my kids are speaking back home.  What’s, ‘I’m all emo,’ even mean?

Your son told you that?

Leon caught him grimacing, didn’t care for it.  Yeah, what of it?

DeWitt squeezed him on the shoulder supportively.  Leon gave him a dirty look; he didn’t like to be touched.  Sorry, man.  Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.  You deserve better.

Will you go kill somebody before I forget why I brought you along?

Oh, shit, yeah, thanks for the reminder.  What can I say, captain, you’re an absorbing guy.  Standing inside your aura like this, the charisma just sort of overtakes me. 

Leon bit both lips to stifle the smile as DeWitt cut loose with the grenade launcher.  What the hell are you doing? Leon barked.  You’re going to topple that building on top of the good guys.  Did I not clarify they were the ones throwing rocks and lobbing Molotov cocktails made from flaming newspapers they so clearly need to wipe their asses?

A little faith.

Leon followed the trajectory of the rocket propelled grenade.  It went through the front window of the building, the back window of the office and the windows of several successive offices in turn and through the back of the building in time to catch the rising helicopter the bad guys were using to suppress the fighting on the streets.  The grenade caught the tail of the copter.  I’m impressed you could tell just from the sound where that helicopter was and where it was going to be next.  But you still just hit the tail.

A little faith.  God, it’s like trying to convert an atheist to Christianity in the shadow of the crusades.

The helicopter, floundering, and out of control, crashed into the rocket launching truck on the street—blowing it clear through all nine circles of Dante’s hell.  The missile vehicle’s presence had been meant to deter anyone trying to assist the rebels from the air. The ruckus was so loud, DeWitt flinched and offered Leon a spare set of earplugs. 

A bank shot, Leon said, nodding, ignoring the gift of the earplugs.  Nice, kid.  A little flashy, but nice. 

We can’t afford to run out of ammo ahead of the bad guys, who, in case you haven’t noticed, are way better supplied than we are.  So I suggest you stop all your laziness and learn to take out two snipers with one shot as well.

Leon snorted.  I’ll see what I can do. 

The taste of helicopter fuel and TNT hung at the back of his throat along with the more complex chemicals of the RDX exuded by the rockets in the wake of the explosion. The admixture was like a sixth food group to him. 

He returned his eye to his scope.  Between his last shot and the one DeWitt made off the roof beside him, there were suddenly a lot more snipers on rooftops, all lining up their weapons on the two Americans.  A few hadn’t finished assembling their rifles yet, but Leon had to assume they were there to follow suit. 

He switched cartridges in his rifle, ignoring the ones from the box beside him and picking one from his belt instead.  At a hundred thousand dollars a shot, he tended to be stingier with these.  Leon took aim at the closest sniper with an assembled, in-position rifle, after scoping out all the other marksmen.  He squeezed his trigger so gingerly, he wasn’t sure he’d really recruited more than a single fast-twitching muscle fiber for the job.  The bullet transited the head of the first sniper and kept going until it had knocked all the others out, including the sixth one still assembling his rifle. 

DeWitt made a sour face.  Now who’s showing off?

Gotta love those self-guided missiles they manage to squeeze down to the size of a bullet, and their willingness to take such precise instructions from my scope.

Well, my dick’s officially hard and I don’t think it’s from rubbing against the cement.  I better get out of here before you start questioning my real motivations for coming along.

Nah, you stay, take over for me.  I could stand to stretch my legs.

Whoa, hold on there a second, buddy.  I’m not half bad up to about a quarter mile, but I’m not in your league.

Leon pulled out a laptop from his backpack, handed it to DeWitt.  So re-aim some military micro-satellites RevoCorp manufactures cheaper than basketballs, and makes even smaller, and fire a microwave beam up their asses.  You can’t do any more damage to this city than has already been done. 

He stood up and took in the big picture view of the metropolis.  "That’s why you can’t tell where we are.  Looks like Beirut, and every other urban jungle we’ve been in from Syria to Iraq to Afghanistan."

His muscles protested after too long lying deathly still; he remembered when it took being riddled with bullets to hurt this much.

The instant DeWitt’s eyes left Leon and landed on the popping schematics on the laptop for the microwave-firing satellites he was hang-jawed and drooling—like a kid with a new toy.  There was nothing boyish about his chiseled, Mt. Rushmore features, and his sun-weathered twenty-seven-year-old face, but all that seemed to be forgotten for now.  He teared up and sniffled from the sudden runny nose.  You’re my hero.

DeWitt got comfortable donning the urban camouflage that Leon finished peeling off before heading down to street level.  The overcoat with hoodie and pull-over pants wore like plastic rain gear but reflected the same grey-white signature of the flat roof.  His rifle muzzle would blend well with the other loose pipes on the rooftop.  Additional cover was provided by the dummy targets meant to draw fire and betray an enemy sniper’s position. 

He chuckled watching Leon recede in the distance, wondering just how far away Leon would have to get to look less intimidating.  At 6’4" of solid muscle, he not only looked like a WWF wrestler, but like the biggest WWF wrestler DeWitt had ever seen.  Not too many guys could peel off their army fatigues and actually look more intimidating.  Currently, he wore just his black tank top over his camo pants and boots.  DeWitt, who’d done a recent stint as Mr. July on the Chicago Fireman’s Calendar, looked like a stick figure for a game of hangman next to him. 

A survey of the not-so-friendly skies through the scope of the rifle suggested they were going to be sniper-free for the next few minutes at least.  So he picked up the binoculars and aimed them at Leon.

Leon was walking up the middle of the street with zero protection.  The guy wasn’t even carrying a handgun—not out, anyway.  His .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol remained holstered.  Judging by his leisurely pace, best as DeWitt could tell, he was out for his morning constitutional.  The freakin’ maniac.  DeWitt expanded his canvassing from the rooftops to anything and anyone on or close to ground level that could take Leon out.

Do you believe this guy? Leon said into the mike of his earpiece.

"I’m having trouble believing you right now, to tell you the truth," DeWitt said over the COMMS.

He’s taking a shit in the man’s mouth as he’s gasping for his last bits of air.  And he’s doing that while feasting on his balls, which, granted, he had the decency to cut off first.

The dogs of war, huh?  Give him a kick for me, will ya?  I can’t see him from up here.  He’s too far back inside the building.

Leon let the knife sheathed on his upper arm fly at the guy taking a shit in the dying man’s mouth.  The blade caught Shitter in the temple.  The soldier keeled over.  His victim revived, as if a voice in his head was telling him it was now or never.  The man coughed the last of the feces out of his mouth, mouthed a thanks in Leon’s direction.  He plucked the knife out of the side of Shitter’s skull and threw it back to Leon, who caught it handily. 

Leon reached into one of his many pockets, threw the guy a sewing kit.  "You can lie there and finish dying if you want.  Or you can cut off his balls, stitch them on you, and let the medical nano handle any tissue rejection issues."

Sitting up and grappling with the lid of the triage kit, Survivor said, I doubt he has a big pair.  His kind never does.

Better than no balls at all.

I can’t fault your reasoning, Survivor said, pinching off the length of thread he wanted with his teeth. 

When you’re finished there you can come work for us.  Anybody can suffer all that without complaint is my kind of guy.

After staunching the flow of blood from his groin with the clamps from the triage kit, the rebel looked up and smiled weakly at him.  Aren’t you gonna ask why it is I speak English so well?

I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume it’s for moments like this.

The wounded man snorted feebly, as he curbed all the blood-letting with the tech in the canister his savior had thrown his way.  That container included, in addition to the miniature clamps, gauze to wipe things clean enough so he could see what he was doing.  He then busied himself cutting off his dead attacker’s dick and balls with the razor from the triage kit and stitching it on himself. 

Tell you what, I won’t ask why you speak English so well if you don’t ask where I got that tech from, Leon said. 

He punctuated their conversation by pulling his pistol out of his holster and shooting square between the eyes the one idiot after another who thought he could play Wild West gunslinger games with him—if their gun was a rocket launcher or an Uzi or a scoped rifle and his was just a .50 caliber pistol.  It was a lesson in marksmanship trumps overkill every time. 

I’m a Canadian spy.

No shit! Leon said taking out the latest armed-to-the-teeth dumb ass to migrate to the middle of the street just to get a better angle on him.  I thought you guys were all pacifists.

I might have screwed the prime minister’s daughter.

Leon nodded understandingly.  Yeah, got a few less-than-cherry missions the same way in my day.  You gonna be okay, there, pal?  I really need to get on with finishing this campaign as quickly as possible.  I’m not as young as I used to be.  So I’m more impatient to get the killing over with than ever.

The Canadian spy waved him on.  I’ll catch up with you.

Leon continued his promenade up the street. 

The kids were taking aim at him with their slingshots, pelting him good, screaming, American pig!  He cupped his hands over his mouth to telecast his voice, That’s the spirit, kids!  He gave them a mock roar, gesturing with his fingers like tiger claws, and sent them all running, screaming, and laughing back into hiding.

Further up the street Leon turned at the sound of a man choking.  It was Ajax—actual name, Dale Thornbird—one of his team members, strangling a guy with his gun aimed at Leon.  The shots scattered off mark in the struggle, one eventually landing in the shooter’s foot.  Try as hard as he might, he found it hard to scream while being suffocated.  The pose Ajax was striking looked exactly like the one he did for Mr. June for the Chicago Fireman’s calendar, rescuing someone from a burning building, ironically enough.  In that photo, though, his rippling back, ass, and leg muscles, all shown in the nude, had been the real highlight.  As he’d just been looking back toward the camera in profile, an insert of his mug was situated in the corner of the pic, showing off his wavy red hair, freckled, alabaster skin, and deep-set green eyes.  None of his guys knew how to entirely unplug, especially between deployments.  So they did a little volunteer firefighting on the side just to keep the rush going. 

What do you call the useless piece of skin on a dick? Ajax said into his victim’s ear, his voice showing the strain of pulling at both ends of the garrote.  The man.

Leon tasted the soldier’s excrement at the back of his mouth as his bowels released upon death, the heat quick to aerosolize the part of the feces that was moist. 

He shook his head slowly.  Gave Ajax a thumbs-up.  I don’t know what the hell is wrong with my peripheral vision these days.

Ajax dropped the guy, his head barely attached to his neck still, after the garroting.  So you pick a street with shooters on either side?  That’s pretty stupid.

Ah, smart is overrated.  Just ask my youngest son.  He’s a freshman in high school and he’s been offered three scholarships already to play college football.

What about that Emo kid of yours?  The effeminate one with the gothic hair and nose piercings?

Leon made a sour face.  Reason two for walking down the middle of the street like a damn mad man, he mumbled, ambling on.  At least now I know what emo means.

A few more paces up the street, Leon smacked at a mosquito bite at the side of his neck, rubbed the spot, felt the shell burn; turned and saw the reflection in the guy’s scope.  He fired his hand gun at the flashing light a hundred yards away, taking out the scope and the shooter.  The .50 caliber tended to mean business once it got into action.  There were five other infrared beams aimed that direction at the time, but his bullet got there first.  The other shells, by the time they arrived, blew the sniper and that portion of the building to blazes.  Guys, he shouted, You don’t have to baby me!

I’ll be damned if someone is taking out our number one, he heard Crumley—birth name, Wade Riker—say in his ear.

Clearly I’m not the only one lacking in a little faith around here, Leon mumbled.  It’s like showing up late at a damned atheists’ convention.

Crumley watched the kid step on the land mine in the center of the road and winced.  He’d already lost two arms to the questionable occupation of disarming landmines.  Now he was about to lose a leg.  But the charge didn’t ignite as it should have on impact.  The kid froze, frightened to even flinch.  He’d probably learned by watching movies to never move once you step on a mine, but the fact was, if it didn’t ignite already, it wasn’t going to. 

Relax, kid.  It can’t hurt you now.  Go get the rest of your friends and bring the mines to me that you managed to disarm.  I’d like to make a gift of them to the people who planted them.  He spoke in Arabic and the kid got the joke, so much so that he forgot his worries and ran off shouting and whistling for his buddies, issuing instructions on the fly.

Crumley dug around the mine in the dirt with his knife, careful not to depress the case from the top in the event the thing decided it was just taking a break from being active.  He scooted the knife under the case and lifted it the rest of the way out.  Then he unscrewed the side part, pulled out the booster with the detonator, and removed the firing pin.  The mine was now officially disarmed.  His thinking was to combine enough of the charges from these smaller anti-personnel mines to make a much bigger, nastier, anti-tank mine.  The very people rolling up the streets in the tanks would have laid the anti-personnel mines, knowing their own tanks would be oblivious to them. Their own soldiers would have been briefed on sticking to the sidewalks in this city that had been pretty much abandoned and left in the hands of the rebels. 

At one point the streets would have been paved, but now there was enough silt and dust on the road to disguise the landmines, or just not enough asphalt anymore, making the dirt beneath accessible. These mines would have been set by hand, but the bastards could deploy an entire minefield quickly from a distance using artillery or fly-over helicopters with chutes.  The Chinese could lay down a four hundred by four hundred meter minefield with one salvo using their rocket system with ten rockets per vehicle, and a four vehicle battery.  But these mines were Russian supplied.

The kids were flocking around him with their presents, each one holding up a mine, if he had an arm to hold one up with, or carting it behind him on a wagon.  The ones with carts had no legs and two arms—though one of the arms might have been missing some fingers or an entire hand—and rolled forward on skateboards.  They had evidently formed their own roving boarding school for youth to take care of one another.  He didn’t dare give into the impulse for his eyes to water as it would dishonor them and make them feel badly about themselves, when they were so clearly determined not to.

Thanks, kids, he said.  Now the next time you see a pair of tanks that can suddenly fly, you’ll know you have yourselves to thank.

The kids laughed and shook their prizes.

Crumley would take the charges from each of the smaller mines and make two caseless mines with them of epic proportions, judging by the bounty the kids had brought him.  Nothing like found objects for fighting with, especially when they were the enemy’s found objects. 

Leon continued his stroll up the middle of the street, running late with his morning constitutional.  Hearing heavy equipment rolling his direction, he raised his .50 caliber reflexively.  It was a tank coming at him.  You sure about this? he said to his .50 caliber.  Honestly, I think that’s a little too much attitude even for you. 

Leon holstered the gun.  He surveyed his assets with a wider scan of the area.  Someone comes at me with a pea shooter and they give a smack down like the hand of God.  A tank takes aim at me and nobody’s to be found anywhere.  When we get back, we’re going to have a serious talk about threat prioritization.

The noise of a shell being loaded into the breach of the tank’s main gun forced him back on point.  He swallowed hard.  That didn’t sound good.

The tank fired.

He hit the ground, forced himself back up on a push-up count of one.  You made me do a pushup, like some first year grunt?!

He just heard a bunch of oh, ohs in his ear. 

With a knee bend, Leon slapped his ankles, engaging the running blades attached to the boots.  He hopped like a blasted kangaroo after the tank that had put itself in rapid reverse to give it time to reload.  But he could more than keep up with the tank with the blades.  He could also dodge its .50 caliber machine gun a hell of a lot better; leaping bombed out cars and every other kind of obstacle in his way, from capsized refrigerators to stoves that had no reason being in the middle of the street. 

Leon vaulted from the last jumping-off point onto the tank.  With one hand Leon ripped the guy up through the portal that he should have had the sense to close and shook him. You made me do a pushup!  I hate pushups!  Leon interrupted the combatant’s rapid-fire vocalizations to bite off the guy’s larynx.  He spit it out, before tossing him overboard for the still-retreating tank to finish off. 

Damn, that was a bit primal, Ajax said over the COMMS.

He was mouthing a string of obscenities at him in Aramaic, Crumley explained over the party line.

DeWitt groaned.  Thanks for reminding me why there’s such a dearth of F-bombs around me when every other kind of bomb is flying high.

Ignoring the banter over the COMMS, Leon dropped a grenade into the tank and closed the hatch, took a seat on the door.  He waited for the explosion.  When the grenade went off, nearly bouncing him off his perch, he winced.  Damn, that’s one hot seat.

He looked up at the sounds of other tanks on the move.  One to his front.  One to his rear.  And one to either side of the cross street he had the poor sense to bring the tank to a stop in.  All right, that’s it.  You can baby me now.  It’s time for a coffee break.

He reached for the thermos he had strapped to his back the way he should have had a rifle tethered or the way some bowmen carry their quiver of arrows.  Unscrewing the cap, he poured himself a cup of coffee.  "Damn, that’s good coffee.  This has got to be an Arabic country.  They’re the only people who do coffee right.  I guess that settles the question of where we are.  More or less."

Leon glanced up from his cup of coffee, hang-jawed.  No freaking way.  The laser beam from one of those micro-satellites he told DeWitt earlier to retarget bore a hole right through the tank to the front of him, slicing it in half and parting it like the red sea. It then passed through Leon’s tank—forcing him to leap out of the way, which he did—without spilling his coffee, thank you very much—before knifing its way through the tank coming up behind him.  Not bad, DeWitt.  A little heads-up next time would be nice.

What would be the fun in that? DeWitt said in his ear over the COMMS.

Switching the cup of coffee to his left hand, Leon pulled his desert Eagle out of its holster and performed mop up operations with it on the still-alive soldiers crawling out of the bisected tanks.  Some of the dazed and disoriented men determinedly dragged the body parts severed by the laser; optimists to the end. 

Mop up completed, he returned the gun to its sheath, and the coffee cup to his mouth.

Leon saw Ajax and Crumley crawling out from underneath the still-intact tanks to either side of him along the cross street.  As burly as Crumley was, Leon was surprised he could fit himself under a tank with its nineteen-inch clearance.  His body hair alone accounted for a couple inches.  He must have been holding his breath on the exhale.  Even then, surely he’d have had to find a dip in the road.  Seconds later, both tanks blew so high in the air that one made it to the top of the second story, while the other just made it to the top of the first. 

Mine went higher! Ajax shouted.

They’re still fully operational, you dicks, Leon said.  "They’re made to roll over landmines."

Why does he always have to be like that? Crumley said in his ear. 

Yeah, total spoilsport, Ajax echoed. 

Trust me, it’ll be a while before anyone inside those tanks wakes from their little nap, Crumley apprised them.  Enough time for...

He didn’t have a chance to finish the thought.  The rebels swarmed the tanks, peeling open the tops. They scoured the insides for unconscious soldiers, conveying the enemy combatants out with arms held overhead like those performers riding the wake of hands at a rock concert.  ...for that, Crumley finished mumbling.

The enterprising underdogs that the rebels were, they were already wrestling with the controls of the tanks to get them moving, up and out of the craters created by Crumley’s directed explosions.  Directed enough, Leon thought, to avoid destroying the tracks the tanks would need for their locomotion. 

A chorus of cheers from the liberated city welled from all directions.  The buildings in the vicinity were actually starting to shake and spew powder and plaster chunks from all the jumping up and down in excitement.

The OMEGA FORCE soldiers flocked around Leon.  We done here? Ajax asked.

Yeah, we’re being recalled for a top priority mission.  Leon regarded the burn print in his palm from the grip of his own pistol.  The pain felt like the sting of a thousand bees.  The sun was cooking them alive out here.  He was actually losing the ability to squint he’d so exhausted those muscles.  Of all the absurd places to kill people when nature seemed content to do the job for them. 

Top priority?  As in? DeWitt coaxed, unable to keep the titillation out of his voice.

As in babysitting some rich bastard, Leon explained, on his vacation of a lifetime.

Groans all around. 

If it makes you feel any better, Leon confessed, I hear he’s the one that designs most of our breakthrough tech.

Seriously? DeWitt relaxed his arm on his assault rifle.  Well, I suppose we owe him one.  He managed to deliver that line while sounding every bit as dejected as before.

Ajax, trying to lift the mood in his own inimical way, sliced through the tense silence with, What’s the difference between your wife and your job?  After five years, your job will still suck.  The joke landed like a piece of ordinance that just refused to explode.

Maybe we should take our penance for what it is, Crumley said.  We get to leave here feeling good about ourselves, that we made such a big difference.  Yeah, for a few days we did.  But their suffering goes on long after we’ve left.  Which in the cosmic scheme of things means we didn’t do a damned thing but raise a flag and say, ‘Long Live the Corporate Way.  Pillage and plunder and dismantle countries, bankrupt them for sport, make war in them for pleasure.  You say we’re on the corporate dole now?  Maybe we should take the war to them. 

You don’t think racial and religious hatreds dating back thousands of years had a role to play? Leon said.

The military-industrial complex is largely privatized now, Crumley crowed, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, just another corporate profit-driven entity.  You can bet they love playing all sides off one another for their benefit and are only too happy to further destabilize a region to shift even more money and control their way.

Leon sighed.  You’re right.  Maybe babysitting this rich bastard is some form of penance.

"You could show a little more appreciation," Disembodied Voice rebuffed.  They all turned on the line to see the Canadian spy hobbling towards them, more accurately speaking, swinging from a pair of crutches he’d managed to come by. 

Leon smiled.  Our unit’s philosopher, he said pointing to Crumley, in case you were wondering. 

He’s right, you know, the Canadian remarked. 

Yeah, I know he’s right. Leon groaned.  But that battle is for another day.  To set the world straight, it'll take someone a lot smarter who has worked a lot longer on a way better plan than anything we can come up with standing around here.

Someone like this guy? Spy said holding up the nanotech triage kit and rattling it.  Thanks to him I can still get a blow job.  So if he asks me to kill the rest of you, no offense, guys, but I’m sure you’ll understand.

Leon smiled.  Yeah, they’ll understand.  He shook Spy’s hand, taking stock of his boxer’s build and the Cro-Magnon plunging forehead that looked like it could easily break a fist on impact.  The rest of his facial features were no less skeletal.  The buzz cut was nearly close enough to disguise the receding hairline.  His skin color perched precariously between healthy bronze and jaundice-yellow.  And you are?

Cronos.

Butch name for someone walking around with another guy’s dick, Leon jibed.

Oh, so that’s gonna be a thing now, huh?

Leon laughed.  Yeah, that’s gonna be a thing.  He grabbed Cronos with one hand by the shoulder and shook him playfully.  While the others patted him on the back or the head like a good luck charm.  Leon figured he was as good a rabbit’s foot as they were likely to find in war.  Anyone who bounced back like Cronos was worth having rub off on you. 

They heard floors giving way in the buildings to either side of the street and people screaming.  Everyone in the circle faced outwards.  And that’s why, people, Leon said, you don’t jump up and down for glee in bombed out buildings.  He sighed.  Come on, guys.  I guess this is another kind of rescue mission now, and we have another day to kill before we have to get back.

The RevoCorp robot was busy rescuing people from under a collapsed building, tossing boulder-size chunks of rubble as if he were handing out loaves of bread to the needy.  He resembled a 1960’s anime version of a superhero android, Leon thought.  Maybe the look had been chosen for better public relations. 

The OMEGA FORCE soldiers in Leon’s employ sat around watching the spectacle on folding patio chairs, sipping mai tais, procured for them by Crumley, their quartermaster, who could serve up oxygen, warmth, light, and Earth gravity on the dark side of the moon, if you just gave him a couple of hours. 

Maybe we should just stick to these kinds of rescue operations from now on, Ajax suggested. 

Nah, my back locks up with all this sitting around.  Crumley took another sip of his drink. 

Makes me prone to constipation, DeWitt confessed. 

Maybe for the couch potato years, Leon suggested.

There was a reprise of cheering, cat calls, whistles, and loud shouts carried on the wind from the distance.

Can you really liberate a city anymore? Ajax said, responding to the hubbub.  "I thought the whole point of military industrial complexes was to keep the conflict going indefinitely by whatever surreptitious methods available.  It’s why I vote Republican." 

If you must know, Leon sighed from the sweet taste of the mai tai and the relaxing nature of watching the robot work, RevoCorp sent us here to demonstrate how easily a situation could be contained on a budget with its breakthrough technologies.

Why would RevoCorp need to demonstrate how war can be done on a budget? Crumley protested.  The whole point is for these guys to make a fortune on all the killing.  Or did you miss my last lecture on the subject?

They’re trying to discriminate less against more disadvantaged people who want to carry out terror from afar, Leon said.  Suddenly the drink left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Now that I can understand," Crumley said. 

The RevoCorp robot pulled the civilian up out of the hole he’d made for him.  The local wasted no time flicking his wrist with an outstretched hand to convey, What Do You Want?

Two more locals of the same gender passed in front of Leon and his men, walking hand in hand.  Such intimacy would have been interpreted differently in the West.  But here, it was purely a sign of friendship.  They were enjoying their first tastes of freedom in a long time.  They waved and smiled at the Americans as they walked by.  Leon and the boys nodded back at them.

One of the two men dropped a spent paper cup with a lid and a straw in his wake.  Crumley used his foot to kick it out of the way.  Several revelers took time away from their good cheer to gesture at his foot and curse at the top of their lungs before moving on. 

Leon and the boys eyed one another nodding with a sudden flash of understanding at Crumley’s cultural faux pas.  Syria! they all said at once.

I told you we were in Syria, DeWitt said. 

All eyes turned to him, eyebrows tented.

TWO

Natty Young fretted over the contents of a suitcase on the bed packed to the brim.  Inside was the one-and-a-half-foot-diameter wall clock he enjoyed falling asleep to.  Fifteen lucky rabbits feet.  Where they were headed, there was no such thing as too much luck.  A pair of dumbbells.  Assorted whips and chains, less for an untested S&M lifestyle, and more for the tactile distraction if his skin started crawling in the anticipated hot humid weather.  His grandmother Augustina’s ashes. He and Augustina had always been close and now was not the time for a trial separation.  Seven shrunken heads. He was thinking they could barter them if they got into trouble with any of the local clans. What tribal people didn’t go in for shrunken heads, right?  His ET doll topped the pile; it had been steadfastly guarding over him since he was six.  Leaving him behind seemed like a betrayal of that sacred pact.  His favorite I like Pig Butts and I cannot Lie tee shirt, needless to say, had also made the final cut.  So had Treebeard, from Lord of the Rings. It was a decoration for the treehouse he expected them to be living in.  A helmet from King Arthur’s day that wouldn’t fit in the last three suitcases with the rest of the body armor. Natty was thinking if the incense burner didn’t work to keep the bugs off him, full battle dress might.  A favorite book, I saw Zombies Eating Santa Claus, for bedtime reading if he and his wife, Laney Lockheart—yes, she’d held on to her maiden name—were taking another hiatus from sex to fight.  I know I’m forgetting something.

He was talking to himself so he was surprised when Laney gave him a peck on the cheek.  She must have done that preternatural thing she did of walking around the house without making a sound, like some ghost.  She smelled like the air did after it rained and night-blooming jasmine.  You have a photographic memory, she said.  You never forget anything.

I'm a little stressed right now, okay!

Laney gave him another supportive hug from the side and peck.  The whole idea of a big adventure, darling, is not to anticipate every possible contingency.

I do not do the unexpected.  You know that!

What do you call meeting me?

A well calculated ruse, albeit with a distinctly low probability of success.  I mean, look at you.  You're a goddess.

She stifled another smile.  And since I rule, we're done here.  She zipped up the suitcase to his abject horror.  It'll take an army of Sherpas to carry what you have already.

Make sure that army comes with at least a couple battalions.  I don't want anyone hurting their backs on my account.

Together they surveyed their bedroom, done up, as with the rest of the house, like a ship’s cabin.  Every surface was made of polished wood, with more hidden compartments in the walls, under the bed, in the ceiling, not to mention entire hideaway rooms that could not be found on a real ship.  He had a lot of treasures and he liked keeping them close for safekeeping.  And with this many hidden compartments, even if he were robbed, it’d take a thief a lifetime to find them all.  The sounds of the ocean and squalling gulls complemented the picture of the live-in boat thanks to the high quality sound systems in every room.  He sighed.  One look at where they lived—inside the largest toy chest in the world—reminded him of just how much she put up with for his benefit.

Laney struggled with the suitcase and dragged it out of the room as Natty eyed her delicious derriere from behind.

Are you planning on being a man and helping me?

"I am being a man - I'm objectifying you - and imagining all sorts of sordid sex behind your back.  And that was before your swaying ass had me all hypnotized."

She grinned with her back to him.  Okay, that was sheer speculation on his part, but the remark deserved at least a grin. 

As he followed her into the hallway he saw the strewn suitcases, not just in the corridor, but in the adjoining rooms as well.  She wasn’t kidding about needing the Sherpas.  But where they were headed...

She plopped the suitcase down in the living room.  Natty gazed up at the window.  I can’t believe the Mayan calendar could be so off like that about the end of the world.

Very funny.  She slipped on his glasses.

Well, I guess that explains the unscheduled total eclipse of the sun.

She made a hole by moving a suitcase so he could spy out the front window of the house.

He immediately checked his watch when he didn't see what he expected to see.  They're thirty seconds late.

They're military, darling, Laney explained, tidying him up.  The tee shirt over the cotton short-sleeve had managed to sandwich the collar on one side.  I know you expect greater precision, but that won't come until we've been replaced entirely by robots.

Ha-ha, quite droll.  I thought you said these guys were Special Ops.  What's so special about being thirty seconds late?

Well, for one, they're under strict orders from me to resist all temptation to kill you.  Apparently, regular military doesn't have the necessary discipline.

He hit her with the plastic smile only previously seen on masks in Japanese Noh dramas, accompanied with tiny shakes of the head.

Seriously, honey, you need to relax.  She finished cinching his belt for him.

"Do you have any idea what can happen to you in the tropics?!  There are a thousand and one ways to die—before you step off the plane."

She chuckled a little harder than usual, then caught herself by raising a hand to her mouth.  Stop it, I mean it.

"How can you not tell when I'm not joking after three years of living with me?!"

"Because if I took you seriously, I'd kill you."

The soldiers pulled up outside—several Humvees and ATVs worth.  The sounds of those motors, just idling... The engines being shut off just raised the sense of anticipation.  The squeaking of metal springs under seats rebounding with the release of body weight...  Natty eyed the spectacle.  Holy shit!  You said they've sworn not to hurt me, right?

She looked at them, tensing up herself at the showing out the door.  He didn’t think she had muscles on top of her shoulders, but apparently she did.  Just don't get too close.  They don't take too kindly to baby-sitting neurotic rich people, not when they could be off killing people who need killing.

Why'd they come at all then?

I'm guessing they're thinking you can finance their next war for them, billionaire boy, she said, feeling the goose bumps climbing up her arm.  Leastways, design the nextgen weapons for it. You might want to remind them of both talking points an hour from now when all resistance evaporates and they aim some of those assault rifles at your head.

Very funny.

"You'd think after three years of living with me, you'd know when I'm not joking."  Natty wasn’t particularly assuaged when the look of concern with what she was seeing outside didn’t evaporate. 

As he returned his eyes to the window he noticed the butterflies in his stomach had morphed into stinging bees.  The cold sweat on his forehead, working its way down to his toes, had already dropped the temperature in the room ten degrees.  His mouth tasted as if he’d spent all morning chewing on the sole of his shoe.

You know what? she said.  "I think maybe I will come along on this little boys’ getaway of yours."

Natty sighed relief.  Thank God!  He kissed her on the cheek.  She tasted like rose petals and honey.  Why couldn’t he sweat like that?! 

She padded to the front door, prepared to greet the soldiers at the curb.

Natty said, What would I do without you?

Hire a dozen nurses, even more shrinks, and never know a soul who wasn't on the payroll.

As she reached for the doorknob, Natty raised his voice, I'm really quite lovable once you get to know me.  You’ll attest to that, right?

Ignoring him, she gulped air like a pond-surfacing goldfish to brace for what was on the other side of the door and exited to greet the soldiers.

Outside Natty and Laney’s home, a man who looked like he tested his mettle daily, oozed confidence as he scrutinized the pretty woman walking towards him.  He was as tall as a mountain shadowing her from the late morning sun and only a bit wider.  He and his men, all sporting camo fatigues and assault weapons, and poised like cobras ready to strike at the slightest wrong move, contrasted mightily with the scene of suburban placidness. 

Take the guy at his three o’clock position sponging his SUV with soap, staring at the Special Ops team leader and his contingent so hard with his mouth hanging open that the water oozing from the sponge finally eroded the traction under his feet.  That caused him to slip and bang his head against the rear bumper.  He was down for the count. 

The neighbor at the team leader’s eleven o’clock, out for his Saturday late-morning mow of the yard, his eyes affixed to the soldiers, had just driven his tractor mower into his living room.  From the sounds of shattering glass inside and the wife screaming, he hadn’t slowed the lawn mower yet.  Hopefully the smell of cut grass would play against the wife’s nose better than it did against Laney’s. 

The guy with the clippers, that had spent all morning making a perfect swan with his hedge, with his eyes on the commandos, ended up clipping off the head of the swan.

Christ, people, they’re just soldiers standing at ease.  Get a grip.  Then Laney panned her head to take in the rest of the vehicles and the entourage.  The strangely insect-looking earth boring vehicle pulled back its shielding and morphed into a rocket launcher.  Several of the Special Ops guys futzed with the controls.  A couple more of the commandos played doctor on a bomb they’d dragged out of the back of a truck that looked like a world killer.  The explosive was held up by a robot with tracks for legs.  The bomb was big and spherical and... the last time she saw anything like it she was watching a Johnny Quest cartoon with the neighbor’s pre-adolescents.

One of the soldiers messing with the bomb in the robot’s hands patted his partner in the abdomen and gestured with an upward tilt of his head at the girl that had come out of the house.  She was wearing shorn jean shorts, and a sleeveless white tee and flip-flops, in what he could only describe as pinup casual.  Her straight dirty-blond hair caught the breeze the way the sun reflected off her diamond hard eyes—both elemental forces letting go of their hold on her only begrudgingly.  Strong cheeks and eyebrows highlighted her face, along with big eyes and an even bigger smile. 

His partner homed in on the coordinates of the female set for him by his friend, his eyes drinking up the same sight like water getting lost in desert sand.  Dude, not when I’m handling a nextgen atomic.

Yeah, point taken.

The two men returned to their tinkering.

A school bus full of kids rolled by the Special Ops team with the bus driver and all the children staring out the window.  The bus ended up in a neighbor’s living room.  The strange deluge of sounds blossoming forth from the crash landing were like several instruments playing off-key in an orchestra.  The youths were still staring out the bus at the soldiers.

Pelham looked up from his newspaper and his wing-back chair at the bus in his living room.  Honey, he shouted upstairs, the bus is here.

Hurry, darling.  You don’t want to miss it, he heard his wife say from upstairs. 

Their eight year old ran down the stairs, hesitated wide-eyed before the bus in her living room.  The bus driver, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, must have caught sight of her in his peripheral vision, as he opened the door for her.  She entered the bus and took her seat.

The wife came down seconds later, saw the spectacle of the bus parked in her living room and started ranting in her native tongue.  There was no shortage of gesturing to go with the ranting.

The husband flipped the page on his newspaper.  One of these days I’m really going to have to find out what language that is. 

A private citizen, out for his flight lesson, crashed his helicopter just up the street from the Special Ops team, the teacher right by his side, evidently no more able to keep his eyes on what he was doing.  The blades from the helicopter detached and whirled in the commandos’ direction.  The soldiers didn’t even flinch. Not from the crashing sounds the helicopter made impacting the ground. Not from the men running screaming from the helicopter. Not from the helicopter blades coming at them. Or from the ensuing explosion, which was close enough to give them a face peel. 

Laney shook the hand of the man at the center of all the chaos.  I gather you’re Leon.  He just smiled.  You understand this mission, right?

Yes, ma'am.  Babysit some rich bastard, make sure he doesn't stub his toe on his adventure of a lifetime.

More or less.  Only, this rich bastard has a direct line to the President.  You'd do well to remember that.

Sorry about all the noise and commotion, ma’am.

She looked around at the destroyed neighborhood.  Up until this moment, she really hadn’t taken in the big picture, just the individual puzzle pieces.  You get this a lot?

’Fraid so, ma’am.  Your rich bastard of a husband will pay for the damages?

Laney gestured dismissively.  Oh, yeah, yeah.  It’s the least he can do.

She strolled back toward the house, stopped herself, and turned.  Oh, and one more thing.  She reached into those shorn jean shorts of hers with no room to spare, and tossed him a bottle of prescription meds.  His anti-paranoia medication.  I'll have some with me, but that you treat like the Dead Sea Scrolls, in case I lose mine.

He smirked, and stuffed the bottle in his shirt pocket.  As she was walking away, knowing full well he was ogling her, she added, And stop objectifying me and imagining sordid sex with me.

Leon’s grin showed teeth that time.  She saw it in the reflection of the front window of their house.  Let's hope she has some meds for that too, he said under his breath.

I heard that!  The last thing she saw in the reflection in the window was him gesture to someone in one of the Humvees.

He barked one word, DeWitt!

From their living room, Natty and Laney watched as Leon whispered in DeWitt’s ear and then signaled to some more of his men.  The soldiers jumped out of their Humvees and swarmed the house like cockroaches.

F-me! Natty exclaimed.  They're invading Normandy all over again.  He hid himself amongst the boxes and suitcases.

Laney folded her arms defensively.  You know, I think those boys may be every bit as high strung as you.

They watched hang-jawed as DeWitt entered rifle up.  He used hand signals to direct the soldiers to the various rooms.  Go!...Go!...Go!

The men fanned out, weapons pointed.  All Natty and Laney heard from the men that had evaporated out of sight was: Clear!  Clear!  Clear!

Laney stepped up to DeWitt.  It was her guess he was Leon’s second in command.  Just as hard bodied, but scaled down in size, and younger.  He had the poise of a jack-in-the-box one crank away from exploding out of the box.  She yanked at his shirt.  You know this is the burbs, right?

"The L.A. burbs, ma'am.  Surprised you didn't call us in sooner."

She realized they were being had, and stifled a smile.

DeWitt sighed.  Yeah, we like to mess with civilians.  It's shameless, but we're away from the action now.  What else we got to do?

As Natty looked like he was about to pass out from the stress, he said, You can change my shorts.

THREE

A FEW WEEKS EARLIER...

Truman’s penthouse office, located in a downtown Los Angeles high-rise, was always a bit of an adjustment coming from the burbs.  Occupying the entire floor, and at just over thirty thousand square feet, Natty supposed the shock value helped to get him into character.  It didn’t lack for opulence.  Private gym and Jacuzzi.  Marble bathrooms with gold fixtures.  Furniture and finishings by the best designers in the world, most of whose pieces the average person only ran into in museums.  Just one example:  The Badminton Chest, which auctioned for $36.7 million.  The cabinet was so intricate with amethyst quartz and other stones that it took thirty experts six years to complete the thing.  But all the air-fresheners and negative ionizers in the world couldn’t make the air any less dead in here. 

Natty was currently inside one of the rooms set aside for brainstorming.  He walked around and through the very impressive hologram of a hotel in space hovering above the conference table.  Several suits, financiers and other power people, seated about the polished lake of Carpathian elm and ebony, gave him a wide birth. 

A hotel in space?  Natty chuckled; he couldn’t help himself.  You know you're out of your miniscule minds, right?  The suits squirmed in their seats but held their mouths.  I mean, where do I begin?  The space debris alone'll pelt it from every conceivable angle day and night.  All it takes is one particle of space dust penetrating that hull and your guests will be decorating the walls like Jackson Pollock.

You solved that problem yourself with an energy field.  That was Bransen, broad in the shoulders but narrow in the thinking.  Beady eyes went with all his bean counting.  The engineers say they can have it ready in a month.

"My energy field? Natty gestured wildly.  I don't even believe it'll work!"

If that's all, sir... Klepsky said impatiently.  He was the one with the head too big for his shoulders.  Too bad it was filled with hot air as opposed to any actual brain matter.

If that's all?!  Are you simple?

A Special Ops type, wearing all-black attire and armed, gently assisted Natty back a couple paces from Mr. Klepsky.

Truman, in his sixties now, tall as an oak tree, and somehow even more imposing, was seated at the head of the table, and took a certain delight as always in watching Natty dress down his corporate execs.  His unshakable aura of confidence alone made it clear who the CEO and real power person was in this room.  Natty looked to him for help but saw he wasn’t going to get any. 

Natty shifted his attention back to Klepsky.  That's a closed environment, you moron!  He blared.  Microbes, bacteria, viruses, mutating in space into God knows what...  Oh, and let's just shuttle them back to Earth where they can wipe out a couple billion people!

Truman took a deep breath, held it.  Finally, he said, We have any number of chemical agents to rely on.

Chemical agents?  Natty hit him with the thunderstruck face.  Let me guess, you're the head moron, no mere second-rater, you.  Truman restrained himself, managed a smirk.  Would those be the chemicals that will likely be the first to erode the seals—exposing your tourists to the vacuum of space?  He took another step in Truman’s direction.  Would those be the chemicals compromising their immune systems, making them even more susceptible to the microbes you say you're defending them from?

Truman sighed, and rubbed his eyes.  What do you suggest?

I suggest you review the last dozen patents or so I filed on the subject!  Natty took a second to remind himself that while he was twenty-five, he looked eighteen.  Maybe that’s why they didn’t take him seriously.  It didn’t help that he was part Native American, so growing a decent beard was nigh on impossible.  It took him three days to produce stubble on his chin.

Travelli, the my defense against a cruel harsh world is numbers accountant, and not the only one in the room, stepped forward with some papers, which he showed Truman.  Travelli sweated grease, not regular perspiration like normal people, and in subzero temperatures, such as the chilled boardroom whose thermometer setting had no doubt been adjusted down to help keep Natty from boiling over.  Travelli’s pale pasty skin and forgettable face made it easy for him to blend into the woodwork, which, in Natty’s opinion, is what he should be doing now; not making a spectacle of himself.  Honestly, Travelli said, we were eying his inventions, sir, but it'll mean another fifty million or so.

Trust me, Natty said, that's chump change for keeping a lid on this debacle.

Truman handed the paperwork back dismissively.  You heard the man, Travelli.  Chump change.  Spend the damned money.  He made a big show of checking his watch.  Are we done here?

I'm sorry, Natty said.  Am I keeping you from your golf game?  Because really, I can go.  Of course, there's that small matter of what you're going to do to make oxygen when your solar panels fail, subsequent to taking a hit from that debris I was talking about.  Oh, and fifty million other things I can already see going wrong!  Trust me, bozo, you're going to have a lot more gray hairs before you get out of here.

Truman stifled a grin.  He looked up at Travelli, We taping this session?

Of course, sir.

I'll play back the tape from home, I promise, Truman said at Natty as he got up from his chair.  Putting on his jacket, as he finished preparing to leave the room, he said, Unless you're afraid the tape device might fail.  Do we have a backup, Travelli?

Three, sir.  They're running in parallel.

Satisfied, Natty?

I'm satisfied a man with your sense of priorities golfs well under par.

Truman resisted the urge to tell him off.  Natty had gotten to where he could read his face pretty well.  Glancing at his subordinates, Truman said, He better not be the only one with answers to his own questions when I get back today.

The sphincters tightened in the room as Natty watched the sycophantic subordinates squirm some more.

Truman paused at the secretary’s station immediately outside his office.

How's he holding up? Secretary Moffit asked.  She managed to be Vogue-Cover-Girl pretty and plain and unassuming at the same time.  The paradox was what Truman loved most about her. 

I want him to take a couple weeks, Ms. Moffit.

A couple weeks!

I was in there a good five minutes.  He barely had time to run down a dozen or so things wrong with my designs.

Oh, I see, sir.  He really is off his game.  You don't think it might be because you designed this one a little bit better?

Truman eyed her as if he was wrong about her sanity.  "Keep it up, Ms. Moffit, and you'll be going on vacation - permanent vacation."

She smiled.  You realize I can't answer for the President and the countless other people he advises?

Truman hoped the mask he was currently wearing was sufficient to hide the fact that she had hit a nerve.  They'll have to make do with the other geniuses on the planet, Ms. Moffit.  Last I checked, there wasn't one of them worth mentioning not on my payroll.  He absently signed the sheets on the counter placed there for him to add his John Hancock to.  We’ll schedule the vacation towards the end of the month.  Give us some time to iron out the kinks on my space hotel.

Secretary Moffit sighed.  We'll call in the B-team, sir.  I'm sure the planet will be fine without him for two weeks.

Well, I'm not.  He had turned her small mirror towards him to help him adjust his tie.  He chose a shirt that morning with a neck measurement a half-size bigger than usual, anticipating the raised blood pressure Natty had a way of bringing on.  Apparently he should have gone a size bigger still.  "But right now, seems like a minor point.  I'll be damned if all of my projects aren’t the envy of the world, least of all, the space hotel.  This is a hurdle race, and there are a lot of hurdles left to clear.  Besides, he needs more than a refresher to get across that finish line."

Truman headed down the hall towards the elevator, leaving Ms. Moffit to wonder about his last remark.

At the elevator he pressed the button and glanced back her way.  The team builder set for tomorrow?

Sans Natty, of course.

Truman smiled.  Excellent.  The ding of the elevator and the opening of the doors seemed to trumpet his sense of the superb timing of the team builder’s scheduling.

FOUR

Three seconds into the push off, Truman jumped into the front seat of the bobsled to work the controls—leaving Leon to do most of the work with the pushing.  That lasted another three seconds before the rules dictated he jump in behind Truman. 

Truman's façade was the image of focused concentration and determination as