Within an hour of the Ascendancy's impromptu announcement that these power wielders, these channelers as Evelyn Avalon called them, were widespread across the globe, Viktor's life as he knew it ceased to exist. As deputy-consul for the Ascendancy, he was the chief man in charge of all Consulate affairs in the CCD. His oversight kept the Consuls that reported to him in check, but he was completely unprepared for the fallout of this announcement. But it would be a cold day in hell before he admitted as much to the Ascendancy.

He recalled the sheer horror that knotted his stomach when he stood off-stage, watching the live press coverage of the announcement. He trusted the Ascendancy with every shred of his being, but shock could hardly describe the moment. While public eyes watched, he kept his jaw locked tight, eyes impassive. But as soon as he joined the Ascendancy in private, he demanded more information.

Whatever the Ascendancy's plan was, Viktor had the task of carrying it out. First, it began with the creation of a new Consulate. Consulate on ---

Fuck him if he knew what to call it. Well, he'd figure it out later.

The consulate needed a leader, a Consul. It would ideally be someone Nikolai chose himself. Someone like him.

Viktor always knew the Ascendancy was different. Spend a day in the man's private company and anyone could know as much. He'd seen things, extraordinary things, happen around the Ascendancy. And he wasn't the only one. Others saw them too, staffers, aides, even the cleaning crews that mopped the fucking floors knew something was different. But nobody really knew. Nobody ever asked. They just believed, accepted, and put their heads down and worked. That didn't stop rumors filtering out of the Kremlin, though. Viktor was aware of some of them-the Consulate on Propaganda took advantage of some and smothered others. Apollyon was a word they disliked. Archon was carefully planted in exotic places of the CCD, Archon of Ages. Whatever the hell that meant.

Then there was the monument. Fuck fuck fuck but that thing was scary as shit. Viktor was sure one of his under-Consuls shit his pants when the Lenin Mausoleum fucking melted before their eyes. Forget the fact that Lenin's body was gone forever. Forget that the tomb melted. But just fucking look at the archway that rose in its place. If the Ascendancy did that with his mind, what else could he do? What else had he done? Viktor didn't want to know. He believed the Ascendancy when he claimed to be the oldest and strongest of all these people-these power users, these, what did Evelyn call them? He quickly filtered through a screen of notes. There. Yes, Channelers. If there were a thousand channelers out there. Anyone that had the Sickness, that meant the CCD loomed on the brink of anarchy. They had to be regulated. Trained. governed.

That was where the Consulate would step in.

And Viktor finally had his name. He keyed in the new title and submitted the executive order for the Ascendancy to sign later that day.


"Consulate on Channeler Oversight"


Now. To find someone competent enough to lead it.

Every time I see Thunder Butte, it reads Thunder Butt in my head.

Fitting. Thunder butt. School of channelers.

So what if Toni knew her father wanted a son to follow in his footsteps and got her instead? Didn't mean he loved her any less. And it also didn't mean that she couldn't be everything he wanted her to be. Daddy had big shoes to fill, and Toni was gonna do it. Of the 30 years he'd spent in the service, almost two-thirds of it was deployed on top secret missions. So she got to know him mostly through Skype calls and hastily penned letters from undisclosed locations. But Daddy had been on the team that had taken down bin Laden, the most wanted man ever before Toni was born. It was still a big thing when she came along and everyone still talked about what he'd done. And that was just one of the things she knew about.

So Daddy ran high op tempo, and so did she. Especially when he was home. The Colorado Rockies was a great place to get out and learn how to be fearless. Hiking, mountain climbing, hunting – she was already eight years old when he finally let her take down a deer. He even let her gut it. She sucked everything she could about the military out of Daddy's head. How to salute, the proper pushup form, how to field strip an M6 and why it was superior in every way to the M4, how to low crawl through brush and ignore the stickers...

So when he was gone, Toni tried to compete and win at everything. Sports games, spelling bee, whatever. She was gonna show Daddy her new trophy or medal when he next got the chance to call in. “America needs more winners,” he told her once. “We don't win anymore. We don't pick ourselves up off our feet anymore. Paul and Cruz tried. But there aren't enough winners out there. Sometimes people need to learn to embrace the suck. And there needs to be rough men ready to do violence for this great nation to keep it safe.” Then he'd mutter something about President Bullock and the CCD under his breath. “I'm getting too old for this Bullocking shit,” he said once. “Need to knock that CCD down a peg or two.”

When she was ten they relocated to southern Georgia. Fort Benning. The center of advanced warfighting development. Toni would go and watch the soldiers at Jump School. And she knew she'd do that one day. And it was around that time that things started looking up. Col. Track Palin got elected. Finally, one of the Army’s own was in office! There hadn't been a veteran in the presidency in almost fifty years. Even though he was an officer. She'd have preferred an NCO in the White House. But that was unlikely. They were too badly needed to do the work.

But then the war came. China was calling his bluff over Taiwan and they thought they'd finish their little people's revolution before he could take office. Daddy was called out again. Said it was an honor to fight wherever the country needed him. Other nations couldn't push America around. It wasn't about Taiwan, it was the principle of the matter. But this was no third world tinpot dictator. This was another first world nation. He left. And they waited on every word from the media. Toni was doing chin-ups in the yard when the officers came by. His helicopter had been struck by a rocket and gone down in the Taiwan Strait. They fished him out of the drink alive, but he probably wouldn't ever walk again.

They went to go visit Daddy in California. His face was purple and bruised, but it was still him. He was lying in a hospital bed. His spine had been severed at the lower vertebrae, and they'd had to amputate both of his legs above the knee and his left arm at the elbow. And yet he cracked a grin. “I think I'll retire now,” he said. “I gave this country both legs and an arm. I figure we're even.”

Daddy never did walk again, but Toni had the feeling that if he really wanted to he could. He hadn't let it defeat him so much as just made a compromise. Besides, they got to spend more time together. And that man was her biggest fan.

Columbus High School wouldn't let Toni play football. Said they didn't have a girls team, and that it would put her at an unfair disadvantage. Toni made things worse by losing her temper. But Daddy intervened. Guilted by an amputee veteran, the school reconsidered and let her play. And it was a good thing, too. She turned out to be much nimbler than the boys and could take a hit just as well as anyone else. She only broke a couple of bones during her high school career. Besides, she was in better shape than half the defensive line. Her drive to win made her an excellent quarterback, and she drove the Blue Devils to the state championship, where unfortunately she managed to get herself benched in the fourth quarter for getting into a shouting match with the referee over a pass ruled incomplete, which led to them losing the game34-31.

Toni's propensity for fouling herself out of the game turned her off to any college recruiters. But that was just as well, because she had one destination in mind. The U.S. Army Ranger School. Benning's where I want to be. Hooah!
The combat forces had long been open to women, but there had only been a handful of women in twenty years who were able to meet the standards of the Rangers. Toni's mother threw a fit when she announced on her 18th birthday that she was skipping college and enlisting. She had taken Daddy's injuries very hard. “I don't want you coming back to me like this too!” she weeped. Daddy had to calm her down. He was proud of Toni's decision, and that was what mattered. Besides, Daddy couldn't fight anymore and someone had to carry on. Her mother would end up leaving the first year Toni was gone from the home, anyway. Couldn't hack it.

Fast forward to week eleven of 11X – Special Forces candidate One Unit Station Training. They had rucked it twelve miles to do a night infiltration course. Once she graduated she would go on to Ranger school. Six of the soldiers in her platoon had already fallen out on this road march. Lightning in the sky and the winds were picking up. Pretty soon it started pouring. There was a forecast for a tropical storm to move through. The drill sergeants decided to do the exercise anyway. Of those who graduated OUST, over 40% of those would fail Ranger School, 65% of them in RAP week. So they didn't do anyone any favors by going easy on them.

“Let's go Privates. You think you gonna be a Ranger? Gonna be Special forces! Special Snowflake my Ass! Get in my mud!”
yelled the drill sergeant. “Low crawl! Low Crawl!”
Drill Sergeant Harris was a grizzled Haitian infantryman who could barely be understood in good conditions. The man could move like a puma. “Low crawl in that shit to your objective!”
Toni threw herself down into the mud. Her nose had been running for hours now and there was probably fluid in her lungs. She coughed to clear her throat. She was pretty sure she had a fever. The barracks crud had been hounding her for a couple of days now, but there was no way she was going to go to sick call and risk getting recycled. Not when she was so close to graduating. One hand went reassuringly to the metal cord around her neck. Yeah, her daddy's dog tags were still there, secure. They'd been a good luck charm so far. She wrapped her M6 sling around her forearm to keep the muzzle out of the mud and laid her helmet down so to crawl under the barbed wire. There was like a hundred yards to go. “Perez! I said get that helmet down! Low crawl! Fuck your pretty hair! Think some CCD puke gonna care? Chinese shit gonna care? Bury that shit in the mud!”


“Yes, drill sergeant!”
she yelled and dug the rim of her helmet as far down as it could go. It was dragging in the mud now, and only the divot it made gave her room to breathe. The rain was pouring down and soaking her everywhere. She was in the lead. This was the last part of the course. But if her battle buddy didn't make it also, she'd feel like she'd let him down. She got to the objective first and pulled herself out of the muck, then saw her battle buddy bowed down in it. She hobbled over to pull him out. His ruck was full of mud and there was a nasty gash from the barbed wire across his cheek.

“Come on Johnson, we got to get over that wall. That's it!”
she said. Her buddy looked about ready to tap out. She slung her M6 around her back and helped him grab the rope that dangled from the eight-foot barrier, and pushed. Johnson couldn't get his feet under him. “Just hold on,”
she yelled, and scrambled to the top of the wall herself, and grabbed his hand, trying to pull him. “Don't give up on me!”
she yelled. He was trying, sure. But he wasn't digging deep enough. His eyes rolled back and he breathed hard.

Toni strained and strained. Please, please, please, just a little more!
Even so she knew she was going to fail. Daddy, help!
She touched her dog tags.

There was a rumble and a snapping sound. The earth lurched. The barrier suddenly careened toward Toni. She leaped off of it as it fell into the mud. Johnson got to his knees, holding his head. “What just happened?”

“I don't know,”
Toni said. “It must have broken. But let's go ring the bell! We're the first ones done!”
She grabbed him and they stumbled together to the bell.

They never made it. “Privates! What the hell did you do to my wall?”
Drill Sergeant Harris was right on them. “Half-right face! Front lean and rest position, move!”


Toni threw herself down into the pushup position, her hands sinking deep into the slimy mud. A pool of water had gathered beneath her.

“In cadence! One, two, three....”
Toni started pushing and sounding off pushups. Every time she went down, water ran down inside her BDUs from her neck to her navel. Sand had gotten into her bra. She had to time her breaths or she’d end up choking. Everything burned. Yet somehow she had a little more strength to give.

“Answer me! What did you do to my wall? Keep pushing Johnson!”


Her buddy had collapsed and was on his back. Toni kept pushing. “No explanation, Drill Sergeant! It just broke!”
Yeah, she was going to get pneumonia from this for sure.

“Is that the case, Perez? Well since your buddy didn't make it you can push for both of them! Does that suck enough for you?”


She sputtered out a cough as she continued. “I like the way this sucks, Drill Sergeant!”


“Oh yeah, Perez?”
The drill sergeant shook his head and dropped to the prone position himself in one fluid movement. “Halfway down!” He demonstrated. “How about I make it suck a little more?”


“Yes, Drill Sergeant!”
They both dropped to the halfway position. Her arms quaked and the ruck on her back threatened to give way. “Please make it suck some more!”
And she started laughing. And you know what? It was awfully hard to laugh when getting smoked. But it was possible.



Nine months later


So there was a way for things to suck more. Isn't that just the shit to make it all the way through Ranger School and get her green beret, only to get outed for the Sickness before getting her assignment? She knew it was fucking Johnson who did it. Damn blue falcon. Well, no use crying over spilt milk. She'd thought her career was over and made plans to start fighting for it tooth and nail. Instead she got called into her XO's office. 2Nd Lt. Richardson called her to attention. He wasn't all that bad. For a butterbar officer, of course. The man had gone green to gold so he must be all right, though why someone would want to do that was beyond her.

She gave Lt. Richardson a salute. “You wanted to see me sir?”


He returned it. “Private First Class Perez.”
He looked down at a file. “You were top graduate at OUST. Top graduate of Ranger School. Scored a 299 out of 300 on your last record APFT. On the male score chart.”


“No excuse for coming in at a 13:02 on the two mile, sir,”
she said. That 299 still bothered her. So what if she had fallen because of unexplained loss of coordination?

Lt. Richardson grunted. “How long have you had it?”


Toni bit back a grimace. “Since OUST, sir. Week twelve.”


He grimaced. “That long? You should have reported it. It is your duty to report any deficiency that might keep you from completing your mission, soldier. Failure to do this is punishable under the UCMJ.”


Damnit. He was right. “No excuse, sir. Only that it did not keep me from completing the mission.”


He laughed. “I'll say. You know, you aren't the first person to have come down with the Sickness in our ranks. But we haven't... um... well, only a few have been of your caliber. And you could be a vital asset to our ranks. But people are talking about, well, weird stuff happening around you.”


Toni said nothing. Imaginations of sore losers, probably.
She waited at parade rest. Lt. Richardson glanced down at his desk. “I have two forms here. One is a request for a medical board. The other are travel orders.”


“Sir.”
Toni interjected as respectfully as she could. “A medical board is just out of the question. Besides, I haven't had any symptoms for weeks, now.”
Most of the stuff was harmless, anyway. She took the travel orders. Boise? Third Psychological Operations Battalion? What the hell was in frikkin' Boise? “Where am I going? Does this mean I'm not in the Rangers anymore?”


The officer shook his head. “I don't know anything about any future assignments. The CO appealed the automatic medical board to the higher ups and this is what came back down the channel. I haven't the faintest clue why. And I was told to ask no questions. But you graduated Ranger school. As long as you stay in you're qualified to be assigned to any battalion. But you want to stay in the Army, you take the assignment.”


She frowned. “But --”


Lt. Richardson glared at her. “Stay in your lane, Private. You have been ordered not to ask any questions or tell anyone where you are going.”


“Yes, sir.”
Toni snapped back to parade rest.

He gave a small smile. “Your performance at the Ranger school has been among the finest.”
The smile disappeared. “Now you are PCSing tomorrow. You have 24 hours to clear post. Get the hell out my office.”



<big>Camp Hoover
Somewhere in Idaho
December, 2044</big>

So this place was beyond weird. Like Area 51 weird. She was half expecting the crashed flying saucer from Roswell to show up here. Toni was sure that Daddy would have told her about a place like this if he'd ever been there. On the other hand, maybe not. She'd been picked up in Boise and moved to three different vehicles, and blindfolded to boot. There was no way she would have been able to figure out how to get to the location. Upon arrival there wasn't much to see. Just a cluster of barracks buildings. Probably a big back 40 range. She heard aircraft and helicopters. Saw drones, too. Lots and lots of drones. She was pretty sure that someone was always watching her.

Her in-processing brief consisted of her with one other person, Navy chief petty officer Marcus Waltman. His biceps looked like a couple of tree trunks and he had the trident of the SEALs emblazoned on his digital camo print. “Let's get one thing straight, soldier,” he told her. “You were never here. Officially, this place doesn't exist. When you are done here and reassigned elsewhere, you. Were. Never. Here. If you die here – and that is a high probability – your family will never know the truth about what happened to you. If knowledge of what we do here ever got out it would cause an international incident. You are here for one reason, and that's to turn you into a weapon that can be used against America's enemies in a way that will make Ranger School look like the Girl Scouts. What you get in return is the privilege to undergo the worst, most hardcore training that will eat your soul and suck like nothing has ever sucked before.”

“Right, Chief,”
Toni replied. Somebody was screaming not far away. “So what, this is like super secret Delta Force?”


The chief laughed – a maniacal howl that ripped through her heart.


Toni was kept segregated from the rest of the group there. She eventually lost track of time. There was probably a population of 1000 or so at the camp, based on the apparent size of it and the platoons she saw running by. But she was an army of one. She ate by herself and had no interaction with anyone other than base staff. Lots of doctors. There were a lot of doctors. Her first week was nothing but getting poked and prodded. Bunch of psychobabble questions too. When she asked what it was for, they said nothing.

On her eighth day she was sent to a small room with two chairs and a table in the center. She sat down at one. A major walked through the door. She snapped to attention. “Sit down, sit down,”
the man said. He was small and balding, with thick spectacles and a mousey voice. “I am Major Carl Kinnick of the 3rd Psychological Operations Battalion. I am a doctor of psychiatry. Do you know what Psyops do during wartime?”


Toni shrugged. “They disseminate truthful information about our military operations to foreign populations, specifically in enemy controlled areas, in order to reduce enemy effectiveness and enhance the success of our military mission.”


The major nodded. “That is the definition you were told in Ranger School, yes. In order to be successful at this we must be able to get into the minds of the enemy and the minds of the population. So we can remove psychological barriers to the truth. Do you see now what you are doing here?”


Okay. This guy was Hannibal Lecter weird. “Sir? No one has told me anything. And no, I don't understand. What are you getting at?”


“Hm.”
He jotted down some notes. “Tell me about your upbringing and your family life.”


Major Kinnick sure asked her a bunch of questions. The session lasted all morning. He was purposely intent on finding out her fears. Toni didn't like that much. Especially since she didn't have anything to be afraid of. He asked a lot about the Sickness. What she had experienced. If there was anything odd that happened with her, or around her. Any siblings. As the morning went into the afternoon, Toni began to wonder what all this was for, and finally said as much.

“Have you heard of a phenomenon called psychokinesis?”
he asked. Toni shook her head. Psycho what? The major put a shiny metal weight on the table. The stamp on it said 1 Lb. “Pick it up.”
As Toni reached over to grab it, he smacked her hand. “No, pick it up.”
She reached for it again, and the same effect. “Pick it up.”
Okay, so this was some sort of mind game. She could figure it out. Maybe she was supposed to refuse the order. That earned another smack.

The door opened and CPO Waltman came in. He fixed her arms to the side of the chair. Major Kinnick stuck something on each of her temples. Electrodes. He took her dog tags. Daddy's dog tags. Why did she tell him about those? They were her good luck charm. Waltman stood behind her.

“Pick up the weight,”
he said again. Okay. He must be trying to make her snap. This must be an attempt to break her. She shook her head. “Pick up the weight.”
She stayed quiet and motionless. Then a current ripped through her body and her muscles clenched. “Pick up the weight.”


“Why are you doing this?”
she asked. Again, voltage ripped through her. God, but it hurt! “I don't understand the order,”
she whimpered. Again. What did he want from her? What was she supposed to do? How could she do it right and make it stop? What have I gotten myself into?
“I don't understand the order, sir!”


“All you have to do is pick up the weight.”


A knife flipped open and fabric started to tear. That's about the time the sound of her own screams drowned everything else out. The whole world exploded.

* * *

Some time later after Toni regained consciousness, she found herself in a box. That's the only way she could describe it. It was dark, and quiet. She couldn't quite stand up, and if she put her arms out she could touch both walls. A prison. Or coffin. There was air aplenty but nothing else. She felt her way around the box. It was pure metal with no easily noticeable seams. She pounded on it. Solid. Tried to push the metal out. Nothing. Ten men couldn't have budged it. So if she wasn't supposed to escape, the objective must have been to torture her. Yes. That's what they were trying to do to her. Torture her. That’s what all the other stuff had been. They wanted to see her break. They wanted to find out if they could break her. Because she would be no use to the country if she could be broken. So fine. They wanted to throw more stuff at her? Go for it. Not like they could do much worse to her. All she had to do was embrace the suck.

Hour after hour passed. She breathed in and out evenly. She did her best to relieve herself in one corner, though there really wasn't anything to hold it in one place. They didn't bring food or water, either. They weren't going to let her die, though. She was certain of that. That wouldn't make sense. They wanted to see her break? Fat chance. It would take a lot more than shoving her in a box. The lack of stimuli was actually kinda nice compared to...anyway. She did wish she had Daddy's dog tags, though. They were...reassuring. Made her feel connected to him. Powerful.

<big>* * *
</big>
Major Carl Kinnick watched the live feed with detached interest. PFC Perez was a lab rat like any other; this particular lab rat merely had caught his attention for the moment for being the focus of his current experiment. Odd that she just sat there, though. Like she was waiting, an unimpressed child expecting dinner to come anytime. Perhaps a smart lab rat who already thought she understood how the game was played. Even so, she must be feeling the internal stress he'd intended to trigger. She'd been isolated for three days now without food or water, her movement restricted and her stimuli reduced to the foul odors of her own waste. Claustrophobia should kick in to the point of her feeling suffocated. Even if she could still rationalize that she wasn't in any danger – which was far from the truth – the primitive lizard brain wiring within her brain stem must be screaming at her to fight, which should trigger the psychokinetic response he was expecting.

Why wasn't it working? The first successful subject – Koehler – had broken down the barriers to his ability much sooner. So had the other male who had survived. There wasn't much more to go on so far, but the pattern seemed well understood to him and the people he'd coordinated with. The Sickness appeared alongside anecdotal evidence of absurd or impossible feats. Then the sickness disappeared, and the subject survived or died. Usually died. But it seemed there was some point between the first appearance of the Sickness and death where a subconscious trigger to activate the psychokinetic ability could be transitioned to the consciousness, and could be harnessed. For some reason though, it wasn't working for her.

“Major?” He turned his head. Lt. Col. Marjorie Warhol, the regimental chief physician at Camp Hoover, had come in. She had insisted on overseeing every aspect of his experiments. The Department of Defense had threatened to shut him down after the first few deaths -- even though he’d given them Koehler. After that operator’s success on Subversive Operations Group missions, though, certain people with access to Black Program budgeting grudgingly agreed the research was worth continuing -- under the supervision of a physician. Unfortunately, she had a nasty habit of playing it safe even if she had been instructed to tolerate some of Kinnick’s liberties, and that had severely slowed down his progress. “Major. I'm terminating the experiment. Her organs will start to shut down if she does not get water soon. She's dying, major.”

Of course she was. That was the point, to push her to the edge of death. Memento Mori.
But not today. Not everyone could be expected to see that. It was a good thing she'd not found out about the other experiments he’d conducted on Perez. He had to give it a try for the sake of science. But Major Kinnick made an annotation in his notebook and pushed an intercom button. “Terminate the experiment. Get her out and get her to the infirmary.”


Such a shame. He knew beyond any doubt that Perez was one of them. Whatever that was. There was no other explanation. He had corroborated evidence that certain unexplained phenomena had happened around her. The earth shaking. The ground warming enough to cook the frost off. Rocks exploding. Competitors getting knocked aside, her dragging a 250-pound man a half a mile by herself. Plus her other observed habits confirmed she'd been hiding symptoms of the Sickness. There had to be a way to trigger a conscious use in her.

But there were other ways. Camp Hoover had several purposes. It was primarily home for the advanced training and preparation for the Subversive Operations Group. Camp Hoover was off the grid because no one wanted to admit the US was behind the activities that SUBGRU carried out across the globe. Major Kinnick’s tinkering with the attempts advance his pet theories in psychokinetic research – that was a side-show here. Only a convenient place for the military to throw a project that was not even proven to even be real at all. They chose Camp Hoover because none of the higher ups wanted to explain to the public why they were dribbling out a few black research dollars every year to him. There were a lot of things that could be hidden at a black base. And there were other Above-Special Operations training and research going on. A woman who said she could talk to wolves...and of course there was the Empath. Maybe she could find something out that Kinnick had missed. That was a possibility he hadn't considered.

* * *

Toni finished off her last set of pushups. She was feeling better, really. No need to stay in the infirmary. Never got any explanation for the box incident. Or the electrocutions. Or the prolonged waterboarding. Or...she hugged herself. She didn't really want to think about that. In a way, though, she was grateful for it. The enemy would do far worse to her. Whatever didn't kill her would only make her stronger. The greater the sacrifice the sweeter the victory. What she really wanted to do was get back to working with a unit. She was going stir crazy being by herself all the time. You could only win so many games of tic tac toe against yourself.

The door opened. A female corporal came in. Short stubby thing with pudgy cheeks and haircut that was just barely regulation. Her unit insignia denoted she belonged to the medical company. Name badge said Rodriguez. “Hi there,” she said. “I'm Corporal Rodriguez. I thought maybe you'd like some company.”

Toni shrugged. “Yeah, that's fine.”


“I brought beer.” She brought up a six pack of bottles and shook it. “I know you aren't old enough to drink yet, but no one cares here.”

“Even better.”
She sat up cross-legged on her bed as Rodriguez pulled up a chair and handed her a cold bottle. Budweiser. Unoriginal, but it got the job done. She popped off the cap and took a long drink. Emptied the bottle in three swigs. Then she let out a healthy belch. “Hooah, that was good.”


Rodriguez chuckled. “Here, have another. You don't have to drink it with a purpose, though.”

Toni nursed that one instead. Only guzzled half of it before setting it down on the table next to her bed.

“How are you feeling?”

Toni pondered the question. “Okay, I guess. I was hoping for more action out here, though.”


“You mean like R&amp;R, guys or girls and stuff? Yeah, not much of that out here.”

Toni scowled. “No, I mean action. Time in the Back 40. Running operations. Work with my squad.” Rodriguez cocked her head at that. “You know, blowing shit up. Jumping out of helicopters. Rucking through the mud and shit. Hardcore soldier stuff. Learning how to be a rough and tough badass that keeps America safe at night for all the babies and shit. That's what I signed up for. Not...”
she sighed. “I don't know.”


Rodriguez took a very dainty sip from her beer. Shit, was she even a soldier? Probably not. “Why do you think you’re here?”

Toni took another swig from her bottle. “Well, I figure I’m in quarantine or something. This all came about because I got caught with what they called the Sickness. And maybe they think that I’m prone to torture or something. So they got to try and break me to make sure I can hold myself together. And that's why it's worse than anything I've ever heard. That’s all that makes sense.”


The chit of a corporal sipped her beer again. “Don’t you think that...well, don’t you think that maybe you’re capable of more?” Right away Toni knew that she was certainly capable of taking her down in five seconds barehanded if she wanted to. Rodriguez would be useless in battle. And probably couldn’t carry Toni off the field if she went down. Even the medics should be able to hold their own, after all. But she was nice, so that was something. Plus she’d brought beer.

Speaking of which…”Hit me again,”
she added. “Corporal.”
The girl obliged. “In what way do you mean?”


“I don’t know,” Rodriguez continued. She chewed on her fingernail. Gross. Then she set down her bottle. “Like sometimes I feel like I could do anything. Like make this bottle blow up with my mind. Or fly across the room. Or something. Ever felt that way?”

Toni sighed. “Yeah. I do.”
Sadness crept in. “When I was growing up with Daddy I always felt I could do anything. And whenever I think of him I still feel that way. He could do anything. So so can I. He’s proud of me. He even gave me his dog tags, they’re my good luck charm. Kept them all the way here.”
She downed the third bottle. “I wish I had them back. That major took them before...Stupid, I know. They’re just things. But still. I feel naked without them. More than if I was actually naked again.”


Rodriguez stood up and reached out to take Toni’s hand. She let her. “You know,” she said, looking into Toni’s eyes, “I’m glad we had this talk. I think it’s been good for you.” Then she released her hand with a squeeze. “By the way, you can finish the beer. I can’t tolerate alcohol. Only drank a little so you wouldn’t think I was trying to get you in trouble.” With that she left.

Toni leaned back and popped a fourth beer. As far as things went, she’d count today as a win. It had certainly been a good talk for her. After all, she’d gotten free drinks.

* * *

“Are you certain?”
Major Kinnick asked. “She’s not going to get pushed into breaking the barrier?”


Rodriguez shook her head. “No sir. I could feel it. She’s like a boulder. She knows who she is and that she’s determined to do her duty, which to her is whatever she’s told to do as well as she can. She wasn’t even really fazed by what Chief...anyway, she thinks this is all a test.”

He frowned. “And she really has no clue that she is psychokinetic.”


Rodriguez bit her lip. “I was very careful to get past her defenses over me being untrustworthy. Everything I did was calculated to make her think I was harmless and it worked. She really thinks she’s just a hardcore soldier. And, well, she is.”

The major glanced down at his notepad. How irritating. “ You’ve seen Koehler and the other. Ramirez. Is she like them?”


Rodriguez put her hands out as if she was balancing two weights in them. “I don't know sir. It’s like, she feels...they had this flavor. This rage, this power. She, she’s like calm and stable. Immobile, almost. It’s different. I don’t know how else to describe it. I know it’s not very scientific. But she certainly has a defense up.”

Well, there was hardly much scientific to the pseudoscience of empathy. But it was all he had to work with. “What do you recommend?”


“Her dog tags, sir,” the corporal replied. “Give her her dog tags back. Her father’s are on that chain with hers. She has a connection to them. I think it’ll be helpful. And get her back into training exercises. At least by herself.”

Major Kinnick rubbed his eyes beneath his spectacles. It was hardly safe to give a test subject back anything metallic or anything resembling a chain or rope. He’d learned the hard way. “Very well.”
He pulled up a touch screen and typed, “Return personal effects to subject F01 and accelerate to proving ground range alpha.”


<big>* * *
</big>
There she was, on a hot range in full battle rattle. If it could be called a range. More like a hellish pit of death. Imagine an obstacle course combined with a battlefield combined with a stroll through the paleozoic era. Plus they changed it up every time she went through it. Exactly the kind of training she was hoping for.

Toni waited at the starting line. It was set in the woods and worked through about a mile and a half with various barricades. “Go.” This was her fourth run through this course. She hadn’t made it more than halfway. She took out the three leapfrog mines and ran toward the first obstacle, a double coil of barbed wire. That’s when the two targets popped up with autocannons trained in her direction. Only problem was that instead of shooting over her like she’d expect, they shot at her with these painful barbed flechettes that scored any bare skin and even ripped through her digital camo print BDUs. Plus she couldn’t get a good bead on them. This time she pushed through the wire and shot them both down.

Toni ran down the path and climbed over an 8-foot wall in her path. Right then a log swung at her. She twisted and avoided it, dropping down on the other side.

And that’s when they hit her with the UCAV swarm. Twenty threats at once, just a tiny grouping. Not a big swarm by any means. Still more than dangerous. She knew from previous experience that they would fire tranquilizer darts. More than a couple and she’d be out. Her Land Warriors glitched out, so she took them off and threw them down as she executed a forward combat roll and took cover behind a fallen tree. Had to do this old school, then. Three darts hit the trunk above her. They had her in a semicircle and were closing in at less than twenty yards.Toni brought up her M6 and squeezed the trigger. It jammed. Bullshit!
She’d PMCS’d it herself. It must have been rigged to fail. The bolt was stuck in the closed position. I’m not going to fail this time!
She’d make a run for it. That’s what she’d do. She dropped her rifle and grabbed Daddy’s dog tags. She could do this.The course sprung out as clear and crisp, and she could make out the beats of the individual wings of the nearest UCAV as it darted.

The earth rumbled as Toni popped up from her cover and bolted down the home stretch. She swatted the drones out of the sky if they were in her way. Fountains of earth blew away from her feet and showered dirt and rocks everywhere. The mud pit ahead was like solid rock ground, she blew right through it. There was the last part -- climbing the rope and ringing the bell. She reached for the rope and as soon as she touched it the whole rig groaned and collapsed in a pile of timbers and twine.

She snatched the bell from where it had fallen and gave it a jingle in her hands. The remote camera whirled its lens her direction and made a clicking sound as it focused on her. “Hooah!”
she yelled, and threw the bell at it. It smashed the camera into a cloud of powdered glass, making a very pleasing chime in the process. Toni laughed as she gazed upon her ripped and bloodied sleeves and surveyed the smoking drones behind her. Victory was hers.


* * *

Beep. Kinnick shut off the recording. “There’s your proof.”
It was incontestable that she was psychokinetic. Exploding rock and dirt had followed her sprint as if she’d been throwing up chaff to guard against the UCAVs. She had set off a highly localized earthquake of 5.0 magnitude.

“I see,” said Lt. Col. Warhol. “You didn’t answer my question. Is she a danger to herself or others if she is released?”

Kinnick shook his head. “I do not believe so. No one has died more than six months after the first symptoms stop. But she still fails to see the truth. I know we can break through if you just allow me --”


“Out of the question.” The physician crossed her arms. “We are operating in a very dubious moral and ethical realm here already. Continuing down this road will remove all doubt. You have had her for six months now. I see no benefit in continuing to hold her and significant costs. If you continue to torment her you will only kill her or make her crazier than she already is.”

“Ma’am--”


“That’s an order, Major. I’m shutting down experimental subject F01. The orders are already being issued.”

What a waste. But there would be other opportunities, eventually, with what little time he had left. Memento mori. He nodded. “I assume you want her moved over to SUBGRU.”


She shook her head. “That’s a negative, Major. The Rangers want her back. It seems her father raised a stink about no contact with her, and got in touch with the right general, and, well, you know. It’s hard to deny a triple amputee war hero what he wants.”

Perhaps. What a shame, though. Perez had been such an interesting labrat.

* * *

It was 0500 and Toni was lacing up her boots when CPO Waltman came in. Didn’t even knock, but Toni sprung to parade rest anyway. Wasn’t going to catch her off guard if she could help it. “At ease,” he said. “Here.” he handed her a packet.

She frowned. “What is this?”


“You’ve been sprung. You’re clearing the camp and heading back to Georgia. Guess someone had enough of you. Pack your bags immediately.”

Toni glanced at the orders. Travel and reassignment. Jump School. She was going back to Benning.

She laughed. “I’m too hardcore for this camp, Chief,”
she said. “You should come see me in Georgia sometime. If you think you’re tough enough, and you think you know your stuff.”
Yeah, there was a threat in there. She hadn’t quite forgotten. But never mind that. She could already hear the running cadence beating through her head as she grinned. Look at me, Daddy. I’m going to be an Airborne Ranger, living a life of guts and danger…

Noah shifted the old truck into park and gripped the steering wheel hard as he took a breath. He tried not to show it but he was hurting more often than not these days. He could feel time gnawing and grinding away at his bones. Time was a poor friend and an unforgiving master. Always taking, stealing away, never giving back, grinding forward like the wheel of a millstone. And as long as man had existed, he had tried to rage against the dying of the light, rage against change and decay. But it made no difference. The future was inevitable, and one day it would no longer belong to him. He would try not to fight it when that day came.

But until then it was still his time. Noah got out of the truck and surveyed the landscape. Rolling yellow grasses covered the flat horizon, broken by a jagged mound of rock shooting up from the ground as if the earth had punched the sky. To the right a narrow band of river continued to wear away at the soft soil in solitude. There was not a building to see. In the evening light of the setting sun, the dying light caught the red mud and set it ablaze, like a red tower rising from the grassland. Thunder Butte. The Lakota legend was that this was the birthplace of Thunder. A fitting place to birth a people of fire and iron who would cause the earth to tremble with their footsteps and shoot lightning from their eyes, like the Kakchinas of old.

What was, and what will be. And yet it may be so, today.

He probably needn't come here in person, but he wanted to see this himself. After years of fruitless endeavors of trying to keep the Native peoples safe from the Sickness, from the government, the Atharim, and themselves, they could finally press forward with a concrete plan and a solid foundation. Jon and others had done their work like good servants to the will of fate, making sure this place would be protected from the government, and out here in the middle of nowhere these spirit warriors to be could pose the least risk to themselves or others until they could gain control of their abilities. That was the greatest danger. And that only left the Atharim. They would have to keep guard, and eventually build fortifications and self-sustaining operations. The butte itself with its hard rock core may prove useful. He hoped they wouldn't have to transform it too much. It was a sacred place.

The sport utility vehicle pulled in behind Noah, and a middle-aged man with a prominent nose and flecks of gray in his single black braid got out. He was wearing a jeans jacket and pants with thick boots. Chief Stephen Two Moons of the Standing Rock Lakota. His son was one of the six youth in the SUV, brought here by Noah because they had begun to experience the channeling Sickness. Two young men and a girl, only sixteen, from the Lakota Nation, two Cherokee sisters -- twins -- from Oklahoma, and a young Hopi man from Arizona. The Hopi reminded Noah too much of Jerome. That was all he had managed to find so far and keep tabs on in this past year, even though Noah had become known through the tribes as a man who could treat the Sickness. All too often these youth were just disappearing.

"We'll set up camp down between the river and the butte," Noah said. "Where the river bends around. Should be able to divert the stream for water collection and purification. It's too late in the year for planting, but there's plenty of grass for the buffalo and the other livestock." They had food, anyway. Some, at least. This was a collaborative effort on behalf of the tribes and all had made some donation to the cause. Even so, the Lakota Spiritual Development Institute would probably always be the epitome of austerity. "Erect the teepees in a circle down there."

The man nodded, and banged on the hood of his SUV. The boys and girls got out. Other vehicles began to pull in behind them. Camp helpers and volunteers, mostly family or people who hoped somehow they could gain these abilities for themselves. About two dozen of them all together. They'd help get set up and perhaps stick around for lack of anything better to do. They began to empty the old truck of supplies. Long tent poles and bags of treated canvas. Food and water. Gas for cooking stoves. Shovels and pickaxes for digging, and coils of rope and barbed wire.

Chief Two Moons had been Navy himself, serving aboard the USS Ronald Regan during the Taiwan Strait War. The man understood the value of discipline. They'd spoken of how to best proceed. Hard work and discipline would go hand in hand with the teachings of their ancestors. These people -- kids, really -- would learn how to become self-sufficient out here as well as gain control over their abilities. And as more came, the need for organization and discipline would become all too apparent. A simple thing like improper latrine placement and maintenance could spell doom for this camp, and lack of discipline would destroy any outfit, let alone one in which the people had the power to destroy each other and themselves.

But still, they were missing one key component. The institute needed teachers. Men and women who could show the way, who had done it themselves already.

Fortunately, Noah had already taken care of that. "Hello, Jon," he called out without turning his head. "Why don't you come up and say a word or two?"

A slight knock came to his door, and Anton was glad he had left the party early. He had lessons today, and it wouldn't have been fun doing them with a hangover - not even to mention how unprofessional it would be. Anton stood and answered the door and felt the nervousness that his student Natasha was feeling now.

"Good morning, Professor,"
she said politely.

Anton nodded and let her enter. She set her music binder on the music stand next to the piano as Anton sat down. Her nervousness was almost overwhelming and since he had no one to focus on, he had to mute her emotions in another way.

Anton led her through some vocal warm-ups, critiquing technique when it was needed. She was a senior and was learning quite well. It wouldn't surprise him if in a few years she was performing with him on stage.

"You're nervous, what's wrong?"
he asked. He of course knew what was causing it, but if she talked about it, it would help.

"I have my audition for the opera soon,"


Anton nodded. He knew auditions for the University's performance of Don Giovanni were coming up and he knew Natasha planned to audition. Auditions were always nerve wracking.

"What are you singing,"


"The Queen of the Night Aria,"
she said.

Anton smiled. It was a good choice for her voice part, and she had the talent to make it happen. "Good choice,"
Anton stood and pulled a book from his shelf. He opened it to a specific page, and started the introduction. "Sing it."


Anton listened as she sang though the aria. Natasha had a beautiful soprano voice. She would do well in her auditions as long as she didn't let her nerves get the better of her. Even now though, the nerves were dissipating.

She finished the aria and Anton held back telling her how he felt at first. "Critique yourself,"
he said and waited.

"The notes are there, but it lacks something I think,"
she waited as if expecting her teacher to comment. She continued when he did not. "I feel like I'm singing the notes, but it feels like it's missing some life."


Anton nodded. "What is this aria about."


"The Queen of the Night is wanting Pamina to kill Sarastro. It's a song about revenge and hate."


Anton nodded. "Hard emotions for you to channel I'm sure,"
he said. Natasha was a very kind hearted student. "But you need to put that emotion into your sound. That is what the directors want to see. You can sing the notes, but they want to hear you make music. Try it again."[color]

Natasha seemed to understand. The life the aria had missed before came into being. This lesson made him think of his own performance that was coming up the next night. He would have a gamut of emotions to portray. Of course, he had an advantage that his student didn't have.

Adam loved listening to the excitement of their female guest. She was bubbly energy and full of life and her excitement was contagious. It was something everyone wanted and needed and it was a shame that they couldn't bottle it up and sell it.

Her final comment as they arrived at the Ritz made Methos smile. "It does have a nice ring to it."


The door man opened the door and Methos got out first and offered his hand to the lovely Ms. Danika. There were of course cameras and entertainment news crews mixed in with the paparazzi. But none of it mattered, Adam had pulled the guise of Methos around him and he was ready to be the showman.

Bradley followed as they walked through the glass doors of the hotel into cool fresh air. But the electricity was still in the air as they made their way up to the floor they had taken. It wasn't the most expensive rooms but when you take the entire floor does it need to be. The grand suite was their final stop, there was already music playing in the room, it could be barely heard from outside the open door. Bev must be hard at work.

Once they past the open door the music blared and the light display on the ceiling was apparent. Troy seemed to be playing with his tricks again as well. Shimmering lights of red and blue and green much like the Aurora Borealis skirted the ceiling and the walls. It was always a wonder when the crew set their parties going. Bradley had snuck off to their own room down the other end of the hall - possibly to change, possibly to slip into the satiny sheets to sleep off the alcohol he'd consumed too much of. Maybe he'd be waiting up - doubtful. Adam knew better, he was slipping himself in next to their son as always when Methos entertained guests.

It was not an easy life living with Methos. But the three of them managed and Adam did love this life. Loved being Methos.

Methos presented Danika to the party. "My darling. This is now your celebration. "
Bev and Troy stood off to the side of the room whispering as Methos appraised the room. "Whatever you like my darling Danika. Call whom ever you like, invite them. Show them what your diligence has brought you. The more the merrier."

<big>Vietnam, 1969
</big>
Corporal Noah Crow's Eye peered out from behind the M-60 mount at the open door of the Huey and scanned the jungle scape for movement. Half of the ridges leading out from the A Shau Valley had been blasted into unrecognizable twigs of trees as the ten-day battle had worn on. Hamburger Hill, they were calling it. The eerie twilight turned those ridges to an ashen ghost of a forest. Yet there was still plenty of greenery to provide cover for enemy movement attempting to sneak in. Anything could hide in that dense foliage.

As a matter of fact, for the squad sitting behind Noah and the other forces with the three other Hueys, that's what they were counting on. “There,” Noah cried out to the sergeant strapped in behind him, pointing to a barely recognizable sliver to the other gunner. “You see the back trail? That's what they're using.” He'd already seen the trail in a dream, walking it in that other place he didn't really understand. His people had old memories of things like that place in the Spirit world but much of it had been long forgotten or shrouded in mystery. Of course Sarge would think he was full of shit if he told him that.

The NCO chuckled. “Hardly. You have a bird's eye all right, Crow.” He slung his M-16 around his back. He called over the radio to the other units then patted Noah on his bare cheek. “Keep your babyface eagle eyes on the lookout while we fast-rope in. There ain't shit for a landing.”

Noah nodded, trying not to roll his eyes. He was already 19 and had been out here for nearly a year. However his inability to grow facial hair had earned him a couple of nicknames. He had run into his handful of other Native Americans out here, and they all seemed very out of place among the scruffy faces of the other rough and dirtied foot soldiers who'd been rotting in the jungle. More than once he'd been looked on suspiciously, which was ridiculous. He didn't look that much like Charlie. Eyes were all wrong. He shook his head. Sometimes it was hard to believe he'd volunteered for this, and all on a dream. It still made no sense to him for him to be here. They told him he'd be a medic but then after training they threw him in as a door gunner. More meat for the grinder. It had been a long and bloody slog over some God-forsaken jungle with no end in sight.

But still, what would be, would be. He glanced down at the mark on his forearm. A simple snake biting his forearm. His father, now long dead, and his grandfather before them, and their forefathers, had called themselves the Remnant, the Atharim. Secret protectors of the tribe and their people from monsters and disaster. It all seemed like so much nonsense, like the old stories of the medicine men. Noah hadn't seen any such thing as a monster. Only disaster he'd seen was what the Feds had done to the tribes, specifically the Cherokee.

The rope was thrown over the side and the squad slid down it one by one the sixty feet to the jungle floor. Noah quickly pulled up the rope and took his spot behind the gun. He coiled the rope carefully so if they needed to bug out he could just push it back over the side.

Speaking of dreams, the one he'd suffered last night was downright terrible, and had left him wiped out. Nothing but certain doom and gloom. It was one reason why he was packing his 12-gauge shotgun, his 1911 sidearm and a Bowie knife. Probably nothing but nervousness since his chopper had been lucky mixed with wild bogeyman stories of crash survivors disappearing in the jungle. This place could even swallow the dead.

There. Deep in the trees, about fifty yards from the drop. Wide conical helmet and the flash of metal. They were crouched. “Two O'Clock!” he yelled out. He swung around the machine gun and lit up the stand of trees. Metal casings went flying and his ears burned. The forest floor came alive with movement. There were at least two hundred of them! Noah kept firing as a flash of light sprung from the floor and struck the Huey next to him. It careened into the trees and ground up leaves and trunk alike in a flaming ball of wreckage. He swallowed and tried not to think about the same thing happening.

No such luck. His chopper lurched as its motor was hit by the RPG, and Noah slammed forward, first in to the butt of the M-60, and then out the open door. He felt his back whip back as he was jerked by the line that secured him to the Huey floor. Head spinning and out of breath, dangling twenty feet from the forest floor, he looked up as the Huey started listing to the right. He had just enough time to grab the knife and slice the line.

Noah dropped into a stand of bushes, branches gouging at his flesh, and tumbled to the ground. He felt himself over. Nothing broken. Just very bruised and sore. His helicopter veered away, trailing smoke from its engine. He got to one knee and unslung the shotgun, attempting to get his bearings. An enemy screamed and rushed at him with a bayonet. Noah knocked it aside and slammed the butt stock into the man's jaw with a crunch, and pivoted and fired a slug into the man's chest.

He looked around. There were no sense of lines at all. Just echoes of gunfire and explosions and screaming, and smoke everywhere. He rushed forward and took cover behind a fallen log. Night was rapidly falling and an American by himself – even one grown up in the North Carolina Appalachia like Noah – was as good as dead in these Charlie infested boonies. But out in the open he was just as good as dead, also. So he'd take cover till he heard recognizable voices, or until the choppers came back.

None came as night fell and the temperature dropped. Hopes of rescue dwindled. He was pretty sure that if he followed the trail back East he would eventually make it back to the firebase at A Shau Valley. Noah left his hiding place and pushed forward, quietly. The jungle had long since grown still.

He heard a scream up ahead. It sounded – didn't sound like Charlie. Then there was a growl, and some more screams. Noah picked up his pace, careful to keep his shotgun ahead of him in case he ran across a booby trap.

In the clearing ahead there was a glow. Noah dropped to his elbows and crawled on his belly. An all too familiar scent of blood and flesh reached his nostrils. He peered in. There were dead men, three of them, splayed out across the clearing. One of them was Sarge. Something was hunched over him. Noah made out a silhouette of a thing vaguely humanoid with coal-black skin. It had flesh and sinew between its teeth – it was eating Sarge. It looked up and turned its glowing eyes at Noah, and snarled.

The creature from his dream.

Noah popped up from the prone position and fired his shotgun twice, missing both times. Blazes, the thing was fast! It feinted right, and swiped a clawed hand at his shoulder, scoring a slash along the back of his forearm. Noah ignored it and instead slammed the butt of his shotgun into the creature's face. He remembered from the dream that it was going to go for his throat. He had to keep those sharp teeth away. The thing reeled back but it didn't seem like the blow had fazed it. It swiped and knocked the shotgun out of his hands. Noah backed up and tripped over a root, falling backwards.

It jumped at him just as Noah, on his back, brought up his sidearm. He emptied the .45-caliber magazine into the creature at point- blank range and braced for the feel of jaws on his neck.


It never came. The creature shrieked and jumped off, disappearing into the brush.

Noah didn't know if he'd manage to injure the beast or just scare it off. He didn't care. He scrambled to his feet, trying to catch his breath, giving thanks to the Great Spirit for watching over him. He scrambled for the shotgun and pulled it up. One thing was for sure, though. Those stories of creatures weren't hooey.

In his pocket was a flashlight. He pulled it out, shining it into the night along the barrel of his shotgun. Noah looked around for the first time. He wasn't in a clearing. It was an old courtyard of some sort. Perfectly square, and the far side dropped off like a cliff. And it hadn't been a root he'd tripped over but an aged slab of stone. He stepped forward. A huge hulking shape gave way to...a stone awning. A temple or altar, perhaps. No, a pyramid. It dawned on him that he was actually at the top of a massive, buried structure. There were glyphs of some sort, in an unrecognizable language. He couldn't make any sense of it. But there were drawings and a snake. Or a wheel. Or...no, it was the Oroborus.

Now Noah understood. This was what he was supposed to find.


* * *

<big>Thirty-four years later
March 2003
Duke University
</big>

The snow was falling outside that evening, unusual for that late in the year. There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Noah called out from behind his desk. The door to his office opened, revealing Dr. Nathan Folsom. archaeologist was a recent face at Duke, and he had an office across campus from Noah's study. Noah had gotten to know him well over the past year, much to his chagrin. He didn't like the man much.

“Noah.” Dr. Folsom put out his hand. The middle-aged European let just a bit of skin show on his forearm which revealed the head of a snake. Noah took his arm and shook it but didn't stand. “I've seen your latest work pre-Columbian deity mythology. Fascinating stuff about why Pontiac believed he could make his warrior braves bulletproof.”

Noah nodded and narrowed his eyes. The man wasn't here for academics. “I appreciate your endorsement. What can I do for you?”

The man tsked. “Your family has done some very impressive things, in their little isolated pocket of the United States. Did you know that our records mention an ancestor of yours singlehandedly took out a nest of Dreyken which was attacking the Jamestown colony?” Noah had known as much. He'd seen the records himself, at a safe house not far from here. It seems Folsom had been digging up information on Noah for quite some time. Not in the waking world, of course. While walking the dream. There were other natives who could do it, as well. Wolves, also. And still more, hidden, who kept such a distance they thought Noah wasn't aware of their presence. But he hadn't found any others who understood how to read the lines of if, however.

Dr. Folsom walked over to a stand across the room and picked up a skull. Chupakabra. Noah had tracked it down in the Southwest years ago. “Somehow, the Remnant has survived in the shadows on this continent, and carried on their work in their little pockets just like your family. A remnant of the Remnant. For hundreds of years, we have been trying to re-unite you under the guidance of the Regus. And things have become more urgent.”

Noah frowned. “In what way?”

The man placed the skull back down on the stand. “Direction. This isn't just about rogue monsters and the like. This is about bringing you in under the fold. You hear things, I know. I'm sure you have heard Regus Wilhelm lost his own son to a Dreyken attack. He's become...insistent on things.”

Noah opened up a drawer and rummaged through it while keeping his eye on Folsom. “What does this have to do with me, exactly?”

The man opened his suit jacket. Noah saw a pearl-handled revolver for a moment, but the man instead pulled out a paper. “This should be right down your alley. It seems our efforts to...infiltrate the goings on of the Native groups of Atharim continue to be stymied. Additionally, someone has been...poking around. Threatening to expose certain historical actions allegedly taken by the organization. The manipulation of Jackson, for one.” He tsked again. It was an irritating habit. “Here is what we know about where the requests are coming from. We've traced it to coming from somewhere on this university and we think it's one of your local boys. Find it and quiet it.”

Noah's eyes narrowed. What was, and what will be, may be what is, today. His left hand found what he was looking for. “What do you mean by quiet it?”

The other man shrugged. “Figure it out. But the Remnant in this Godforsaken continent will be consolidated.”

Noah reached down with his right arm. “I don't think so.” He pushed back from the desk and brought his right hand up, revealing a taser pistol. Barbs flew and struck Folsom in the throat. Fifty thousand volts turned his muscles to jelly and he collapsed like a boneless sack of meat.

Noah didn't spare a second. He raced over and pulled the revolver from Folsom's holster. Then he stuck the man with the syringe in his left hand – a large dose of sodium thiopental.

“I'm going to tell you something,” Noah told the man. “Your kind are killers. Vicious killers. This isn't about saving people. This is about control to you.” He turned the man's revolver back on himself. Not that it was particularly necessary. The drug was fast-acting. “Who else knows about me?”

The man drooled a bit. He'd be compliant, but not lucid for long. “The safe house. Two others. And one in Alexandria. Your family record is there.” His eyes tried to focus on Noah. “I thought you were one of the good guys. Why you...you...”

Noah sighed. He came back to his desk and reached for another syringe. “Because the more you try to fight the future, the more blood will be shed. And it won't make any difference.” A raspy, mirthless laugh broke out from deep within him. “I've seen the future. And it doesn't belong to you.” He stuck the man again. The man's eyes glazed over. Within minutes his heart stopped. A shame Noah had to kill him. But that's what warriors did when they had a fight to win. Certain things had to come to pass if any of his people would survive the coming storm. And letting Folsom and Wilhelm and their ilk to penetrate further than they'd already managed to do so far would make things ten times worse. Noah reached behind his desk and pulled out the black body bag he'd stashed there earlier that day, whistling to himself.

That night, an explosion ripped through an upscale home in Durham. Three people were found dead in the blast the next morning, including a Dr. Nathan Folsom. A gas leak was blamed for the explosion. Two days later, a house went up in flames in Alexandria. If anyone was inside there wouldn't have even been dental records surviving. It was a suspected arson. The only problem was that no one could find who owned the property and no one stepped up to file an insurance claim. Neither of these incidents were considered particularly remarkable. Certainly no one connected them. And certainly no one connected either incident with Noah's announcement that he would take a sabbatical that year in preparation for retirement from the academic world. It was hardly a rare occasion for a tenured professor to drop his course load when he was nearing sixty.

He dropped into private research after that on his reservation in Cherokee, N.C., and his activities since then have been for the most part unnoticed. The Atharim have long forgotten about him as well as he has managed to wipe out all knowledge of his affiliation with them. But Noah has not forgotten about them. And he became instrumental to the development of the current Council of Native Americans. As the Sickness began to develop, Noah developed more and more of his time to studying the illness and coordinating efforts with other Native American tribes.

He never got rid of the tattoo, though.

"Falcon 2-1, this is Foxtrot actual. Request ETA on the drop, over."
LT's voice crackled over the squad's comms. It was good to be back in American armor, using American weapons. The suits were lighter weight than what the Custody offered, but the maneuverability difference was night and day. Still, this operation was off the books. There were no identifying marks on the suits.

It was early morning in northern Liberia. The sun was still a couple hours' off cresting the horizon, but the birds were starting to sing. In a few hours, sentries would be swapping shifts across the nation. Miles overhead, an XMC-130's cargo bay was opening up. The response came through over the radio. "Foxtrot Actual, Falcon 2-1. Package is free, ETA one minute on your strobe, over."


The team waited, and watched. They'd dropped an IR strobe in a field a hundred yards from their position. The minute wasn't even up yet when the drop pods slammed into the ground, retro thrusters firing in a flash heartbeats before they hit. Even so, a couple of the stabilizer fins were knocked loose from the impact. Even the most highly trained soldiers needed a supply chain, and the drop pods left a small footprint.

LT stood up and waved the team forwards. "Appreciate the gifts, Falcon 2-1. Foxtrot actual out."
They had swarm drones buzzing the surrounding area, and the chances of someone sneaking up on them were low - but that didn't mean they were going to wait around. When Koehler reached the first pod and pulled the latch, he was greeted by fresh batteries for their suits, and a healthy amount of ammo - preloaded in M6 magazines.

Once the team's supplies were topped off, Koehler seized the power and destroyed the evidence. He was getting good at that. A few lashes of fire and some air to whip it all away, and it was like the pods had never even hit the ground. Granted, there wasn't much point in the effort; it wasn't like they could pick up every 6.8 mm casing that hit the ground. The Custody's ammunition was all caseless, the Chinese used mostly 7.62, and African forces were a strange hodgepodge of last-gen weapons from across the world. Any ballistics tech with half a brain would figure out who was icing the Liberian army.

Team Foxtrot was made up of eight SUBGRU SEALs, and two of them were psychokinetic. LT looked at Koehler. "Andrew, I'm sending a waypoint to your visor. I need you, Weber, Jonesey and Frank to take out that supply station."
A moment later, a white diamond popped up on Koehler's HUD, to the north. Most of the other helmets used a closed circuit video camera system - made things like flashbangs useless against them. Koehler had to make due with a polarized lens and a holographic display. Cameras didn't pick up the power.

"Got it, boss. Any civilians we need to worry about?"
It was good to be able to talk on mission again. Last time Koehler was out, they were pretending to be Custody troops - and there weren't any Bostonians in Taskforce Vega.

"Shouldn't be, no. You good to go?"
If there were, Koehler knew what he had to do. With the number of people deployed across the country, and the fact that the operations were still off the books, someone really high up the food chain wanted this kept quiet. Someone Koehler didn't feel like fucking with.

Koehler nodded. "I'll see you at the rendezvous, sir."
With that, his squad split off from the team. They set out at what would pass for a dead run without the suits. Modern batteries could maintain a fifteen mile per hour sprint for hours on end without powering down, and they had spares in their packs. Even if they didn't, one of the first spells they'd developed at Camp Hoover gave squad psychokinetics the ability to recharge batteries in a pinch.

It took an hour to reach the supply depot, and by the time they got there the first red hints of sunlight were starting to brush the sky. The squad took cover on a ridge overlooking the whole setup. Koehler switched on thermals. "Looks like thirty seven contacts,"
he said over their local comms. The depot wasn't heavily defended. It consisted of a motor pool, a warehouse, and a barracks building with chain link fences all around. Looked like they had a lot of expensive hardware parked there nonetheless. Koehler found himself wondering whose bright idea it was to sell Bradley IFV's and Humvees to the people they were going to have to blow up later.

Jake Weber chimed in next. "Thirty seven. Some of them are unarmed; may be noncombatants. How do we want to take this?"


"We'll take it as planned. I'll thin the herd."
Koehler reached deep, and grabbed hold of the power. There wasn't much of a battle anymore, even if he found it difficult to hold for long without getting tired. He had to remove himself from the world around him to get control - something hard to do when bullets were flying. "On my mark,"
he said. Lashes of fire danced out, before taking root in the motor pool's fuel reserves. Moments later, a fireball engulfed the collection of vehicles and sent shards of hot metal flying all around. "Mark."


Somewhere in another world, Koehler knew he could hear the sharp hiss of suppressed M6's firing off rounds into the Liberian soldiers who were still standing. While the squad did their job, Koehler sought out and cut the lines to the depot's radio tower. No way they were calling for backup. The soldiers' spines were already broken, and they didn't put up much of a fight. Most died with exit wounds in their chests. A few tried to take cover in the barracks, but a quick slice of air took the walls down on top of them.

Before long, the only life signs Koehler could see were holed up in a cage, away from the fire. A secondary explosion from one of the Humvees' gas tanks cooking off toppled what remained of the motor pool's overhang. A piece of shrapnel slamming into the tree next to him shook Koehler's grip of the power free.

"Cease fire,"
Koehler said, and all the shooting stopped. "I want to see what the fuck's up with that cage."
LT didn't say anything about prisoners. Koehler figured he might as well see what he could find out. Afterwards, well, he had a little trick he'd been working on. Might as well try it.

It took another half an hour for the fire in the motor pool to burn down to a safe level. When it did, Koehler and Weber picked their way down the ridge and into what remained. Jonesey and Frank stayed up on the ridge to watch for any new contacts. "Shit, man,"
Weber said when they reached the twisted remains of the fence. "Must be crazy being able to do all this with your head."


"Should ask your sister what I can do with the other one, Weber,"
Koehler said. "Well, you should've if I did trannies. Who knows, might make an exception for her since she's your sister and all. Coulda sworn I heard you say she was in country."
He laughed a short laugh, not quite ignoring the destruction around them.

"Fuck you, Andy."
That exchange was far from the worst. Didn't change the fact that any member of the team was ready to give his life for the others at a moment's notice. "What's the plan with this? If these two see us - "


"Don't worry about that, Weber."
Koehler cut Weber off. "I've got a trick I've been wanting to try out. That private back in Camp Hoover was doing it."
Mind control. Well, in a simple sense. If it worked the way Koehler thought it would, he could ask the two in that cage anything he wanted and they'd forget all about it.

"Ramirez, right? That dude was fuckin' creepy. Can't tell you how many times he 'borrowed' cash off me."
The flames were still crackling when they rounded the corner to come in view of the cage. One of the men inside was slumped over, a chunk of shrapnel sticking out of his neck. He must have bled out while the squad waited for the fires to die down.

The other man was in good enough condition and his face lit up when they came in view. "Americans!" He shouted. The accent was thick and judging by the clothes, he was local. He shook the cage's bars.

"Look,"
Koehler began. "You speak English?"


"English..." The man shook his head, looking confused. "No."

Koehler sighed, checking the satellite uplink. Less than a quarter of a megabyte per second. The voice translator wouldn't work, and the only one on the team who spoke the language was with LT. He grabbed hold of the power, a little more sluggishly than he would have if he hadn't just destroyed half the complex. "Well, that was useless."
He sent lashes of spirit drilling into the man's mind, coupled with fire and earth. The way Ramirez did it, it should... Crap.
The guy's eyes crossed, and he slumped over. A moment later he was seizing up on the ground.

"I don't remember doing that when Ramirez was fucking with me, Andy."
Koehler could imagine the horrified look on Weber's face. "What the fuck did you do to him?"


There was a dead Liberian soldier lying on the ground, and his weapon looked loaded. Koehler released the power, and picked the decades-old AK-47 up. Only way not to tie anything back to them. "I fucked up, that's what."
He pointed the AK at the man's head and pulled the trigger. "Don't tell LT about this, Weber."



Edited by Andrew Koehler, Sep 29 2016, 12:48 AM.

SynJyn Quick Captain of the elite Vikings was re-reading reports from his Quarter Master and Master at Arms. He was consistently bombarded with request, that they damn well knew wouldn't be filled. "Bored Marines on the open seas"
he thought.

His orders to date were short and sweet: "Report to Manix Lir', Moscow area. My son has my full backing and support. Situation: Hostile."
The orders had come directly from Larson Lir' himself and tho short it was all he needed to know. The Vikings were a sea assault force but it wouldn't take much to transmute those skills to land base warfare. as he was silently thinking new training methods and even hiring an outside source, a knock came upon his door. "Enter"
he said in his rough voice.

A young sailor entered, a Seaman Apprentice by his stripes, He stood rigid and still. SynJyn was content to let him stand there forever, but had other things to do. "spit it out boy"
. The boy remained at attention and kept his composure, he got points in SynJyn's book for that. "Sir, a communique from Manix Lir', marked your eyes only. Skipper sent it directly down as soon as the download was complete."


Dismissing the sailor with a wave he inserted the modified SSD card into his micro pad. The face of Manix Lir soon popped up on his screen. "Hello, Old man, I pray your trip shall be uneventful and look forward to catching up while your crew gets some much needed R and R"
SJ nearly punched the pad. "What the hell!"
he murmured. Old man, R and R did the boy get hit on the head, again he pressed play. "I think ye shall find Moscow, interesting tho it feels like a cloak has been draped over the moon."
SJ stop it again and played back that last sentence, "cloak has been draped over the moon."


Pieces started to fall into place, Manix had just gave the Viking Pass phrase for caution, danger and need for stealth, tho it went deeper than that. It meant No open un-coded messaging and an upgraded off ship weapon's policy. The rest of the message held nothing important, Manix prattled on about a pub and stunning redhead and plans to make this a perfect R&amp;R stop. All a ruse. The entire 12 minute message to cover that 1 sentence.

SynJyn carried, on-board, new tech that he had been able to acquire. New communication implants, that went above some Country's own level of encryption, new scopes and and auto adjusting laser sight that was accurate at 10 yards as well as 100, plus a few more toys. The new implants he had not began the insertion process yet, wanting to talk it over with Manix first but that was in a world of five minutes ago. He would write the orders so all Viking's had the implants in and operational before they hit landfall.

SynJyn had no intentions of sending a message back and knew Manix was not expecting one. He made his way down to the hold and opened a crate bearing his personal seal. Inside he took out several devices that he began to clean, adjust and prepare. They was for Manix, they was for the future.

They was still 2 days out from Sydney, on escort of the "Wayfarer". She was due a 3 month refit. Drop off, restock/reload and a quick turn around for Moscow,"so much for shore leave"
, he thought. He drafted the needed orders for his LPO'S (Lead Petty Officer)and request for the Captain, then leaned back in his chair to wait for the grumbling's.


Edited by SynJyn, Sep 15 2016, 08:12 PM.