Chapter Eleven: Beneath It All

Chapter Eleven: Beneath It All

Location undisclosed

Time of the freighter incident

            The man was tinkering with his armor suit, a common practice of his, but one vital to his health nonetheless. He knew the suit was in operable condition, but one could always streamline function. His titanium-laced fingers clicked against the morgenthium surface, and he smiled as he modified the gloves.

            Let’s see. A little tweak here…Spring mechanism is broken, so might as well adjust that…holographic interface needs calibration…and then there’s the magnetic clip on the back…A sudden, urgent beep disrupted his work, and he slid off the chair he was working and went over to his comm station. The message there was succinct and quite clear. The name in the address line was blacked out, meaning that it had come from his only superior.

            Problem encountered. Carademus no longer on our side. The man rolled his eyes. That his employer was pointing someone out by name, and someone so well-known, meant only one thing. But knowing what he was going to have to do didn’t make completing the task easier.

            All right, he typed back, playing along for a bit. So he’s not listening to reason. Why is this my problem now? I mean, aside from the fact that just about everything you can’t handle is.

            The response that came back was quite abrasive. Don’t be obtuse. You know what I’m asking.

            Full well, the other replied. But I also remember from our pre-22^nd history modules that the world once faced a similar situation. Gavrilo Princip, if I recall. Started that little skirmish everyone called World War One by ventilating a skull belonging to someone really important.

            This is different.

            In that you’re asking me to do it? He asked. Or that you actually mean to start a galactic war? I mean, why settle for merely global, after all.

            Have you forgotten that I am in charge? The other questioned. You answer to me.

            I work for you, the man typed. But that doesn’t mean I follow everything you say like one of your salary grunts or some android. The fact that you have more stripes than a cross-hatched zebra doesn’t really faze me, big guy. I’m intelligent enough to think for myself, and I know exactly what this will mean. Be willing to bet you are, too.

            And you’re hesitating? The man could almost hear the self-congratulatory and smug tone behind that particular set of keystrokes. After everything you’ve done, I’d have thought you would pull this one without a second thought. I mean, it’s not as though he doesn’t deserve it.

            I just want to know if you’re aware what this means. Three seconds after I pull the trigger, the whole quadrant will erupt in a firefight. Do we really want another war? I mean, I’m all in for busting a few heads, but let’s be sure what we’re getting into.

            He already knew what the response was going to be. He’d been anticipating something like this in the not-too-distant future. But this was far earlier than he had expected. Yes. Our window is severely limited. He’s meeting with members of the Earth Government in two months and four days. Incidentally, the Ultra-Humanists have planned a special welcome for him. A rather explosive one. In the confusion they will cause, you will do what needs to be done. I want there to be no witnesses. That includes the terrorists.

            You’re going to kill two erstwhile allies at a peace summit, along with every single delegate and guard. That’s cold, even for you. The man sighed. How do you want it done?

            It doesn’t matter what weapon you use, came the reply. Take the Dragonspike for a long-distance snipe if you feel like it. I would advise disrupting their attack, though. The explosives they’re using are quite powerful and could cause significant damage. Just make sure not to show your real face. Now, how are things at the ICRF?

            Satisfactory, the man answered. They’re still frantically trying to figure out who it was that killed their lovely bosses. Which, by the way, I think was a mistake, even though it was kind of fun. He’d added that last bit as a facetious attempt at keeping his image as a sadist alive; after, it would be a poor assassin who pitied his targets.

A word of caution: Anders may be close to discovering our involvement in the Redding case. Not an important connection, but our cover won’t hold under close investigation. And she doesn’t do things halfway; if she finds us, she’ll pursue whatever leads I didn’t cover up. Which weren’t many; I hate loose ends. But still, I think this might have been overplaying our hand.

            The response was immediate and quite terse. Maybe his boss was unhappy that he had placed the blame at his feet. Even if that was where it really belonged. Then after you’ve addressed our little inconvenience on Castor, tie up the loose ends. At that point, we’ll use our camera-kissing friend to excavate some of her dirty past. I’m thinking a public execution.

            Too risky, the other typed. I’d suggest an assassination.

            YOU would, his employer said. It is, after all, you specialty.

            If you make her a martyr, then we’d have an even larger problem on our hands. We can’t go public and doing this ourselves. To make matters even more difficult, the people love her, for all her smut. She represents revolution to them. A modern Marianne, if you will.

            She is a mix of traits, the other corrected. Grime and brilliance mixed into an admirable and dangerous woman. And yes, I fully recognize her pivotal role in this, and that is precisely why she must be stopped. Thus, we will kill her, and we will do it publicly. I will not speak to this issue again. I want you to apprehend her. Alive.

            After I kill billions of sons and fathers by starting a war, he responded grimly. You want me to foment a destructible rebellion by getting a latchkey revolutionary figure executed. And that after murdering our songbird.

            Would you call that a problem? His employer seemed a little bit nervous. After all, his lead killer developing a conscience would truly be a pity. It would truly be a shame if you’ve lost your stomach…

            No, I wouldn’t call it a problem, he answered. I’d call it Tuesday. I’ll be in touch after I’ve seen the color of the alien’s brains. After all, I always did want to be a neurosurgeon. And what better way to test neural patterns than ripping a brain from the skull?

            After, of course. And good luck. The man on the other end grinned.

            Like I need it.

            Saturn

            Raven’s Nest Basement

            Two months later

Stefan was angry. Come to think of it, he’d been angry long before this, but the incident that resulted in the loss of his leg had rather conveniently brought this frustration to the fore. He had new prosthetics now, a set of metal legs that he’d custom-built, and they were much more powerful than the ones he’d once had. He was capable of jumping at least thirty feet in the air and absorbing insane amounts of physical force. In short, the injury made him a good three times more effective that he had been before. But that didn’t stop him from being angry about it, and he was currently taking out his frustration on a group of holographically generated enemies. Not that they stood a chance; the sheer force behind each kick he threw would have shattered a human ribcage, and the attacks came at speeds far exceeding those of most people’s reactions. Further, he was absolutely relentless, becoming a hurricane of devastation that tore through the hard-light enemies as fast as they regenerated. He hook-kicked one before he spun his legs around the simulation’s holographic neck and snapped it, following up with a reverse heel roundhouse that obliterated another. The third attack was a right cross that splintered two more, and a follow-up lotus kick combined with a reverse heel strike disintegrated another pair of fabricated enemies into a shower of technicolor sparks. Suddenly, Stefan heard a loud electronic whine, and the training simulation died. As the glass around the cubicle de-tinted itself, he saw Natalie standing outside, her hand on the wall-mounted training module control.

“What was that?” He asked, incredulous. “I was in the middle of something!”

She nodded. “I know. But we need to talk.”

Stefan’s eyes narrowed as he removed the wrap on his right hand. “What about?”

“You’ve been moody, and antisocial, and snappy for the past two months. Which is your thing, and I get that. But you’ve been abnormally quiet in between. You’re usually impossible to shut up, and you barely say anything now.”

He dropped the hand-wrap on the table but didn’t turn around. “So what? You’re complaining that I’m not talking? Now that would be a first.”

Natalie shook her head. “I’m not talking about that.” She went over to the table and rested her hands on it, forcing Stefan to make eye contact with her. “I’m talking about why you are. I know what happened, and I know why it’s bothering you.” He snorted, folding his arms across his chest.

“You have no idea,” he spat. “Noe in the least.”

“You’ve been having flashbacks,” she said. “You’re seeing a life you know isn’t yours, but you can’t deny it feels real. Then, on the freighter, you actually ended up imprisoned in your own mind. You…” she got no further, as Stefan suddenly lunged forward and grabbed her by the throat with his metal hand. Lifting her up, he slammed her down on the table.

“How do you know that?” His voice was tense and quiet, conveying a good amount of anger. She was gasping for breath, feeling his metal fingers crushing her neck. Suddenly, understanding dawned in his eyes. “You did this. You made me remember.” His fingers starting squeezing harder. “You psychotic witch, you did this to me. Blast you, you’re one of them!” He lifted her off the table and even off her feet. “Now you’d better come up with an explanation as to why I shouldn’t rip your head right off your shoulders.”

“I…had…to…” she managed to gasp out. “Radcliffe…dead…” even as she said the words, she felt his grip on her neck slacken and release. She fell to the floor, hyperventilating. Stefan looked down at his hand, an expression of mixed shock, fear, and disgust on his face.

“What?” he finally managed to say. “How could he…”

“The how doesn’t matter,” she told him. “The fact remains, he is dead, and we know that the Premier ordered it.”

            “So he knows about the Insurrection?” Stefan murmured. “And you? You’re a part of it?” Natalie looked uncomfortable.

            “I am,” she answered. “See, I’m not Natalie Shepard. Not really. Radcliffe took the real Natalie’s DNA and cloned me using an accelerated process that resulted in significant emotional imprinting from my progenitor. He needed my computer skills for…something. He never told me what it was for, but it seemed important. Because I’d already demonstrated technical aptitude with that, he asked me to do the same with you. I was the one who wrote the Lazarus Protocol and designed your implants.”

            Stefan’s hands clenched into fists. “So let’s say, for the sake of argument, I believe that you aren’t lying. That you really are one of us. Then what would be our next course of action? We’re just two people, and I can’t just waltz back into this.”

            “I’d been thinking about that,” Natalie replied. “But I don’t know where to start. He never showed me where he was keeping you in stasis. Did he ever mention a name, a lab, or coordinates? Anything we can use?” Stefan thought long and hard before answering, sifting through his memories. It was like swimming upstream, as he was still unused to the whole re-remembering thing.

            “Elysium,” he said, more than half to himself. “He called the lab Elysium, after the place Greek heroes went when they died. But he wiped my mind soon after, and I woke up on Mars in a training barracks. I don’t know where I started out.”

            She nodded. It made sense: Radcliffe exhibited paranoia at a level that rivaled that of his brilliance. When the Premier suspected that he might have used ECLIPSE as an attempt at revolt, he ordered the project shut down. But Radcliffe had anticipated this and used a secret lab to continue his work, one result of which was Natalie herself. And every time he had made a move since then, Radcliffe had been three steps ahead of the Premier. In truth, she sincerely doubted that his death had been unexpected, even though the Major had taken it as quite a shock. “He would have had to keep everything archived, though,” she said. “I mean, you can’t just build a person from scratch without notes.”

            Stefan laughed at that. “You really didn’t know Radcliffe that well, do you? He had an eidetic memory, a photographic recall of everything he ever read or saw. Besides, he was a scientist, and he never did anything without documentation. It’s procedure, or some garbage like that. In all likelihood, he put records in a localized system, one that wouldn’t broadcast and therefore couldn’t be hacked.”

            “But he’d have given the other Insurrection leaders a location, surely,” she reasoned.

            “He’d have had to hide it,” he answered. “And in a way the Major would understand...” He looked at her. “So he sent you with a mission, and it involves me. What do you-what did he-want me to do?”

            “The Insurrection needs a leader,” she told him. “And the Spymaster has turned on us. He’s got records and names and locations. No one’s safe.”

            “Except for people who aren’t supposed to exist,” he said, picking up the line of thought. “That’s why I’m ideal. Why we’re ideal. Because we aren’t real to them, and that means they can’t hunt us and, more importantly, can’t kill us.”

            “Exactly.” She looked as though she was about to say something else, but the sound of footsteps on the staircase interrupted her train of thought. It was Dani, and from the look on her face, something bad had just happened.

            “You guys need to see this,” she said. “Something really awful just went down.”

            “What?” Stefan asked. The note of concern in her voice was by no means a good sign; that girl was imperturbable to the extreme.

            “The Venus Peace Conference is on fire. It looks like the Ultra-humanists paid them a visit.”

            “Casualties?” Dani shook her head.

            “From what happened, it’d take less time to list survivors,” she replied. “The news says that there’s a firefight going on the building, but a lot of people are already dead. And it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon.”

            Stefan looked at Ali. The both of them knew that the Ministry often used Ultra-humanists to accomplish more radical goals. Him? He asked

            Who else? She answered.

            “Right,” Stefan said aloud. “Let’s see the reports.”

            Venus

            New Athens

            Four Hours Prior

            The peace summit was to take place at the Grand Palace Hotel, a place known for its opulence. Although it was a statement of governmental goodwill, Carademus could not help but perceive this as a direct affront to his way of life. His people, the Fylanisae, were notorious for their brutal way of life, most recently becoming involved in the Conglomerate War on the side of the aliens. Still, the terms of the treaty had been surprisingly generous, allowing them to maintain a military and fleet. Still, their economy had suffered in the aftermath, as few human planets willingly traded with them. This wealth…this opulence frustrated him. How could people in good conscience like this whenever they let their own die of hunger on backwater asteroids, their chests heaving as they coughed up blood? He’d seen the kind of things other humans suffered, even if the indolent scum that inhabited these core worlds had not. And yet they acted as though all people could enjoy this luxury. Carademus slid into his outfit, a loose-fitting knit red robe done up and down with orange fire patterns, slipping the hood over his gray-skinned head. He wouldn’t have worn the robe with its hood under most circumstances, but he wanted to hide his horns for this particular meeting. Most humans called his people “demons” or “man-eaters”, and based on their looks, they weren’t far wrong. The Fylasinae had skin ranging from dark blue to grey, with shades of black and purple mixed in between. As though that weren’t enough, their four eyes were glowing yellow orbs, which actually did give off light in the dark. More fundamental of the species actually painted their faces with blood-red tattoos, which in olden days had actually been colored with a mix of enemies’ blood. Among his people, Carademus was a moderate, wanting reconciliation with the humans and the abandonment of their bloody past. That reality, sadly had not yet been realized; the Fylasinae had a small but vocal minority that stubbornly clung to their brutal ways as a heritage worth defending. He heard a knock at the door, and he knew who it was. Jackson Hall, the leader of the human delegation. A decent man, not very vocal, content to let others expend their energy in explosive fights before tacitly proposing a viable solution.

            “Yes?” Carademus called.

            “I don’t mean to bother you,” came Hall’s quiet voice, “but it’s time.” The alien nodded, making sure the hood was tight around his face.

            “All right. I’m coming.”

            Sewer System

            Beneath the Hotel

            The small group of men moving through the sewers was doing their best to be quiet. Not an easy thing to do inside the waste disposal system of an orbital municipality, but they were doing their best. Gas giants like Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn all had atmospheric pressures much greater than that of Earth, pressures so great they would have easily crushed the Meterodrome cities that man generally erected in oxygen-depleted or otherwise inhospitable environments. Therefore, humans established orbital station to serve as cities, most of which mined the gas from the planets using reinforced siphons. These apparatuses required extensive cleaning and maintenance, but these men had not entered the sewers to access the small work tunnel that fed into the siphon. No, they intended something much deadlier in this quest.

            “How close are we?” the one in the back asked. “These charges aren’t gettin’ much lighter.”

            “Stop whining,” the leader snarled. “You’re the big guy, and you’re supposed to be stoic, or at least not a serial pain in the rear. So shut up and haul it. We get there as fast as you walk.”

            “Is this a good idea?” One of them asked. “I mean, won’t pouring flammable gas into a building be a little obvious?” The leader shook his head.

            “The synthesis of the gas renders it odorless, and the few modifications our process will make should keep their alarms from picking it up. Once it’s reached the fifth floor, we light the place up.”

            “How much longer?” One of them asked. “The convoy guys want to know.”

            “Tell them fifteen minutes before we spring it,” the leader answered.

Grand Palace Hotel

            A large gathering of police accompanied the peace conference. This was necessary after several previous meetings had been violently disrupted by Ultra-humanist agents. Therefore, they had requested that Venusian police give them S.W.A.T. units in addition to the usual officers. Carademus was shocked by this development; for all his people’s brutality, even he knew that peace accords were sacred. To attack someone once an offer of peace had been extended was tantamount to a declaration of renewed hostility. He took some small comfort in the fact that these other humans condemned the actions of the Ultra-humanists, but even so, he was uneasy about this conference. After all, there was no guarantee that they did not harbor some sympathy. While assassinations were an alien concept on his homeworld, the idea of treachery was not. He only hoped that no attack came. As he listened, he grew less and less certain he should be here. The leader of Earth’s International Governmental Cooperative Unified Front was speaking, and what he was saying didn’t bode well.

            “And now we hear that residents of multiple Conglomerate planets are rising up against their governments,” he told the assembled delegates. Here, the Kogiin delegate, a particulary thin specimen named Hagather, spoke up here.

            “And you’d hold all of us responsible for the actions of a few?” He challenged. “We had neither influence nor capacity to manipulate these movements. And if we had, we’d have opted for more freedom from the traditionalists, not less.”

            “We have no assurances of that,” one of the lower-level human delegates said. “For all we know, you could have been behind them.”

            “Like you could have been behind the terrorist attacks we’ve been dealing with,” the Lufreise delegate pointed out. Lufreise were a species similar to a bipedal wolf, though considerably more refined when given proper influence. Some of the more barbaric members of the species might have a taste for flesh, but the majority were peaceful. This female, named Shad’rokan, or simply Shadow, led the most prominent of the several clans on the planet. Acting as their diplomat and federal head, she had managed thus far to keep her people from the tides of revolution. “Whether we enjoy the concept or not,” she continued, facing the diplomats, “we are here for a purpose: to work together to fashion a lasting peace. Should we fail, there is virtually nothing between the galaxy and anarchy, again, whether we concede it. There are undercurrents of revolution in all our structures. We have no other choice; compromise or face the prospect of marginalization and likely ostracism.”

            “Agreed,” the Earth delegation leader said. “I don’t want to hear another accusation from any one of you. We assume innocence for all the delegates, and we will work together to fashion a peace accord. So shut up and listen up; we’ve got peace to make.”

            Police Headquarters

Six Rooms Down

            S.W.A.T. officer Lionel Hayes had just finished using the facilities, and he was planning on joining his unit in a few moments. After, of course, he put on his uniform. He slipped into his gear and tightened the belt around his waist. As Lionel did so, he reached for his wallet and took out his newlywed wife’s picture, looking at it one more time. Stefanie Hays; they had been married for less than four months, and he had felt terrible about the long hours the police had forced him to work since then. He turned to retrieve his weapon, walking past a mirror as he did so. He stopped briefly to admire his reflection…until the reflection moved on its own. The punch came at lightning speed, cracking across his jaw. It had been no mirror, he realized, but another locker room. Seeing the numbers, he knew that he should have realized it. Getting up and spitting blood from his mouth, Lionel reached for his pistol and trained on the other man’s left eye.

            “What the…” he was speechless momentarily, as his brain searched feverishly for a logical explanation. “What are you?” The other him smiled. The expression had a cold, gleeful anticipation about it that sent chills up Lionel’s spine

            “Isn’t it obvious?” He asked. “A cheap knockoff of you. Put that thing down, kid. You’re going to get hurt otherwise.” Hayes cocked the gun.

            “Not happening,” he shot back. “You tell me what’s going on or we’ll see what color your blood is.” The other man smiled again in that cold, frightening way.

            “Don’t think so. And even if you shot me…” the blow came at lightning speed, knocking the gun from Hayes’ hands. As his eyes followed the weapon, a second attack, a right cross palm strike, laid him out on the floor. The other him knelt beside the fallen officer, checking for a pulse. Still breathing, he thought. Good. Hate making widows when I don’t have to. Taking the body, he dragged Hayes into an oversized locker and, cuffing his hands, locked him inside.

            “Best you not see what happens next,” he told the unconscious officer. “Things are going to be really bloody.” He was going to say something else, but he was interrupted by a fiery explosion outside. Sticking his head out the door, he saw flames pouring from the conference room. He spent about two seconds making up his mind what he was going to do; shifting his holographic mimicry technology, the man assumed the form of a cleaning worker he had seen earlier, unlocked the locker, un-cuffed Hayes, and dragged him out the nearest fire exit, which he propped open with his foot. No point in leaving him to die, he mused. With the officer safe, the false Hayes/cleaning man ducked into a side room. There, he took his customized needle rifle, The DragonSpike, and shouldered it. He had rounds, grenades, two sidearms (SMGs; not his favorite weapon, but they cut through anything like a plasma knife through human flesh), his disguise kit, and his scorcher gloves. Right, he thought. Ladies, gentlemen, and semi-sentients of sundry descriptions, let’s get ready to rumble. Another explosion, bigger, from the sound of it, and perhaps a wee bit closer. Me and my big mouth, he thought ruefully. Turning, he slipped through the stairwell and into the basement. According to the Premier, this was where the Ultra-humanists started gas dispensation. And where he would be best positioned to blow their whole plan sky-high.

Conference Room

Several minutes prior

            Carademus was nodding off; these diplomats were mundane to the extreme, and their rhetoric was nothing he had not heard before. At least this would provide him a good way to catch up on sleep…the thought stopped when he heard something bump against the door to his left. He turned and looked at the other delegates. All of them seemed to hang on the current speaker’s every word; indeed, Carademus would have hanged himself if he could. Rolling his eyes, he got up from his chair, went to the door and opened it. Seeing no one, he looked up and down…that was when he saw the grenade. He barely had time to shut the door and open his mouth before an explosion ripped the mahogany portal from its hinges and sent it crashing against his back. The other delegates scrambled to their feet as fire alarms began blaring. Rushing to his side, one of the human delegates hefted the door off of him and checked his pulse. While it was weak, he alien was undoubtedly still alive, although several large splinters had penetrated his skin in a few places.

            “Everyone remain calm,” the Earth leader shouted. “The police and firefighters are nearby. We’ll have the situation in hand shortly. Now, I need you to…” What he needed, they never figured out, because armed gunmen burst into the room and opened fire. As there were still police in the room, they had enemies, and both sides took their tool. However, they were only numerically equal; the gunman wielded much heavier weapons, and they used them to lethal effect. Three policemen went down in the initial barrage of automatic weapons fire, along with two human delegates. Even the arrival of S.W.A.T officers did little to sway the tide, although it certainly evened the odds. They got the delegates to cover and proceeded to engage the gunmen. The captain of the outfit ordered the delegates taken outside and placed in cars to depart immediately, which the rank-and-file officers willingly did. That finished, they hauled them away, hoping that they might be safe.

            Outside the Grand Palace

            Five Blocks Away

            The man in the hovercar was startled out of sleep by the sound of his radio crackling. Hurriedly pulling his feet off the control panel, he got back into his seat and tried to assume some of his dignity. The radio buzzed again.

            “Head to Hands. Come in, Hands.”

            “Roger, Head, I read you. Over.”

            “Head to Hands. Ark in the water, over.”

            “Copy that. Undertow sweeping, over.”

            “Roger, Hands. Head out.” The man keyed the radio and flipped it to a different channel.

            “Boys, we just got the call,” he said. “They’ve left the building.”

            “Got it,” said another man’s voice. “West group, moving to cut them off.”

            “East moving to intercept,” the man replied. “They’re not going anywhere. Well, nowhere good.”

            Sewer pipes beneath the Grand Palace

            The Ultra-humanists had completed their appointed task; gas the hotel before they blasted it to bits. The demolitions group inside would destroy the hotel, themselves, the police, and anything for six blocks. Their task accomplished, the men were now retracing their original route through the pipes, their voices hushed.

            “What do you think they’ll say about this?” One of them asked.

            “The same that they said about the other ones,” the leader answered. “That we’re responsible, psychopathic, and menacing society. Which are all true. We menace a society because it harbors sub-humans, we take radical measures to destabilize it, and we proudly recognize our responsibility.”

            “True,” another agreed. “Any idea where we’ll hit next?”

            “Wherever we can do the most damage,” the other replied. Then, he said, “Quiet. Cleaning drones. Under the water, quick.” They all dove under water as one, submerging themselves in the water completely. The drones swept over ponderously, and the boss knew full well that some of his men must have aching lungs. But eventually, the machines finished their work and moved on. The men burst to the surface and crawled their way onto the side walkways, gasping for breath and trying to wipe the waste water away from their mouths and noses, to little avail. After several minutes of labored breathing, the boss got to his feet.

            “Right,” he said, taking a silent count of his men. “We’re good? Then we move out.” Slowly, his men got up and followed him. They moved in silence for about five minutes, until they came to a junction in the sewer.

            “Which way do we go?” One man asked. Inwardly the leader swore. He couldn’t remember the sewer layout, and his mapreader had been short-circuited during his bath in the water.

            “All have to surface somewhere,” he said. “So let’s split up. Carruthers, you take three men that way, I’ll take three this way.” Carruthers nodded, selected three men, and made off down the tunnel on the left. Eschewing the middle tunnel, the leader selected the right-hand tunnel. He and his men walked for a good while in silence, until he heard footsteps behind them. Turning, he saw one of the men who had gone with Carruthers running toward them. Sander Thorsen, if he remembered the name correctly.

            “Wait!” He called. “I…I can’t follow them. I want to come with you.” The leader rolled his eyes.

            “Not happening, idiot.” He turned to one of his subordinates and gestured to the man. “Shoot him.”

            “What?” the other man asked, incredulous. “Shoot him? Why?”

            “He defied a direct order,” the leader answered. “So shoot him, or I’ll do it to the both of you.” Hesitantly, the other man drew his pistol and pointed it at his chest. Then, he pulled back the gun hammer and fired. There was a loud ping, and the leader ducked his head as the bullet ricocheted off of several walls. The man with the gun’s eyes bugged in surprise, only to grow wider as the man he’d shot grabbed him around the neck and, though he was only using one hand, lifted him almost a foot off the ground. The bullet hadn’t even penetrated the man’s skin, it was as though he were bulletproof. Though such a thing couldn’t be possible.

            “Bad move,” Sander (if it was Sander) taunted him, watching the man struggle. “You know, maybe you should have defied that order.” He suddenly twisted his hand, and the other man’s head jerked to the side with a snap. “Would’ve been less fatal.” Tossing the body to the side, he turned to face the other three men, all of who had their guns raised and pointed at him. Raising his hands slowly, he said, “Gentlemen, please. We can talk this through.”

            “OPEN FIRE!” The leader shouted. The guns rattled as the men squeezed off a series of shots. To their surprise, the man was gone before the first of them even pulled the trigger. Suddenly, they heard another voice echoing through the sewers. Not Sander’s, as at first; no, this voice was metallic, deep, and cold, robotic but not distorted. And undercurrent of macabre humor was easily detectable as it spoke.

            “Now, boys, you should know what happens to children who play with guns. They get punished…” Suddenly, the leader hear a sharp whizz, and one of the men suddenly let out a gurgling gasp and collapsed, his eyes staring sightlessly up from the sewer bed where he’d fallen. The other man swiveled his head, trying in vain to see the enemy. He thought he heard something and turned, firing his pistol. The bullet pinged harmlessly off a wall, and he looked around, trying to glimpse his enemy. Then, he felt a something cold wrap around his throat, only to feel it grow searing, scorching hot. He let out a cry of pain and fear, expecting to be choked like his companion or worse, burned to death. Instead, he felt a burning pain as something sliced through his chest, piercing his heart. He was dead even before he fell from the invisible killer’s grip. The leader turned and watched in horror as his last man fell. Screaming in rage, he emptied his entire clip at the invisible foe. But he was already gone; it was as though he had never even been there, though the three corpses he had left in his wake said otherwise.

            “Where are you?” he shouted. “Show yourself!”

            “Gladly.” The voice came from behind him, and he turned, a fresh clip in his raised pistol. But he heard that same high-pitched whizz followed by a clang, and his gun was forcibly jerked from his grip. As he looked up, the creature he saw was the stuff of nightmares. It had the general shape of a man and black hair that looked human, but there the similarities with man ended. It had ugly, pale skin, its eyes were hidden behind multifaceted black lenses, and its mouth was a thin, merciless slit covered in a spider’s web of scars. The eyepieces seemed to be forcibly bolted into its face, and its entire body was covered in dull grey metal armor. The only light it gave off came from the eyes; a cold, merciless vermillion glow that bathed the sewer in hellish light.

            “Who…what are you?” The man stammered. The creature’s lips curved upward in a savage smile.

            “At the moment?” he asked, his voice changing even as his form did. Suddenly, he assumed the shape of the well-known Ultra-humanist leader, Jackson Rutger.

            “Are…are you some kind of monster?” The man asked.

            “A monster?” The other echoed, assuming his original form. “No, I think you’ll find me much higher than that.” Suddenly, he moved forward, catching the man by the scruff of the neck and throwing him onto the sewer ledge. As the leader rolled over, he felt a cold, round object position itself against his skull. A gun, pistol, most likely. Trying to move, he found himself pinned by the other man. “You have nightmares about monsters, old man.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. “You and your Ultra-humanists do. I know you do; after all, men always persecute that which they fear. Me? I don’t fear them. To them, I’m the terror that hunts in the night. I give those monsters nightmares.”

            “So you’re one of us?” He asked. “An alien hunter?” The other man shook his head.

            “I’m not a hunter,” he answered. Then, he pulled the trigger. The muffled bang rang through the sewer tunnels for several seconds, but the thing hadn’t remained to hear it. He’d already holstered his gun and started walking away. Though he hadn’t finished the thought, the end of it rang in his head, as it did every night in his shadowy dreams. I’m a killer.