The Master Race, Chapter 15
Apocalypse Now, Redux” aka “Doctor Who?
“Don’t ever write a check with your mouth that you can’t cash with your ass.”
—Wise Man (from Sucker Punch)—
“So, who is she?”
“Samantha Gayle Phillips, faerie, retired thirty-something librarian. And …”
“There’s a lock on her file …,” pause: “a 011.”
“Why in the fuck would military intelligence have a lock on a civilian’s file?”
“Whose military intelligence?”
“All of them … Everyone’s MI.”
“Everyone’s MI on every world in every universe known, including ours.”
“I suppose that she’s connected?”
“Tight as a nun’s knickers.”
Sister Riker is the only one who cracks a smile. Then again, of the four people present, she’s the only one who’s not talking either. The principals are in an observation room at the local police station.
Sam is in an interrogation room viewable through a two-way mirror glass. She’s conscious, chatting up the magistrate and one of his deputies. In place of her dowdy disfiguring sternns, she’s wearing her flattering/unflattering palins [lenses set on clear]. It’s a stern look that even more men crave, because it’s very stern and very sexy at the same time. The way her legs explode out of her skirt doesn’t hurt either. Works well for Sarah Palin, regardless of which universe.
“And Dr. Klein?”
“Something came up … A last minute engagement … She couldn’t come on the tour, but it was too late to cancel her reservations without forfeiting her money. So she had Miss Phillips come in her place. They’re school chums. Look enough alike to be doubles. They belong to the same Athletic Association. You know it’s one of those girls clubs. A lot of the faerie women belong to them.”
“I guess it’s time to roll the dice.”
Upon making that smart aleck remark, three very puzzled faces turn to and stare at Sister Riker.
“Sister Nash, let’s go earn our pay.”
Sister Riker exits, not bothering to see if Sister Nash is following. By the time Sister Riker’s hand reaches for the doorknob of the interrogation room hosting Sam, Sister Nash is right by Sister Riker’s side in step with her boss. When Sister Riker opens the door, both of them are sporting their game face.
Things go dead silent. The magistrate and his deputy leave. Sam momentarily flashes a broad toothy grin. Sister Nash casually leans against the wall by the two-way mirror glass, as if she’s part-n-parcel of a living picture frame. Sister Riker nonchalantly sits on the desk.
Sam lets her hair down. Sternka give way to flat hair. Long, straight, silky, golden tresses. Bleach blonde rivers of hair on a natural blue-eyed blonde. Worship me, now!
She removes her gloves and glasses, and places them on the desk by Sister Riker. She runs a finger across those oh-so-lethal teeth of hers. An even wider smile. Then … Teeth and tongue “blunt”.
“So, magically the conditioning doesn’t work,” Sister Riker tentative ventures, employing a somewhat risky gambit.
“It works when it suits me.”
“Which is why you stayed when your tour returned home?”
“Of course.” You can hear the annoyance in her voice. Sister Riker needs to stop being so iffy, or she will lose Sam. So, she goes for it.
“We need your help.”
“Then, use me as it suits you.”
She goes limp in her chair. Sister Riker looks into her eyes. There’s no one at home. She’s a blank slate upon which anything can be written.
Sister Riker flashes that cocky grin of hers. It’s premature. Ba da bing ba da boom. Sam animates.
Sam makes an arcane gesture with her hands. The two-way mirror glass goes one-way [like a “regular” mirror, affectively it’s opaque]. She leaps out of the chair and takes out Sister Riker with some violent flashes of movement.
Sister Nash is next. Likewise taken out before she has a chance to react. Likewise taken out with some violent flashes of movement.
Sam pockets her gloves and glasses, and sits back down in the chair, smug and arrogant. In the case of both takedowns … Never driven. Nothing lethal.
Cigar man and the lolly rush into the room, with armed Bene Gesserit security. Sister Riker and Sister Nash are out cold. From the marks on Sister Nash’s neck, the girl has feed on her. A quick liquid snack. In compliment to the go-to-sleep.
Sam is licking red off of her thin red lips. A long facile tongue. Pearly white teeth. Blunt teeth. Blunt tongue. Such a human looking smile on someone who is anything but human. A moment ago, when she was feeding, the girl was flashing a razorblade smile.
Cigar man is a cagey old coot and his “red shirts” are just as coon as he. No need for a quick hand signal from him of warning. They know the score from Jump Street. Sam notices that security repositions themselves in the ready. Just outside the chokepoint.
“I think you could still take us, Miss Philips. But, you would know that you had been in a fight.”
“You flatter me with praise. But, please forgo your humility. I’m sure you would be formidable foe. And … On any given day, anyone can be killed. Besides, I think two is my quota of pie for the day.”
“Taken down or buried?”
“Either will suffice.”
“Then let’s keep it friendly, and say that your quota has been met.”
“I think that you can leave now.”
“Thanks. Be sure to keep in touch.”
Sam stands up. No faint. No boo. So … Without much fanfare … The dance begins. Taking the lead, she generates space. How? The food moves, making space for her. In other words, none of the food tries to close the distance. Due respect given to her deadliness: None of this “prime directive, guns don’t exist” Bene Gesserit bullshit. Weapons? Security: They’re shouldering their high-compression phase rifles. Cigar man and the lolly: A holstered phase pistol concealed by their jacket. Any tells? Security is in khakis. Cigar man has on a leisure suit. The lolly is wearing a pantsuit.
The food [i.e., cigar man and the lolly] escort her out of the room, down the hallway, out to the front desk. They maintain a “respectful” distance from the girl. The food [i.e., security] is further back and further in front, phasers pointed at her the whole time. Weapons hot. Being experienced operators, the safeties for their weapons are their trigger fingers.
“Miss Phillips will be leaving, now. Please bring her things.”
The deputy complies with cigar man’s request without exchanging a word. Sam signs a receipt for her belongings upon taking possession of them. She smiles coyly as she clips her purse and Race Bannon to the waistband of her skirt. She slowly and methodically transfers her gloves and glasses from the pockets of her jacket to her purse. Savoring the moment. Making the food squirm in anticipation of what she might do. She’s neither fair nor foul, and that’s the problem. They just don’t know what to expect.
Her hair yanks back into a sternka. No gloves. No glasses. Knobb: creepy Borg “mole”. Klaw, when idle: creepy hands, when not in use. Her in between, almost Sarah Palin [look]. Maria Bello as Jane Timoney, a hard-working NYPD homicide detective on NBC’s “Prime Suspect”, minus the funny little hat, plus Borg and big boobs?
Sugar and spice, and everything nice. Gives way to the very scary shrew. Creepy gloves: Prudz glove her. She slips on her sternns. The girl flashes a wide toothy grin. A razorblade smile: Eating live teeth [i.e., serrated teeth – long, oversized, straight needle teeth], drinking live fangs [i.e., blood drinking fangs], and a killer tongue [i.e., a long facile tongue, that’s a hot, wet, and “hungry for flesh” oral appendage] whipping back and forth in her mouth like snake that has a mind of its own. A tongue which is a bloodlusting, self-sustaining organ. Nothing human about that.
She extends her hand. Cigar man is taken back by the gesture. He quickly weighs his options. Then, he decides. So … while flashing a very human grin of his own, he shakes her hand firmly. He never breaks eye contact with her. Nothing done indecisively, on his part, once he had decided on his “proper” course of action.
She exits the station without further incident. And the food knows better than to follow her. At least, the Bene Gesserit contingent does. The Observers are not so careful. They follow her into a dark alley, unaware that she can see them now.
It’s not due to her glasses, either. She’s not wearing the palins. And the thick coke-bottle lenses of her sternns are just ordinary clear optical-grade glass. She can see them with the naked eye.
Shazam! Out of the blue, her body finally assimilated to them the day before yesterday, and what one faerie can assimilate to see, all faeries everywhere can assimilate to see. There’s open season on them now, and they don’t even know it, but they soon will. Genocidal invaders or well-intending do-gooders, the specter of extinction now hangs over their entire race.
Wham! Using her line-of-sight, her Bene Gesserit tricorder deactivates the Observers’ personal invisibility devices. Now, everyone can see them. When the tricorder switched their Geist boxes off, it fused their innards. The invisibility devices, which are based on alchemy not science or magic, are now useless. Incidentally … Technically, they’re not a Geist [i.e., ghost] box, let alone a gi [i.e., ghost interface]; they’re an unsichtbar [i.e., invisible] affecter. But, Geist and gi sound so much cooler, hence the usages.
Her hands change as her fingernails go daggerous. Her gloves accommodate the change. Creepy has given way to grotesque. Hygiene mode for her entire outfit, including her accessories, switches off.
She was in the station for a good eight hours. It was late evening when they bought her in. It’s the dead of night, now. There’s scum of the earth around and about in this narrow, garbage-strewn thoroughfare. Drunks. Bums. Bagladies. Strung out junkies. And, other such skidrow flotsam and jetsam. Perfect witnesses for what is about to occur. Some can sense what is about to go down, and they create space between them and her or they stay close because they want to fuck her so bad they just don’t care.
She’s on vacation. She came here to have fun. And, that’s just what she intends to keep doing. These people, The Observers, look human, but they’re not human. Ergo, they are humanoid extraterrestrials and therefore are not protected by any laws, Man’s or God’s, so they are fair game. In other words, legally they are not people, they are things. Ergo … No murder involved, just killing. And, above all things, Darque or not, she is a Nosferatu. And, “living” Nosferatu, above all things, are pure [as in, ultimate] killing machines.
Black “swirls” manifest themselves in her eyes, moving about like malevolent storm clouds, as if she had swallowed The Abyss; swirls moving across the irises and whites of her cold, blue eyes. Her mind goes feral, as she gets in touch with her “inner” Nosferatu. Eons of “civilization” [as in, that mundane façade] get peeled away in an instant. It’s as if she were a god in the Before Time, before humans, when there was only God, the gods, and The Darkness. Rage and hatred distort her face, disfiguring her.
There are six of them. The Nosferatu targets the nearest two. She shifts, becoming no longer underdriven, and rips the twin beating hearts out of the chest of the closest Observer with one of her gloved klawed hands.
Apparently, he’s some type of guard. He has a sidearm, but he never gets a chance to draw it from its holster. He’s also wearing some type of laminated body armor.
Another falls as she rips out the throat of the other Observer [she’d initially targeted] with her other gloved klawed hand. A techie. He’s unarmed. Wearing no armor.
How’s her movement, now? What she did in the police station to Sister Riker and Sister Nash was Ray Harryhausen stop-motion animation, in comparison. And, this time she’s out for blood.
Two down, both males, in rapid succession before any of them has a chance to react. Finally, one of them does. A female shifts into overdrive, shoulders her box gun, and fires. Box gun is slang in spec-ops for a generic untraceable gun that’s used on “off book” missions. The previous human attackers have used box guns, and in those cases the box guns were Bene Gesserit phaser work-like-but-don’t-look-like. The female is using a weapon just like those. In fact, it’s identical. So … The box gun being employed is primo deadly. For all the good that does the female. The slicer beam passes harmlessly past Sam’s head as she attacks her attacker. She’s on the female like stink on shit.
Like the male guard, the female is also wearing some type of laminated body armor with a high encircling collar which does protect her neck. For all the good that does the female. Sam bites through the armor like it isn’t there, and feeds. Said armor is as good as any “lite” body armor in Creation, the known and unknown world!
The Nosferatu’s tongue, teeth, and fangs ravage the female’s neck. Major blood vessels are severed violently. Literally, ripped out of her neck. Blood gushes out of her raped neck. She bleeds out. The female dies quickly and horribly.
Shock and awe. By now, the others have recovered from their initial shock and awe. They react. But, only two of the six are armed and armored: The first male that Sam killed and the female that she just killed. The other four are scientists—one of whom is dead, leaving only three. The two armed were their security detail.
The six of them are part of a scientific expedition. Their weapons are for defense only. The guards are just a “what if” contingency.
To their credit, these untrained, unarmed civilians [and they’re eggheads, at that] assault the Nosferatu as she ravenously consumes their fallen comrades. For weapons, they improvise and use their instruments, their tricorders, their clipboards, and whatever else they can grab that’s laying around.
To their credit, they go down swinging, for all the good that does them. Sam plays with them. Eating and drinking them while they’re still alive.
On one of them she executes a Columbian necktie. That’s when you slit the person’s throat and then you pull their tongue out through the new orifice. She uses her dangerous fingernails to do the tracheotomy. The incision rivals that done by a surgeon’s scalpel. She does this on a female [the apparent team leader] who’s pregnant and showing. Even if the female hadn’t been showing, being a faerie, Sam could sense it. Tender, fresh-as-you-can-get fetus. That violent abortion. The despicable act of a totally despicable person [aggressive and unscrupulous].