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  V: THE SECOND GENERATION

  ALSO BY KENNETH JOHNSON

  An Affair of State (with David Welch)

  V: THE SECOND GENERATION

  KENNETH JOHNSON

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  V: THE SECOND GENERATION

  Copyright © 2008 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. WB SHIELD: ™ & © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. (s08)

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Edited by James Frenkel

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Johnson, Kenneth, 1942–

  V: the second generation / Kenneth Johnson.

  p. cm.

  "A Tom Doherty Associates Book."

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4299-2134-3

  ISBN-10: 1-4299-2134-X

  1. Human-alien encounters—Fiction. 2. Imaginary wars and battles—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3610.O3595V18 2007

  813'.6—dc22

  2007018926

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TO SUSIE

  For her constant wisdom, inspiration,

  laughter, and love . . .

  and

  TO THE HEROISM OF

  THE RESISTANCE FIGHTERS

  —Past, Present, and Future—

  This work is respectfully dedicated.

  V: THE SECOND GENERATION

  1

  THERE WAS NO MOON IN THE NIGHT SKY OVER THE HIGH SIERRAS and yet the snowcapped mountainscape had a very subtle wash of extremely soft illumination.

  It was starlight. In the clear mountain air uncountable pinpoints of light, billions of them, thoroughly populated the infinitely deep black of the sky. And the powdery stardust of the Milky Way seemed airbrushed in a swath across the middle of the vast universe.

  The only sound was the frigid night wind stirring the tall Sierra pines. Then came the low rumble of a small truck, which was in need of a new muffler.

  A gray, four-door pickup with dusty California plates jostled around a stony hillside, its headlight beams grazing across the badly rutted dirt road. The truck's hard life was evident from its numerous dents and dings. On its front doors was the chipped logo of Burton Construction.

  Riding in the backseat, Meyer was getting a bit stiff. His lower back ached dully. They had been driving for a very long time. He also felt the effects of the thinner air at the high altitude and their distant remove from civilization. He glanced out at the dark, dense forest, trying not to betray the uneasiness he felt as he spoke, "Boy, the fishing must be really good if you guys come all this way."

  "It's worth it, sure as shit," Niblo said. He was riding shotgun in the front and swigging from a longneck beer bottle. Though Meyer couldn't see his face, he felt Niblo's attitude turn darker as the big man grumbled, "One of the few good lakes left ever since . . ." Niblo cut himself off, chewed the inside of his lip, took a long final swallow of beer, and tossed the bottle out the window. Like most everyone, Niblo had learned to be very careful about what he said even among friends, and he didn't know this Meyer guy at all.

  From his rear seat, Meyer glanced at the back of Niblo's big head and watched the man's ponytail swing against his thick brown turtleneck. Meyer knew the rest of Niblo's sentence would have been, "Ever since They came." Meyer drew a breath and looked out his own side window. Through a momentary gap in the pine trees he could see Orion overhead. Since it was February the constellation was well up over the mountains to the south. Meyer knew that the two lower stars, Rigel and Saiph, which represented Orion's left toe and right knee, pointed east toward the brightest star in the black night sky. Being a part of Canis Major it had long been called The Dog Star. But Meyer knew that its ancient name was Sirius. It was the star system from which They had come.

  The Visitors.

  They had been "visiting" for a very long time now, over twenty years. Meyer pondered about how things had changed since they arrived. There had been so many phenomenal advancements. But other changes, too, changes that were more unsettling and enigmatic, changes about which Meyer was much less sanguine.

  In the front seat, Niblo straightened his back, loosened the khaki fishing vest around his bulky body, lowered his chin in careful preparation, and then emitted a lengthy, raucous belch.

  The driver of the pickup, a lean, rugged outdoorsman named Burton, smirked. "I am sure glad that came out the top."

  "Hey, I can give you one of them others easy enough. Here you go"—Niblo reached out a fat pinkie toward Burton—"pull my finger."

  Burton grinned. "Yeah, how 'bout you pull this, pal." He indicated the crotch of his own black leather pants.

  In the backseat Meyer shook his head and chuckled. "What a couple of classy guys." He turned off the tiny book light he'd been using to look through a paperback mountain guide. Seat belt securely fastened, Meyer was smaller, gentler, nearly bald, and more urbane than the other two. He wore a pale blue button-down dress shirt that had gotten a bit too frayed to wear in to work, and a brown suede vest over it. Since he was not as outdoorsy as his companions, his crisp blue jeans hadn't yet faded. And his wife had ironed creases into them, which made him feel particularly out of keeping with his present company.

  Niblo was a rhinoceros of a man who two decades earlier had been a solid high school fullback with dreams of going pro. A lack of self-discipline and far too many longnecks had squelched those plans many years ago, although Niblo always found it easier to blame others for his failure. He harbored a bitterness that could sometimes turn him nasty in an eyeblink. His eyes were narrow, too small for his chubby face, which had gone unshaven for several days. His thinning, stringy brown hair was pulled into a long ponytail.

  "Definitely classy," Meyer reiterated good-naturedly.

  "Hey, I warned you, man." Burton smiled at Meyer in the rearview mirror. Burton was quite handsome. A suntanned sort with thick dark hair, he had a retro mustache that curved around the corners of his mouth. All three men were dressed for the outdoors, but Burton's lean physique made his worn-in leather pants and gray turtleneck look by far the best. He was the kind of confident, humorous, reliable man's man that other men admired and felt comfortable with. Women were attracted to his understated machismo and his humor.

  Meyer had met him when Burton's company did a small repair job on the Meyers' Sacramento kitchen. They'd gotten to talking about fishing, which Meyer had enjoyed as a kid in Northern California. Burton told him about this remote mountain lake and when Meyer volunteered a fuel cell for the journey, Burton gladly invited him along on a little weekend jaunt.

  But after three hours in the pickup Meyer was ready to end the trek so he was very happy to hear Burton say, "Okay, the cabin's just around that bend. See? It's right up . . ." Burton stopped speaking and slowed the truck to a stop.

  Meyer caught the mood shift and felt a low-grade anxiety stir within him. "What's wrong? Is something wrong?"

  Burton whispered to Niblo, "You see that?"

  "Damn straight I did."

  "What?" Meyer frowned, his voice also low. "See what?"

  Burton turned off the pickup's headlights. The darkness crowded in on Meyer, who unfastened his seat belt and leaned forward, his nerves getting more on edge. "See what? What is it? What's wrong?"

  Burton pointed off toward the small log
cabin that could be seen through the trees. It was an old, weathered place with a porch that had sagged slightly to one side over the years. "There." Burton was reacting to a faint blue glow that flickered within the cabin. They watched as it moved from one room to another.

  Niblo shot a questioning glance at Burton, who nodded. Then they both climbed out quietly. Burton slipped into his ancient bomber jacket and pulled a flashlight from a pocket in the door. He handed a second one to Meyer, who was climbing out hesitantly. The icy mountain air added to the chill Meyer already felt. His breath showed as he whispered nervously, "Maybe we should go back down and let somebody know that—"

  Niblo blew out a derisive puff in Meyer's direction. "Aw, I reckon we can handle this, big guy." He hefted a double-barreled shotgun from a duffel bag in the back of the truck, cracked it open, and slipped in two shells. Then he stuffed a handful of additional shells into one of the wide pockets of his fisherman's vest.

  Meyer looked toward Burton, who was checking the chambers in a handgun. Burton's voice was calm, level, and very confident. "You just stay behind me with that flashlight, okay, pard?" He winked encouragingly at Meyer and then moved through the trees toward the cabin.

  The heavy front door of the cabin was blasted inward by Burton's perfectly placed kick. He held the flashlight out at arm's length in front of him, aiming his pistol alongside it. "Let's just hold it right there or . . ." His voice trailed off into astonishment.

  In the dark room before him were two women whom he had surprised. One was in the process of going through a chest of drawers. The other was investigating a closet. She held a small orb, slightly larger than a softball, which glowed with the soft blue light that the men had seen through the cabin windows. But what had given Burton pause was the fact that both of the women were completely naked.

  The women glanced up sharply at him, definitely wary but not fearful. They both had trim, athletic bodies and appeared to be in their mid-twenties. One woman had the very dark, almost blue-black skin coloring of a pure African. She was fine-featured, with a narrow nose and lips suggesting Ethiopian heritage. The other was very fair, as though her ancestors had come from the Norse countries. She had high cheekbones and a straight nose with slightly flared nostrils that seemed to be carefully and constantly testing the air with unusual sensitivity.

  Burton's bright flashlight beam danced from one to the other, panning up and down their lovely bodies as Niblo eased in through the door behind him, his shotgun still at the ready in his meaty hands. He grinned with amazement at what he saw. "Well, hel-lo, ladies."

  Niblo's eyes went immediately to the blond woman's breasts, as was his instinctive and consistent practice. He saw that they were in ideal proportion to her slender body and perfectly shaped. Perhaps a bit too perfectly, almost sculpted. Niblo noted that they also seemed to lack the malleable fluidity of natural breasts. Implants, he decided immediately, like the dozens of similarly enhanced and hardened breasts he had watched and many times groped at Hooters and the various strip joints he frequented. But his seasoned eyes enjoyed them nonetheless, particularly as he contemplated the uses he might soon put them to.

  During that same moment Meyer had peered in and was also studying the women. Though he was still overcome with surprise, and of course glanced at their breasts as Niblo had, Meyer's keener eyes noted more physiological details about them. He saw that their skin tone was somewhat odd. As an X-ray technician Meyer had frequent close contact with people of varying skin texture, but he'd never seen any like that of these women. Their skin seemed to have a slight sheen to it. Not as though they had been perspiring or rubbed with oil, for they were clearly dry, but rather as though the sheen was a natural component inherent in their skin.

  It also looked to Meyer as though their skin was hairless. Except for the close-cropped hair on their heads and the slightest dusting across their eyebrows and pubic areas their skin seemed completely smooth. Though they both appeared to be very vital and physically fit, the black woman was somewhat more muscular and slightly taller.

  But definitely the most startling aspect of them was something else. Meyer leaned closer behind Burton. "Their eyes," he whispered tensely, "look at their eyes." Those of the blonde were a striking violet. The dark-skinned woman's were bright pink. They were unlike any eyes Meyer had ever seen, even on a Visitor. They were very unsettling and gave Meyer a strange and palpable feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. He instinctively knew that something was wrong here.

  No one moved. Then Burton finally said, "What the hell are you doing here?"

  The blonde held his gaze steadily, her voice was calm, her words measured like one speaking in a language with which she wasn't entirely familiar. ". . . Searching for garments."

  Meyer detected in her voice a hint of some foreign dialect, perhaps Eastern European. He peered over Burton's shoulder, shining his flashlight onto the women as Niblo exhaled a long sigh, then chuckled and lowered his shotgun. Niblo eased closer to the women, speaking in a mock-friendly tone. "Aw, now that'd be a real shame. You don't want to cover nothin' up. What with the party just getting started and all."

  Niblo reached out his broad, calloused hand and cupped the back of the blonde's head. His narrow eyes twinkled suggestively as he slowly slid his hand down the back of her neck. Then suddenly he flinched in shock. He let out a loud yelp of severe pain and jerked his hand away as though he'd been badly stung.

  Meyer jumped, startled. "W-what's the matter?"

  Niblo blinked heavily and stared incredulously down at his hand. "I dunno. I—Jesus Christ!" He and the others saw that the palm of his hand was bleeding badly. Then his hand began to tremble. He looked up angrily at the blonde. "What did you do to me?"

  The blonde seemed calm and sincere as she quietly said, "I am sorry."

  Niblo realized that his whole arm had begun to tremble. His anger suddenly spiked and he shouted, "What the fuck did you do to me, you—?" The words caught in his thick throat. The big man had suddenly choked. He began gasping for air as though he were being strangled. Then his entire body began to quake.

  "Niblo! What is it?" Meyer shouted as Burton stared wide-eyed. "What's wrong?"

  But Niblo couldn't answer. He convulsed as though currents of high-voltage electricity were shooting through him. He dropped the shotgun. As Meyer watched, the moment seemed to happen in slow motion. The dark-skinned woman snatched the falling shotgun in midair and swung it like a baseball bat. She hit Burton's head so hard that his neck snapped. Meyer heard Burton's cervical vertebrae rend with a sickening crunch. Burton was dead before he hit the floor.

  Meyer turned in breathless terror and dashed back out the open door.

  The black woman glanced pointedly at the blonde, their silent exchange confirming a course of action. Then with confident resolve the black woman followed Meyer out into the cold darkness. The blonde stood calmly looking down toward Niblo on the floor. There was faint sadness in her violet eyes. Niblo's body and limbs were grotesquely contorted, every muscle cramped and knotted tightly. His eyes were bulged out, the expression on his broad face one of extreme final agony as he lay on the wooden floor, frozen in death.

  The blond woman repeated softly, "I am very sorry."

  Meyer was running at breakneck speed down from the cabin toward the truck. He was white with panic, breathing hard, his heart pounding. He slipped on snowy patches and stumbled several times over roots and rocks as he raced through the dark forest, his suede vest flapping in the cold air. Tiny branches whipped at his face but he kept focused on the pickup ahead, praying that Burton had left the keys in the ignition.

  He was almost to the road when suddenly a pair of black hands whipped down from above him and grabbed the shoulders of his vest.

  "No!" he shouted, swatting at the hands in high alarm as he might have at hornets swarming onto him. "No! Let me go! Let me go!"

  The hands lifted him up off the ground. His feet dangled and kicked, trying to find purchase beneath them
, but there was only air. "No, please! Please!" He kept hitting at her hands, to no avail.

  The dark-skinned woman was somehow hanging upside down within the tree. She lifted Meyer up farther so that he was staring, terrified, into her stoic, upside-down face. Her fiery pink eyes were focused intently on him. He stopped struggling and pleaded with desperation, "Please . . . please, I have a family. I'll do anything you say. Just don't—"

  He was suddenly snatched upward with astonishing speed and disappeared into the foliage.

  In the cabin an hour later the dark-skinned woman pulled on the khaki fishing vest that Niblo had been wearing. She also wore his woodsy brown turtleneck and khaki pants, all of which had been somehow altered to fit her lean frame. But she was very uncomfortable wearing them. She shifted within the clothes as though they chafed her skin. Her breathing was slightly labored, adding to her discomfort. She stepped closer to her blond compatriot who had fitted Meyer's blue button-down shirt, suede vest, and jeans to her own use. The darker woman began speaking in a peculiar language filled with clicks and consonants. Though she had the stern, disciplined look of a career soldier, her voice was soft in contrast. The blonde interrupted her, "English, Bryke. We made agreement."

  Bryke, for so she was called, was annoyed about that, too. What difference did it make when they were alone? Bryke always preferred the simplest, most straightforward approach to everything. But she respected her companion's considerable skills as a communicator and acquiesced. "You made the clothing too tight, Kayta."

  The fair-skinned Kayta did not look up from the blue orb that she was adjusting on the cabin's old rustic table. She responded to Bryke quietly, "We're just unaccustomed. They feel strange against my skin also." Then she paused and added in a lower voice, "You needn't have killed them."