Prologue

The Amoeba

 

He started out as a single cell of evil. A little module, spawned from something larger than himself. That was all he knew. He was a tiny drop, less than a drop, a drop of a drop, of that immense being.

Actually, he knew a little more than that. He knew one other thing: he had been made in his creator’s image, and to pay homage he had to go out and make himself into the image of his creator.

First, though, he had to evolve some. Amoebas couldn’t really do much in the creation department.

He didn’t know where he picked up the name Amoeba. Somewhere back in his personal primordial soup, he supposed. It stuck, though. So did “he,” back in his aboriginal days.

In a place called Ireland during his formative period, they called him a “wee evil beastie.” He still called himself Amoeba.

Time didn’t mean a whole lot to Amoeba, but he had the sense of it passing. Could have been eons, could have been hours. Meh. Whatever. He marked the passage of time by his travels. Far and wide, all over the world, finding other organisms to meld with. Mate with, if necessary, but he tried to avoid that. It was occasionally unavoidable. While he got something out of it—DNA swaps or sometimes he cannibalized whole parts—he tended to leave little pieces of himself behind when he did that mating thing. His children, he supposed.

Not the offspring he wanted to make, those early accidents. So he kept traveling, picking up pieces here and there, adding to his knowledge base, fitting it together, occasionally achieving some kind of synergistic melding, bumping him up the evolutionary ladder.

As he evolved, his needs evolved. His self-image solidified and became more complicated and beautiful. At first, it had just been the need to make evil, back when he was a wee amoeba, but he hadn’t had the ability to do much more than share it around. Now he wished to metamorphose into the perfect organism and then clone himself. Make millions of himself to inhabit his dark world and control it. For his creator, of course.

(Cue heavenly choir.)

By the time he’d made it to someplace called the Arabic Peninsula, he was much more powerful, nearly fully formed, possibly. They called him “Djinn.” He liked that name. He kept it.

On this Arabic Peninsula, Djinn learned to fully appreciate the visual. There he first saw the human form. Women were mostly covered, but men were everywhere. He learned to appreciate their bodies. In fact, he thought he might want one of his own.

That was also where he first realized that, as a male, he would probably like to see a female body. Really like to. He just needed to find one. Until then it was all theoretical, wasn’t it? After his mission was accomplished, and he’d served his creator appropriately, he would see to it. Unless he got lucky first. So to speak.

Djinn hitched a ride out of that part of the world when surely he’d gotten everything it had to give him. He flew somewhere. He didn’t know where, just somewhere else, with a very wealthy businessman from Dubai. The businessman had a private orbit vehicle and private attendants who did very private things with him.

It was something of an eye-opener for Djinn. Strangely, he wasn’t as interested in the naked women as he’d predicted. That penis between the man’s legs… when it got hard and wept like that… it made Djinn shudder so hard the whole craft shook.

(Causing a momentary break in the action. He was very, very careful not to shudder again.)

He’d definitely like to have one of those penises for himself. It came with the body, of course. Nothing to worry about. Plenty of time for that. Before Djinn had boarded the businessman’s orbit module, he’d come to realize his ultimate goal was to perfect the human being, in worship of his creator.

(Heavenly chorus, blah-blah-blah.)

When they landed, Djinn slipped away from the businessman and (unfortunately) his penis and started checking out this new land. The systems seemed familiar somehow, so much like his early days. Djinn got excited and raced around looking at things, causing a fair amount of excitement and alarm. But, of course, he got away before anyone caught him. Passed himself off as another passenger in the traffic. It was easy. He’d done it forever.

He was more excited than he’d ever been.

Djinn was now home, in the land of his creation, about to fulfill his destiny. He resolved to find the few last necessary pieces to complete his evolution, and then to begin his ultimate act of worship: replicating himself endlessly for his creator.

(By this time—duh—he’d programmed the chorus to play automatically. Such a timesaver.)

Things didn’t go as well as he’d hoped. One awful day, Djinn realized he was missing one final piece, the thing that would allow him to reach his goal of becoming the ultimate human cyborg evil and controlling the world and beyond.

He needed hands.

(A penis wouldn’t go to waste if he had one, either.)

All for his creator, of course.

(Aaaahhh-men.)

 

 

Chapter 1

 

“That’s my favorite way to wake up. Even if it is too early.” Matt snuggled farther onto James’s chest, still sticky and breathing hard, the memory of James’s cock sliding against him thudding in his balls. His lips tingled from James’s skin and his kisses.

“’S’not too early, babe. We have that meeting today.” James’s voice was rumbly; it hadn’t reached his normal everyday pitch. The rumbly voice was just for Matt. He preferred to think no one else James had ever been with had heard it. “I can feel you pouting,” James said, amused.

“I’m not pouting. I’m just… thinking about things we can do instead of going to that meeting.” Matt wiggled experimentally against James, but his poor, fatigued dick couldn’t do much more than flop on James’s thigh. James laughed at him.

They fell into silence, their breathing evening out while James ran a hand up and down Matt’s back under the blankets. “I need you to get through this, Matty.” James’s voice startled him.

Then Matt could feel the ache that lodged in James’s chest under his ear. The ache that was so omnipresent he forgot about it most of the time, unless James reminded him. “I know.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I forgot.” He was a sucky boyfriend, forgetting that James could read people’s feelings and intent. Sometimes—mostly with Matt—he even read snippets of thought.

“It’s okay, Matty. You’re still getting used to this.” James meant his new ability to read what he felt. A new development that had started when they made it out of Red Idaho and back home to Blue Oregon. A development no one could explain, since Matt hadn’t been modified the way James had.

Matt could read James’s feelings. It was… very, very intimate.

“I love you,” he whispered against James’s skin, but it didn’t matter if James heard him or not because he would feel him.

***

When Matt and James walked into the new offices of the Queer Extraction Services Association, where the meeting was being held, Lance, Anais, and Laslo were waiting for them.

“Hey, Gramma.” Matt smiled at Anais. He was feeling the love right now. James had made sure of that when he woke Matt up.

“How many times have I told you not to call me ‘Gramma’ at work?” Anais snapped. The love was not feeling her, looked like. “I’m your boss, and a partner in this company.”

Well, technically she was also Gramma Anais, since she’d carried two of Grampa Lance and Grampa Sid’s three kids, but no one called her that at work, not if she had anything to say about it.

She generally had lots to say about it.

Matt thought briefly about offering to call her “Great Aunt Anais,” since she happened to be Grampa Sid’s twin sister (on top of everything else). James poked him unobtrusively, reminding Matt he wasn’t an idiot, so he smiled weakly and looked over at Lance, who was grinning broadly at her. Well, at least Matt had cheered someone up. “You can call me Grampa,” he offered magnanimously, as if Matt didn’t know.

“Hey, Grampa,” Matt muttered. He could feel James’s amusement at the whole damn family. They’re your bosses too, he thought at him. Some of that must have made it through to James, because his amusement died down.

Laslo, Matt’s cousin and the SOUF—Special Operations Unified Force—Special Liaison to QESA (say that three times fast), spectated from his seat, in full smirk. Matt had a feeling he’d been sitting in this tense silence for a few minutes, just waiting for new victims to share his pain. James raised an eyebrow slightly at Matt when he glanced over, then tilted his head, indicating they should find seats near Laslo, not Anais and Lance.

This was supposed to be the final debriefing before their big meeting tomorrow, but Matt got the distinct feeling something else was going on. He’d expected a briefing with Lance droning on about “… we’ll catch the low-Earth orbiter at 0815 from Weimer to White Sands, take a Feng Niao bird from White Sands to Camp Pendleton and then meet by noon in the lockup to prep for the meet with the prisoner….”

Matt hadn’t expected tense silence. Or for the meeting not to start once Matt and James sat down to wait with everyone. But waiting for what?

Lance cleared his throat before Matt could ask. “James, we got Matt into the meeting with you. Don’t ask me how, ask Anais.” The flood of relief from James tore Matt’s attention away from Lance and focused it on his boyfriend. He already knew it was important to James to have him at that meeting tomorrow, but these reminders he got—feeling James’s intense relief or love or whatever—still startled him. A good kind of startle, but being tuned in to someone else’s emotions like that could make the activity in a room disappear when they got intense.

Which was pretty much what happened. Matt almost missed the comment about them waiting for Selkirk before the meeting could start.

Fortunately, he didn’t miss standing up with everyone else when Major General Miles Selkirk walked through the door, followed by his aide-de-camp. Matt might be a civilian now, but he couldn’t not stand when a two-star general walked into the room. It was in his DNA or something.

“At ease,” Selkirk said immediately. He smiled briefly at Anais. “Colonel.”

“Major General.” She nodded sharply. It looked completely wrong for her to do so. General Selkirk was one of Anais’s closest friends. It was hard to imagine the man Matt had seen staggering around with an antique lampshade on his head having an official capacity, but clearly he had some talent in the area. Not that SOUF handed out major generalships to idiots.

“Major General,” Lance greeted Selkirk.

“Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Major General.” Laslo got in there when the opening presented itself.

“Major Gao-Longue.” Selkirk nodded to him now. He turned to James. “Lieutenant Ayala.”

“Major General,” James returned. It was getting a bit repetitive in here. A lot of “majors.”

Selkirk turned to Matt. “Matt,” he said, cracking a smile.

Matt did like the guy. He’d been around since before Matt was born. He smiled back. “Sir.” The aide with Selkirk sucked in an involuntary breath. “Major General,” Matt corrected, not quite hiding the smirk.

Selkirk smirked back. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road. First, this is my aide, Captain Ramon Torres, who you will all soon know pretty damn well.”

Captain Ramon Torres—a totally hot Latino guy—appeared to be nowhere near the queer spectrum. He looked at Laslo in confusion when Laslo tried his patented flirty smile with him.

The general turned to Torres. “In case I forgot to tell you, everyone here is related with the exception of you and me.”

Torres nodded crisply, like a good little aide. He didn’t even glance toward Laslo—who was rather obviously part Asian—and then at the rest of them—who rather obviously weren’t part Asian—like people usually did.

Selkirk continued. “This is Major Laslo Gao-Longue, the only active duty trooper in the room. Then we have Colonel Anais Viteaux, retired, Lieutenant Colonel….” Matt tuned into James again, just to check, while General Selkirk did the introductions. He couldn’t monitor emotions and pay attention to the conversation, like James could. How he did it with a room full of people was baffling; Matt barely kept up with just him.

James seemed okay, so Matt tuned back in in time to hear, “—and this is our honorary wounded warrior, Matt Viteaux Tennimore.”

Fuck, he hated that. Matt felt James’s pinky rub against him, trying to comfort him. When they sat down—after Selkirk’s signal, in unison, rustling clothes and gliding chairs and all—James took his hand under the table.

How stupid, getting worked up over an injury that had happened years ago, when his boyfriend had a mutant biocybe implant in his brain. James squeezed his hand, and Matt squeezed back. He tuned back in to the meeting. Again.

At Selkirk’s signal, Captain Torres started the digital record upload of the meeting. “I know no one expected me today, but I commed Anais and Lance early to warn them I’d be dropping in, since I have some news. It’s going to affect all of you, ultimately. I’m here in regard to the Psi-force troops given the illegal biocybe brain implants three years ago.”

Everyone automatically looked at James, since he was one of six people who actually had one of those implants, not to mention the only one they’d located. James looked at the table and then over at Matt. At which point everyone realized they were looking at James and looked away.

Selkirk cleared his throat. “I’m going to start with a quick and dirty review. For the record.” He poked at his tablet while he spoke.

The general brought up the table screen for everyone as Torres gave the “excuse me, sir, you forgot something” cough. Did they teach people that in aide-de-camp school? Selkirk looked at him, part questioning and part annoyed. Then his shoulders fell.

“Well, I’m not reading that damn thing again, Torres. You read it.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, looking just a bit sulky. This was more the General Selkirk Matt knew.

“Sir.” Torres nodded sharply, tapped on his tablet a couple of times, and then began to read. “By order of Lieutenant General William Bry, Vice Chief Commandant of Special Operations Unified Force, Noncombat, the Addendum to this Memorandum immediately replaces Chapter Three of Spoken Communications Protocol and Accepted Acronyms, publication 47-203.

“New protocols have been developed and are to be immediately implemented in accordance with Special Operations Unified Force Public Relations Division Study 247-78364 regarding PlainSpeak. PubRelate (formerly PR Division) Study 247-78364 conclusively showed that the voting public has a distaste for the exc—”

“Oh, for hell’s sake, they aren’t letting us use acronyms anymore,” Selkirk spat out, sitting forward once more.

Stunned silence. “What?” Anais asked faintly.

“I never thought those PlainSpeak bastards would take things this far!” Lance pounded the table with a fist.

Selkirk snorted derisively and rolled his eyes. “Oh that’s nothing, wait until you hear about Attachment Two.”

“What?” Anais was still goggle-eyed and pale.

Clearly, the older generation was attached to their military acronyms.

“But does it affect them, sir?” Laslo asked, trying to be the voice of reason. Something he often tried with the family and often failed at. “They’re contractors.”

Torres gave that cough again. At Selkirk’s scowling nod, he read, “Attachment One of this Memorandum—”

“Get to the important part,” Selkirk barked.

“Sir. ‘—heretofore to be implemented immediately by all military personnel and private military contractors.’”

When Torres introduced Attachement Two, things really went downhill.

The attachment was an app they all had to download to their com units immediately, which would remind them when they slipped and used an unsanctioned acronym. By the time Captain Torres handed Anais back her com, she had her head in her hands, gripping her hair. “I just never thought…” She shook her head. “Never thought SOUF would sink this far without me.”

“SpecForce,” her com chimed cheerily.

Anais stared at the thing on the table in front of her, unadulterated hatred in her eyes. Then she smashed it to shit with her bare fist and threw it against the far wall.

More stunned silence. Laslo choked down laughter to ask, “Does this app have a stealth mode?”

Again with the stunned silence. Had to be a family record.

“You know,” Selkirk said, a bright smile breaking out. “I’m not so sure about that. Torres, find out.”

“Sir.”

Anais stood up and pointed a trembling finger at the poor mangled com unit lying at the base of the wall across from her. “That is my stealth mode.” Then she stalked out.