Hypergeniture Bk. 03 Pt. 01

BOOK THREE • PART ONE

Author's Note: I promised the third book by mid-October but managed to get it done quite a bit sooner. There are two parts and they should be out within about 7-10 days of each other if everything goes well. There is still a little bit of part two that is unfinished as I always like to see a few comments/receive some feedback in between publishing.

Of course, if you are new to this story, please start with books one and two, lest you be completely lost.

All sexual activity is between characters that are 18 or older. This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real persons, places or events is purely coincidental. The below is not intended to serve as a guide for real-life sexual encounters or relationships. Stay safe, happy and healthy! :-)

As always, feel free to reach out with any feedback!

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Prologue • Tunisia

Vallance poured himself a notch of Scotch only to toss it down the drain just before it touched his lips... He'd been poisoned twice before and didn't want to risk a third time.

The old spy had been a servant of queen and country for four decades and stayed alive by not taking any chances. His tiny safehouse in Tunis prioritised security over comfort. He settled on a rickety chair to write his final report with pen and paper, not trusting electronic devices of any type. He stared at his tobacco and cigarette papers for a while before sighing and turning to his work.

Blonde, blue-eyed, sophisticated... He was very much what you'd expect.

When Cassandra Nash approached her old friend with her crazy theory, he had his doubts. Only intuition led Nash to suspect that the prime minister's wife, and supposed daughter of a century-old noble house, was not who she claimed to be. The story seemed too surreal, but it wasn't long before evidence emerged to prove even the wildest speculation.

He should've known she'd be right. After all, you know what they say about a women's intuition...

Turning to his old tape recorder, Vallance played an interview some spooks in London managed to secure with the woman who claimed to be Rosemary Payne. They'd seen her on several occasions, giving her the codename Lyric to distinguish her from the girl whose life she stole. She seemed more than happy to sit and taunt them with her arrogance and wickedness, insisting she would tell them anything but refusing to testify before a court or the commons.

"I admit I'm not who I say I am," the recording started.

"You confess?"

"Confess? Ha! And what's my crime?"

"What happened to the real Rosemary?" the interviewer asked. "Society circles gossiped about an alleged assault -- that she was raped at her family home while her father was in London. Is that why he replaced her? Was it some sick way to preserve his fragile honour?"

"Yes," Lyric answered casually, as though she were revealing something ordinary and innocent.

Even over the recording, Vallance could sense a change in tone as the interviewer shifted into a higher gear. These spies were cold and even jaded, yet even they could only stomach so much vileness.

"That's not the whole story, is it?"

An irritated Lyric struck back. "I just told you--"

"You just lied!" the spy accused. "Years after the attack, a pair of journalists wanted to publish the details of that night, but the courts prohibited it to keep the victim's identity a secret. Years later, another journalist discovered new evidence, and that's when your 'father' leaned on the government to suppress the story!"

"What story?!"

"The identity of the perpetrator: The fact that he was a student at one of the nearby boarding schools..."

"You know nothing--"

"We know your husband, the prime minister, attended one of those schools and visited the manor regularly. He was Payne's protege, and Payne wanted to protect the boy he dreamed would become the leader of the government. He wanted to protect him even more than he wanted to protect his daughter; his own flesh and blood."

A second interviewer added, "Maybe she insisted on going to the police, or perhaps she simply wouldn't marry the man after what he'd done, defying her father."

The fake Rosemary snapped. "Fuck you, tossers! I'm here voluntarily, and now I'm leaving."

Shaking his head, Vallance hit pause on the tape before making some notes. Throughout his career, he'd been sent to investigate witchcraft and war crimes. This matter seemed far more horrible...

A father who loved power more than his only child and a prime minister who'd committed an unspeakable crime. All of them, including the actress playing her minor role, made him sick. Leaning back in his chair, the wizened old spy looked for a distraction and found it. Picking up an unmarked silver coin with straight edges, he spun it on the desk and watched it until it fell. It was the little reality-check he needed before continuing his work.

Changing the tapes, Vallance played a section of an interview between the pretender and representatives of the Orwell Organisation. Oliver Orwell wasn't happy when Nash called upon her spy friends instead of letting his people handle the matter internally, but Vallance knew the kid would thank them in the end.

This was big. Too big for him to handle.

Eventually, the spooks relented and allowed for one session where Orwell's crowd could take the lead. An American -- a former police officer named Isabelle -- conducted the interview with a woman named Trixie Roth accompanying her. Trixie had recently joined the Family and previously worked for MI6, which meant they wanted her in the room.

"They say Rosemary fell pregnant after the attack," Isabelle posited.

"She did."

"Did the baby survive whatever happened to her?"

The tone changed as the pretender took aim at her interviewers. "Look at you two... Little lapdogs for a rich man who wants to play detective. Tell me, puppies, does he rub your bellies and pat you on the head when you come after people like me?"

"People like you?" Isabelle asked calmly, unfazed by the insults, having worked as a beat cop in New York and quite used to all sorts of toxic name-calling from criminals.

"I'm an innocent party!" Lyric protested. "I was picked up off the street and told to do this job! I never asked for it; I just happened to match the poor girl enough to pass for her."

"No, my dear," Isabelle rebuffed, "you weren't innocent then, and you certainly aren't innocent now... You're not some sensitive little flower being exploited against her will. I think you loved every moment of stealing Rosemary's identity -- that you still love it. You feel entitled to it. You feel you deserve it more than she deserved to live a happy and full life."

"I do!" the interviewee barked. "God knows, I spent a few weeks with her before they kicked her into a ditch. She thought it was so lovely that her dear papa found her a friend to help as the pregnancy progressed. She even made remarks about how similar we looked. All the while, I wanted to wrap my hands around her neck and--"

Suddenly, there was an interruption on the tape, which Vallance knew to be when Trixie Roth jumped out of her chair and nearly beat Lyric to a pulp. Luckily, she was restrained by her companion and couldn't do any damage. The outburst should've been no surprise considering Roth was discharged from the Service due to her volatile personality.

Vallance, who'd been around the block a few times, smiled as he remembered being young and reckless. He too was picked for the job because he wanted a place in the world and was a little crazy. Though, he'd managed to settle his temperament when others never achieved the same -- people like Roth who walk around with anger and hatred and nausea that won't go away as they fail to accept the rigid limits of justice and fairness in a world full of evil most people believe only exists in films and television.

Feeling contemplation hit, Vallance carefully rolled a cigarette, igniting it with his trusty nickel and pigskin lighter before taking a slow drag. If he'd ever had a wife, she'd have probably gotten him to stop smoking.

Fast forwarding, he picked up the interview where it had resumed, with Lyric sounding far more humble.

"The baby? Alright..." she drifted from one word to the next. "Uncle Eddie was going through some hormonal nonsense or something. You know, estrogen pumping and whatnot? He planned to adopt the kid with his girlfriend. It sounded like a good idea for a while, but the people who found me were very against it. Still, he wanted the child to have a life, so they named her Sian and posted her to Wales, where she lived with some dirt-poor family that didn't have a flushing toilet... It's a fate crueller than death if you ask me."

Isabelle questioned, "Uncle Eddie? Edward Sardonis? He knew Lord Payne and assisted with the cover-up?"

"Yes."

"He and his girlfriend wanted a child? You mean, Elizabeth Wharry?"

"Sure. But she wanted a son. Fake bitch spent her whole life pretending to be God's gift to feminism, but she couldn't stomach the thought of raising a girl. Hence, your boss got all her money."

Vallance stopped the tape.

It was interesting how people were connected. Orwell thought Sardonis had played Wharry -- that he never really wanted children, so Oliver was never adopted. All the while, they both wanted to adopt, but Sardonis had his eyes set on Sian Thomas, and it broke his heart when things fell through. Wharry was a little colder and wanted to move to a new potential adoptee, especially if it could be a son, as soon as possible. When she found out her chauffeur had gotten his young bride pregnant, she acted immediately, without consulting ʼUncle Eddie.ʼ

In a way, Orwell took Sian's place and ended up with all the money. Maybe Sardonis resented that his favoured pick missed out, but that was hardly the biggest reason for the war between the two men.

Whatever the case, Lyric would not testify without there being more evidence. They needed Sian to come forward, or something else...

After taking a few more notes, Vallance decided he'd done enough work for the night and set his pen aside. He'd finished his cigarette and was ready to roll another just as his eyes narrowed and ears perked up. Squeezing his lower lip between his teeth, he inhaled through his nose as a gentle breeze hit his skin. Suddenly, his eyes darted down to his revolver! Without a second's hesitation, he grabbed the gun and dove into cover, firing two shots into the dark!

Crack! Crack!

"Agh!" an assassin screamed in agony before a hail of bullets were launched in Vallance's direction.

The thin walls offered no resistance and the absence of light was the only thing shielding him from certain death. The experienced spy knew there must've been more than one attacker -- he knew he was outmatched -- and he eyed a closed window in a rotten wood frame some few feet away as he planned a quick exit.

Putting his head down, he remembered his days playing university rugby and stormed forward, crashing through the glass and landing on his stomach in the alley outside. He rolled onto his back just fast enough to fix his sights on an armed man trying to follow, firing a decisive shot that surely saved his life before scrambling to his feet.

As he started running down the streets of Tunis, a second man gave chase. Vallance turned a corner fast, then another, but he wasn't fast enough to lose the hired killer. The bastard was younger and fitter, but experience still counted.

The British spy took a calculated risk and turned for a split second, firing a speculative shot and hitting the man in the shoulder. The sight of blood spraying confirmed the hit, but the assassin wasn't dead yet.

Raising his pistol, the wounded gunman aimed and pulled his trigger three times, hitting twice. Vallance fell to his knees before crumpling to the floor. After four decades, his luck had run out on that one night in Tunis. With him died the ultimate conclusion: The final truth behind Elizabeth Wharry's death. So too died the knowledge of Sian Thomas's fate and the secret of how to defeat the shadowy figures who orchestrated it all.

Now, it was up to Oliver Orwell to figure it all out. Whether or not he was ready, he was perhaps the free world's last hope.

01 • Yonaka

"I was expecting Tokyo to be humid," I remarked, observing the grungy surroundings.

Standing a few feet behind me, Skylar pointed out the obvious. "It is quite cold, sir."

"We're never apart for more than an hour or two, yet you still insist on calling me sir," I sighed, shaking my head. "You know, we're practically best friends by now."

Turning around just in time, I caught the tail-end of my blonde bodyguard's laugh lines as she blushed and smiled with steel-blue eyes that sparked inspiration in mine. No woman looked better in a tailored suit than my Skylar. Her punky asymmetric haircut and tall-slender form were a wicked combination that made her look cooler than cool itself. Pushing my tongue into my cheek, I admired her for a second before all my attention was captured by the reflection of Tokyo in the glass behind her.

We were outside an old office building, somewhat away from the real hustle and bustle of the megacity. There were no neon-soaked crowds here, only the roar of millions in motion some miles away. Yet, even as we stood outside the urban core, I felt that sense of adoration that the city inspired in all its visitors -- a desire to be still and melt, becoming part of its never-ending wonder.

Yes, Japan nurtured fanaticism and obsession in people who'd never been within a thousand miles of its shores. Being there? Well, it felt like the only comparison might be Paris, but even Paris had its shortcomings.

In the reflection, I also saw myself: Tall, strong... I was looking alright, but I wondered if alright was good enough. My dark hair was long, my beard a little unkempt. I was somewhere between heartthrob and hobo with expensive suits making the slight disorder that characterised my appearance seem civilised.

Skylar followed me through a set of doors leading to a well-appointed executive office. We'd flown over from Munich -- where our massive jet was being refitted -- to meet with the private detectives Gedeon Daughtler had suggested following the death of Nash's spy friend in Tunisia.

As the so-called 'Trillion Dollar Man,' Daughtler had access to resources the rest of us could only imagine. Terminally ill, he allowed me to buy any part of his empire I could afford at reasonable rates, and, though I didn't keep count, I was close to being the world's richest man as a result. The magazines and websites that kept track of such things were none the wiser, having devoted little attention to my family's empire.

My wealth seemed to grow and grow. I couldn't lose; I was too big to fail.

With the money came ambitions. There were projects I wanted to fund in pursuit of cures to great maladies, governments I wanted to control, global problems I wanted to resolve, and evils I wanted to vanquish.

The private security firm we'd contracted as a result of this newfound power had no name and selected its clients. They'd protected European emperors and American tycoons for hundreds of years, among a dozen other categories of historically significant people. Their investigations had helped change the fate of nations, and they could uncover any fact with nothing escaping their gaze. They were the best of the best, offering services that went far beyond those of private eyes or bodyguards and they could complete any task their clients requested.

Our contact person called himself Yonaka and preferred the Western style of speech. He was a muscular Japanese man of about thirty-five, with a lush black wig that almost passed as his real hair... Almost.

Alicia and Yonaka were sitting at a generously proportioned desk, planning my security now that we better understood the threat. As they saw me approach, she became nervous, knowing I would want to discuss the investigation. My friend was concerned that I'd become obsessed with finding the truth and chasing justice. She was worried that I was putting myself in danger by choosing to confront the threat instead of hunkering down and waiting for the authorities to do their thing.

For a moment, I paused, eyeing Yonaka's bookshelf. Only one series populated the ten rows: Ian Fleming's James Bond novels in multiple languages and editions. On top of the shelf, I'd left the dossier he'd prepared for me before I'd stepped out to catch a breath. I picked it up, taking it with me as I settled into a chair next to Alicia. Opening the dossier, I scanned the pages to remind myself of the facts -- everything we'd collected about the death of a spy named Vallance in Tunisia and all the information we had on the fake aristocrat in London, codename 'Lyric.'

"What about Romy?" I asked lazily.

"Hm?" Yonaka grumbled.

I clarified, "The impostor's daughter: Romy. We... We know each other."

"Oh, yes."

Yonaka didn't have much to say in response to my curiosity about the girl who kept me company on a sad night in London. The rest of the dossier was uninteresting except for the contents of Vallance's wallet. When the police found his dead body it contained: Five Tunisian coins. One British pound. Three unmarked coins with straight edges.

"This British spy was clearly onto something," Yonaka said. "His preliminary reports are interesting. Very interesting."

"What did they say?" I asked.

"MI6 have been obsessed with finding the people who helped Lord Payne replace his daughter with an imposter--"

"An awful thing," I interjected, feeling sick.

Yonaka nodded dispassionately. He seemed like the sort of man who'd heard worse things in his life, but he made a point of looking a little forlorn for my sake as he offered more distressing facts.

"Almost a century ago, an Ottoman traveller encountered a man he called an 'English sun worshiper' during his visits to North Africa. Decades later, French agents in Algeria believed a similar individual and his associates were selling arms and ammunition in that part of the world. Italian journalists made a discovery some years later, alleging a group of pagans had made a partnership with criminal elements in Sicily. In Shanghai, a senior police official turned up dead after asking too many questions, and an Interpol task force was sabotaged before it could achieve any results. Now, a British spy dies in Tunisia."

I narrowed my eyes. "All of this is related to the so-called sun worshipers?"

"They do not worship the sun," Yonaka chuckled, "and they never have. Instead, they are a group of English eccentrics who assembled with a strange objective in mind. In the first years of the 20th century, mankind began to develop its first true weapons of mass destruction. This group is a product of that time. They call themselves the Doomsday Archive."

"The Doomsday Archive?"

Yonaka pulled on his earlobe. "The French spies claimed the Archive is a secret society that uses devastating military weapons as though they were postage stamps or rare coins. They collect 'one of each' and display these in a museum, where they host exhibitions attended by the vilest of criminals, despots and terrorists."

It all sounded very fanciful. "So, this band of supervillains helped Payne replace his daughter? They kept her out of public for two or three years, and the well-coached actress looked just similar enough to sell the story."

"That's likely."

Alicia grew frustrated, leaning forward in her chair and knocking on the desk with her knuckles. Her priority was finding out how we could keep the family safe.