tagSci-Fi & FantasyLife as a New Hire Ch. 31

Life as a New Hire Ch. 31


This story plays fast and loose with Ancient History and Linguistics; be warned.

You can do wrong while trying to do right.

Editing magic performed by KJ24 and Shyqash, plus contributions by the regular gang of brigands and neer-do-wells.

Thanks to NM for his help with Magyar terminology and titles and Budapest advice.

There is a bit of mangling of the Iliad going on. I apologize to Homer and the countless singers before him who carried the Iliad down through the dark centuries until the Greeks figured out how writing works.


(Not the welcome we expected)

When my family's side and my companions finally settled down for some sleep, I was left wide awake, the memories of hundreds of years seeping into my conscious mind. These were amusing, frightening and sad. Grandpa Cáel/Alal had lived a life full of pain - both given and received. He spent an inordinate amount of time looking at children.

Since I had his memories, not his personality, I had to decipher their emotional context. The dominant themes were sadness, jealousy and anger. Immortality wasn't a future. Immortality was continued existence. And only through his eyes did I begin to see the difference. A family meant a future. Offspring meant a future. Sarrat Irkalli had stolen that from him.

Alal had tried fostering children. He had even adopted infants who knew no other father. It was always that same dark journey that he walked with everyone he ever loved. They died, either at the hands of his enemies, or from the passage of time. It became too much to bear, so he gave up trying to bond with humanity.

I had a newfound sense of sympathy for him. I was also terrified by the way his mind had evolved and was even more convinced I had to kill him...which was what he wanted me to try. Why? Fear. Having lived for so long and suffered so much, Phobos was a distant memory for him. He had experienced physical and emotional agony so many times that it had lost all reference to him.

Grandpa wanted to fight me, then he wanted to kill me. He couldn't bring order to humanity's perpetual state of chaos if he was finally, really dead. I had these memories from him, but not the actual experience. Maybe if I trained for 100 years, which was 99 fewer years than he was going to give me, I approach his skill. Aunt Kelly interrupted my introspection.

"Do you mind if I sleep beside you?" she asked. She was going through some minor tremors.

"Sure thing," I replied softly. I scooted over and held up the thin blanket I was sheltering under. Kelly snuggled in on the - it was a cot, not a bed. I cut through the confusion by letting her head come to rest on my right biceps (I was on my right side).

Kelly moved closer allowing me to run my hand from the top of her right thigh, along her hip then over to her back. As my fingers worked up her spine in a zigzag pattern, she started kissing me on the lips. Tongues played, chests pressed together and our legs intertwined. Kelly was athletic and vigorous, yet clearly driving under the influence - my scent was making her unstable.

Despite her ferocious nature, after stripping off her clothes, Kelly quickly rolled onto her stomach then brought her knees up in the classic 'ass up' sexual position. The last thing I wanted to do was to be a cheap replacement for Grandpa. When I was naked, I manhandled Kelly up and on top of me. There was nothing wrong with her instincts once she was there.

Kelly had my cock in her hand and was rubbing against her gushing labia in a heartbeat. Penetration came in one liquid, friction-intense plunge. My aunt wasted no time letting the whole plane know she was in sexual bliss. I had a massive sexual legacy to live up to and Kelly gave every indication that one orgasm wasn't nearly enough.

I licked, sucked and teased every millimeter of her scrumptious breasts and teats. She moaned from deep within her diaphragm in one long litany of limitless carnality. Kelly responded by giving me frantic kisses, bitten lips and twisting my nipples as she raced to her second orgasm. (There is no rest for the wicked.) Finally, Kelly shifted to a spooning position.

The second time I entered her, we were less frantic and more sensual. It was an unhurried, pleasant pussy penetration accompanied by plenty of kisses along her shoulders and neck. Our hands roamed over each other's bodies. I got Kelly to play with her tits while I grabbed her hips and began hammering away. I told her I was close.

Kelly picked up her self-stimulation and started pushing her butt back to meet my thrusts. My climax built up and up until I felt my penis taking on the role of a fire hose in a five alarm fire. Cum kept shooting out, strand after strand of my seed painted her vaginal walls. My Aunt and I were panting like greyhounds at the end of an epic race. I was developing a positive view of our encounter.

She twisted her body around, my spent phallus fell out of her pussy and she positioned her body so that we were face to face once more. She also killed my happy. "Sex with you is far better than it ever was with Father," Kelly gasped. Killed it big time.

"I don't see you as Blood, Kelly. I see you as the wonderful woman you are," I lied to her.

(Cough) "Bullshit," (Cough) I heard from Pamela's direction.

"Hey, Old Lady," I groused. "Do you need a lozenge?"

"No," Pamela snorted. "What I need is for you to use a ball-gag on the next one you wear out. I think most of us are trying to get some sleep."

With some effort and consideration, I managed to add sex with Deidre to my rapidly lengthening list of post-collegiate sins. Unfortunately, being around my mother's sisters was dredging up all kinds of memories I wish I didn't now have. By the grace of Kimberly, my mentor, I had a strong impulse to remember every bit of information during a love-making session so I could build a picture of that lover's idiosyncrasies later.

While I may have been a lousy, cheating son of a bitch, I was a compassionate member of that breed and so 95+% of all my female memories were pleasant ones. But I now had a host of new memories, courtesy of Grandpa Alal (I had decided that I was going to be the one and only 'Cáel' in this family; fuck Grandpa and his seniority) that didn't mesh with my normal modus operandi.

These were his cold, calloused assessments of people - his own flesh and blood - as tools, biological devices designed for certain tasks. He was prepared to dispose of any of them at a moment's notice. I didn't have the emotional background for this discovery. I had only my love of women to guide me toward the truth.


Alal's 'milk of human kindness' had finally run dry as the Visigoths sacked his Roman villa. While looters ran off with his latest trappings of wealth, and deserted by his servants and his slaves, Grandpa decided that he was tired of fucking around with the Human Race. He felt they were simply too stupid, venal and weak to make any positive, lasting changes in the world.

Alal decided that he was going to make the key choices for them. Fuck free will. Fuck letting the vermin that floated to the top of the cesspool destroy everything good in the world...as he had witnessed them doing time and time again. He had lost count of the monuments destroyed, histories of peoples forgotten and benefits to mankind burned away by barbarism and ignorance.

By the fading light of August the 26th, 410 CE, Alal found himself sitting back in the pergola (a sort of mini-gazebo) in his rear gardens, drinking through several amphora of wine all the while having a deep philosophical debate with the several dozen very dead Goths decorating his environs.

As three or four looters would enter the garden, he would kill them. And then three or four more would show up looking for the earlier group,...on and on. This reinforced Alal's belief that something drastic had to be done. He seriously considered going to the coast, getting a ship and five solid stone anchors. He'd sail out two days...maybe three, wrap himself in the anchors and jump overboard.

The problem, as he saw it, was that given a few decades, the ropes would rot and he'd bob to the surface to see again that none of the fundamentals had changed. Further complicating his current thinking was that every time he came close to throwing in the cosmic towel, some more GOD DAMN GOTHS would come around, calling for their buddies - the dead ones. Somewhere around noon on August the 27th, Alal vowed that he was tired of this shit.

Right on cue, around twenty Goths came strolling through the rear of his villa and soaked up the carnage out back. Fifty-two of their brethren were in various states of dismemberment and defilement (Alal had been, as usual, angry). They saw this dark-skinned Roman and rightly asked 'where's the army that killed these fellows?' He walked up to them in his wine-splashed toga.

"Are you the one in charge?" he asked the meanest looking Visigoth in passible Goth.

"I am," the leader responded. With lightning speed, he killed the man with his own sword. The Germans weren't sure what to make of that, it had happened so fast.

"You can join me," Alal indicated himself, "or you can join him," he indicated the corpse of their former leader. He had his new band of followers and the rest was Illuminati history.

End Flashback

For me, this meant more to me than living with the memories of a very bitter, driven and pitiless man. Alal was essentially the anti-me. It gave me chills to realize that all of Alal's gifts were bestowed on me with a purpose. I knew it was part of his greater plan. Normally, to end-run an evil genius, you just find him and kill him. Not only would Alal not stay dead, I now knew how well he could fight.

I knew only four people who might be in his league ... and I wasn't one of them. Of the four, Sakuniyas wasn't likely to help Pamela, St. Marie and Elsa get the job done. That meant I had to rev up the deception engine to comfort my Aunts with hope, while dispelling the knowledge of how little they mattered to their sire. Almost as bad, I had to ignore what horribly people they were while extending that portion of my soul.

It was with some relief that I hugged, kissed, and forcefully separated myself from the Aunts in Dublin. We were going on to Budapest's Ferenc Liszt International Airport. My next action was to make my request to Selena for a contract with the Ghost Tigers to defend Hana when she arrived in Russia. (Of the three 9 Clan Assassin-Babes, Selena was the least impressed with me.) She informed me that the Ghost Tigers didn't do bodyguard work. I still wanted her to relay my request, so she relented. After that - I passed out.

We left Dublin around 9:30 am Friday morning and landed in Budapest at 1:45 pm. - still Friday. As Rachel rousted me so I could grab a quick shower before touchdown, I was gifted with the misconceptions of my fellow travelers:

To put it nicely, Riki thought I was somewhat revolting, Virginia was disturbed and Chaz had lowered his opinion of my moral character. It was the incest thing. Vincent being polite was a pleasant surprise, Delilah's camaraderie less so and Odette was peaches with my most recent sexcapades. She was far too good to me. The Amazons uniformly didn't give a crap.

"So, is there going to be any other bizarre behavior we should be prepared for?" Riki sat down next to me as I was drying my hair. I was back to my 'jeans, t-shirt and wind-breaker' style.

"Fine..." I said loudly. "It is really none of your business what I did with and to my mother's clones. Yes, they are all clones of my mother - who died when I was seven." A lie.

"They are also the genetic creations of my grandfather, also known by many as Cáel O'Shea. They are sterile, they are wickedly evil, and two weeks ago I didn't know they existed. I do have a real aunt in Maryland. She's my Father's sister and is not part of the menagerie. Oh yeah, my grandpa is currently a disembodied spirit, back from the Netherworld and looking for a body to take over ... if he hasn't found one already," I added.

"He was born roughly five thousand years ago, was cursed by an ancient Sumerian Goddess such that he can never just die and stay dead. I have his memories running around my head, which, along with denying me a good night's sleep, allows me to speak an assortment of languages, use virtually every weapon built before 1970 and know that he is a vicious criminal mastermind the likes of which you've never imagined outside of fiction.

How does that sound, Riki? Shall I get more bizarre? Trust me, I can," I regarded her evenly. She was speechless, but not out of awe. No, she was certain that I was completely unhinged.

"Everyone who believes Cáel, raise their hand," Odette demanded. Her hand went up. Odette and the Amazons agreeing was expected by the outsiders. Delilah and Virginia joining in was not.

"Captain Fairchild?" Colour Sgt. Chaz Tomorrow requested clarification.

"You've all seen those five O'Shea's that left the plane in Ireland. Barring some cosmetic changes, they were the exact same woman. You can either go with Sean Connery's Tak-ne creating a female clone army, or you can believe there is an otherworldly plastic surgeon altering a cadre of super-rich bitches to all look alike," Delilah - who was a captain of something - put out there.

"Who in the Hell is Tak-ne?" Riki mumbled.

"Duh," I poked the State Department lassie. "Connor MacLeod's Egyptian mentor in Highlander, the original movie and in the less than stellar sequel, Highlander: The Quickening".

"You are mistaken. Connery was that Spanish guy," Riki poked me back.

"Actually, the relevant quote is: 'I am Juan Sánchez Villalobos Ramírez, Chief metallurgist to King Charles V of Spain. And I'm at your service'," Vincent regaled us with his movie trivia. "He later reveals that he was born Tak-ne in Egypt in the 9th century BCE. Also, his Spanish name makes no sense - he has one too many surnames."

"Agent Loire, I am beginning to find intelligent men to be attractive," Charlotte said.

"Umm...thank you," Vincent responded warily.

"This might be a good point to get something clear," Chaz inquired. "Mr. Nyilas, whose side are you on? It appears to be rather complicated."

"Okay, Chaz, call me Cáel. Calling me Mr. Nyilas makes me miss my dad. I can also be addressed as Cáel 'Wakko' Ishara, Head of House Ishara of the First Twenty Houses of the Amazon Host. Or, you can call me what the Great Khan does - Magyarorszag es Erdely Hercege. Finally, those who love me, or find me amusing, may call me Fehér mén."

Selena's snort indicated she'd failed to hide her amusement at my presumptiveness, both titular and physically.

"Do you want to explain what's so amusing?" Riki looked over to the Black Hand assassin.

"Your job should be exceptionally easy now," Selena mocked me, "Prince of Hungry and Transylvania...or do you prefer 'White Stud'?"

"Laugh while you can, Monkey-Girl," I sneered. "The guy currently making a run at erasing seven hundred years of Asian history gave me that title. As for Fehér mén - that means 'White Stallion' and is symbolic of my ties to House Epona, not a phallic reference." Riki's look had gone from disgust, to anger (because she thought she was being played) and lastly, to shock.

"No," I interpreted her fear. "I am not here as some vanguard to unite the Magyar people to their cultural kinfolk in Central Asia. If you know your Central European history, you might recall that the Mongols devastated my homeland. For the next 450 years, the Turks were unwelcome visitors, conquerors and overlords. My princely status is a pat on the head for a job well done and nothing more."

"What job did you do?" Riki prodded.

"I saved a man's life," I looked pained to admit. She didn't get it.

"It must have been a major VIPs life," Chaz suggested.

"You can say that," Pamela nodded. "End of discussion time too."

At Ferenc Liszt International, we were diverted to a private hangar once more - courtesy of the Republic of Ireland's diplomatic umbrella. Three grey Ford Focuses and a white panel truck advertising a furniture repair store awaited us. Security issues were immediately obvious. They wanted to separate us (in the Fords) from most of our luggage (in the truck).

The five guy welcoming party hid under the cloak of 'don't speak any language you claim to speak' and Selena was of zip help. So, I spoke to them in Hungarian. They glanced my way, but didn't respond. Serbian? Nope. Romanian? Nope.

[Old Kingdom Hittite] "Bows and doves," I commanded.

That translated rather logically as 'guns/bows' and 'phones/doves'. Out came our pistols. The only Black Hand to react fast enough was Selena and Pamela had her covered. The Amazons were aiming at the locals while Delilah and Chaz had their weapons out and scanning. Vincent and Virginia hadn't been fast enough - this time. They also didn't have guns pointed at them.

The lead BH flunky began talking calmly in German - heavily Slavic accented German.

[German] "What do you think you are doing?" he inquired of me.

[German] "Disarming you, ya Moron," I grumbled. [OKH] "Go", and in my Amazons went to very roughly search, disarm and de-phone our not so friendly friends.

"Alright, gather up your luggage," I called out to my group. "We are walking to town." That wasn't truly accurate. There was a metro associated with the airport - a kilometer away max. Our guides didn't speak English so they were rather surprised when the bags came out of the truck and were distributed to their owners. Riki Martin and Odette were in some trouble.

Girls and 'only packing the necessities'...Well, we had some diplomatic lumber to toss at the security services, Vincent had web-searched our location and the route we needed to take to the metro, and Delilah had purchased week-long public transport passes for the group. Only when we started marching out of the hangar did the BH comprehend the totality of their error.

The five guys in the hangar were chattering away - in Hungarian - and Selena was peeved.

"You are upsetting my superiors by blatantly disrespecting their courtesy," she reminded me. "They have guaranteed your safety."

"Less than a day has passed since the shootout in London, Selena," I countered.

"This is the Black Hand's backyard," Selena persisted, "not London."

"So, you are only going to help us if we do stupid shit we wouldn't do, even on our own home ground, is that it?" I chuckled. "Sweet," then, to my people, "I guess we are on our own."

The airport security guards didn't know what to make of our group of over-worked Sherpa, but the US State department and the RoI (Republic of Ireland) vouched for us, so they let us pass.

We hadn't taken the cars and the truck because that would have been theft. The confiscated guns and phones had been disassembled and tossed into a large iron drum of used aviation lubricant. Odette began shopping around for hotel reservations (I was carrying most of her gear). She was the logical choice because she sounded the most human of the bunch.

Selena called her people back, explained the fuck up and engaged in a mutual ass-chewing that spilled over a half-dozen languages and ended up with Dick-head, the local BH chieftain providing us with quarters that would turn a blind eye to our arsenal. With that address in mind, we made for the bowels of modern Budapest.

Dutifully, Riki contacted the US Embassy to Hungary's CIA mission head and Chargé D' Affaires, a.i., updating them on our arrival and movements. At the last moment, I had Riki relay the wrong address...on a paranoid hunch. I was right to be paranoid except I was looking in the wrong direction.

We had just disembarked at the Kőbánya-Kispest M3 station when we walked into the rolling ambush. A 'rolling ambush' is like a meeting engagement - the difference being that one side (ours) is on the move, not knowing it is being hunted while the other side (our attackers) was rushing to catch up with us, not knowing where along the path they would find us.

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