The Dragon Factory Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Jonathan Maberry
stating that he needed a safe haven to protect him from the mud people and the government—or at least those parts of the government that weren’t sucking on the Jakoby tit. Cyrus appeared to be convinced of the necessity for a hidden base and they’d coddled him by allowing him to design it according to his “vision.” The base he created was in the shape of a dodecahedron—which Cyrus said was a crucial form in sacred geometry—and became familiarly known as the Deck. The Twins had built hundreds of security and surveillance devices into it, some of which they let Cyrus know about—they were sure he didn’t know about the others.
“I wish to hell we’d built his lab somewhere closer,” Paris complained. “Fucking Arizona? In August? Besides, it lacks style.”
“Style?”
“C’mon,” he said, “it’s a secret lab with an actual mad scientist. We missed an opportunity to be cool.”
“Secret lairs in hollowed-out volcanoes are so five minutes ago.” Hecate sniffed. “Besides, Dad’s hardly Dr. No.”
“He’s smarter. And eviler. Is that a word?”
“No. But it’s true, Daddy certainly puts the ‘mad’ back in ‘mad scientist.’ ” She and Paris laughed and clinked glasses.
“What have you heard from him lately?” asked Hecate, sipping her martini and continuing to stare at the woman she had shared with her brother for the last three hours. She could still smell the woman, still taste her, despite the vodka. The girl had tasted like summer and freedom.
“His man Otto’s called me a dozen times in the last week. Hmm . . . I wonder if Otto qualifies as an evil assistant or henchman?”
“Evil assistant, definitely,” decided Hecate.
“I suppose. Anyway, he said that Dad wants the new generation gene sequencer, the Swedish one that was on the cover of
Biotech Times
.”
“So? Let him have it,” said Hecate.
“He wants two of them, and I think he wants them just because they were on the cover.”
“Who cares? Buy him a roomful.”
“He already has a roomful of Four Fifty-four Life Sciences sequencers,” complained Paris. “He says they’re garbage and his attendants had to restrain him from having a go at them with a fire axe.”
Hecate shrugged. “Why are you making an issue of this? If Alpha wants twenty new computers then let him have them. We can debit his allowance for it. God knows he’s been enough of a cash cow lately to allow him some toys. What’s it to you?”
Paris sneered at his sister’s use of “Alpha.” Dad had started calling himself that a month ago and insisted that his children only address him by that name. Their father’s staff had to address him as Lord Alpha the Most High. For two years before that he’d only answered when addressed as the Orange, which was a vague reference to some alien race whose origins and nature seem to be in some dispute among UFOlogists. Paris was grudgingly indulgent; he had a vein in his forehead that started pulsing every time he had to shape his lips around one of those names. The only one of his father’s names Paris had ever liked was Merlin, which Cyrus had used for most of their teenage years.
Hecate raised one delicate eyebrow.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Paris snapped. “I’m not being cheap or, god help us, ‘thrifty’ . . . it’s just that it’s getting harder and harder totell the difference between necessary requests and his go-nowhere whims. Like the swimming pool filled with mercury.”
Hecate finished her martini and stood up. She was exactly as tall as Paris—six feet on the dot—and had legs that been commented upon everywhere from
Vogue
to
Maxim.
The most common phrase in the magazines was “legs like alabaster.” Crap like that, which Hecate had found flattering when she was in her teens but now found trite. Her silver-white pubic hair was shaved to a tiny vee, and when she raised her leg to step into her panties the cabin lights sparkled on the golden rings in her
“I wish to hell we’d built his lab somewhere closer,” Paris complained. “Fucking Arizona? In August? Besides, it lacks style.”
“Style?”
“C’mon,” he said, “it’s a secret lab with an actual mad scientist. We missed an opportunity to be cool.”
“Secret lairs in hollowed-out volcanoes are so five minutes ago.” Hecate sniffed. “Besides, Dad’s hardly Dr. No.”
“He’s smarter. And eviler. Is that a word?”
“No. But it’s true, Daddy certainly puts the ‘mad’ back in ‘mad scientist.’ ” She and Paris laughed and clinked glasses.
“What have you heard from him lately?” asked Hecate, sipping her martini and continuing to stare at the woman she had shared with her brother for the last three hours. She could still smell the woman, still taste her, despite the vodka. The girl had tasted like summer and freedom.
“His man Otto’s called me a dozen times in the last week. Hmm . . . I wonder if Otto qualifies as an evil assistant or henchman?”
“Evil assistant, definitely,” decided Hecate.
“I suppose. Anyway, he said that Dad wants the new generation gene sequencer, the Swedish one that was on the cover of
Biotech Times
.”
“So? Let him have it,” said Hecate.
“He wants two of them, and I think he wants them just because they were on the cover.”
“Who cares? Buy him a roomful.”
“He already has a roomful of Four Fifty-four Life Sciences sequencers,” complained Paris. “He says they’re garbage and his attendants had to restrain him from having a go at them with a fire axe.”
Hecate shrugged. “Why are you making an issue of this? If Alpha wants twenty new computers then let him have them. We can debit his allowance for it. God knows he’s been enough of a cash cow lately to allow him some toys. What’s it to you?”
Paris sneered at his sister’s use of “Alpha.” Dad had started calling himself that a month ago and insisted that his children only address him by that name. Their father’s staff had to address him as Lord Alpha the Most High. For two years before that he’d only answered when addressed as the Orange, which was a vague reference to some alien race whose origins and nature seem to be in some dispute among UFOlogists. Paris was grudgingly indulgent; he had a vein in his forehead that started pulsing every time he had to shape his lips around one of those names. The only one of his father’s names Paris had ever liked was Merlin, which Cyrus had used for most of their teenage years.
Hecate raised one delicate eyebrow.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Paris snapped. “I’m not being cheap or, god help us, ‘thrifty’ . . . it’s just that it’s getting harder and harder totell the difference between necessary requests and his go-nowhere whims. Like the swimming pool filled with mercury.”
Hecate finished her martini and stood up. She was exactly as tall as Paris—six feet on the dot—and had legs that been commented upon everywhere from
Vogue
to
Maxim.
The most common phrase in the magazines was “legs like alabaster.” Crap like that, which Hecate had found flattering when she was in her teens but now found trite. Her silver-white pubic hair was shaved to a tiny vee, and when she raised her leg to step into her panties the cabin lights sparkled on the golden rings in her