Chapter 7: Blast from the Present
Somewhere
in the African Savannah
Two
months later
02:25
PM
The big black man pushed the door aside, sighing as he got in, trying to escape the oppressive heat. The bar was maybe the seediest he ever walked into, but people knew him, and the beer was cold enough.
"Zan!" the barman bellowed loud enough to be heard over the background noise of the bar.
He approached the short, balding man, which was holding a piece of paper in his hand.
"You got a message," he said, and gave the paper to him.
Zan's eyebrows twitched once, and returned to their normal stoic self. The message had only one telephone number and a name.
"What does this . . ." he checked the paper once again, "Cordelia Chase want?"
"She didn't tell me, just that it was private and urgent."
"Thanks, Jono. Give me a cold one, please," he said, sitting on a stool. In seconds' a cold beer was patiently sitting in front of him. He drank from the bottle, ignoring the glass completely.
This surely was strange; no one, not even his mother had a phone number where he could be reached or one of those e-mail things. Sure, he called her once or twice a year, but she didn't know how to reach him. He came to this bar maybe twice a month, if that much.
So, how had did this woman found him, and more importantly, why?
A faint alarm bell started sounding in the deep recesses of his brain. He downed the rest of his beer and stood up, going out of the bar. As soon as he reached the street, the oppressive heat struck him.
"Bloody marvelous African weather," he murmured, eyeing a building some hundred yards away. He tried to walk in the shade as much as possible, but it proved to be a fruitless enterprise, since he was covered in sweat in seconds.
Before entering, he checked out the neighborhood, and apparently everything checked out fine. He entered the telephone company's building, and a couple of gasps were heard. He turned to the white couple wearing the typical tourist outfit and shook his head.
"I'm not him," he said, trying to sound as neutral as possible, but it sounded like a low growl instead.
"But you look . . ." the young woman said, and the man at her side nodded dumbly.
"I get that a lot," he said, and turned to the attendant, ignoring the young couple completely. "Any empty cabins?" he asked the woman in Swahili.
"Number four is empty," she said.
"Thanks."
He walked into the cabin, the small ventilator on it working full time, and he removed the hook from its cradle. He dialed the long string of numbers, and waited for a while. When the phone on the other side was picked up, he recognized the sound of a scrambler aligning.
The alarm bell changed into a full blown klaxon, signaling an aerial strike in mere seconds. He immediately hung up and looked from one side to another, cursing internally about his lack of a gun. The small store was almost empty, except for an old man in cabin number two and the attendant who was now calmly reading a magazine of some sort.
The telephone at his side started to rang a few seconds after he finished his third eye swoop of his surroundings. He looked at it scared, but curious at the same time. Who was this Cordelia Chase?
He removed the hook from its resting position once again with the greatest care, as if he was dealing with something highly explosive, and placed it on his ear.
"If you are breathing over there, it means you got my message, right?" came the voice of someone young on the other side.
"Who are you?" he asked, still eyeing his surroundings.
"My name is Cordelia Chase. As you already know."
"What do you want?" he asked, nervously, standing up and opening the cabin's door.
"To talk. You see, we used to have a common acquaintance."
"Who?" he asked, opening the cabin's door.
"Kendra."
It was as if someone had injected muscle relaxant enough in him to fell an elephant. He sat down, his legs like jelly, hands shaking. He closed the cabin silently.
"I don't want anything to do with the Council, or what is being created now."
"We are not the Council, I can assure you that. Who wants to be compared to a lot of badly dressed stuffy Brits, anyway?" she asked, and somehow the cheerful tone made him relax a little bit.
"How did you know Keni, anyway?" he asked.
"If you want to know, there is a plane ticket in the airport with your name on it, valid for a week," the woman said, and hung up.
Evander 'Zan' Zabuto stood up and got out of the store, straight for his truck and his bags. He had a plane to catch.
Over the Atlantic
Following day
04:23 PM
He refused the seventh drink offer the stewardess made, and was blithely ignoring the onboard movie. Zan only had his headphones on, without music, and his eyes closed so no one would bother him while he was remembering.
- O -
Special Air
Services HQ – Hereford - England
Approximately
five years ago
09:00 AM
The military committee who was overseeing Captain Evander Zabuto's post-mission briefing looked at him with something akin to hatred in their eyes. They had no proof of his allegations, except from the weird audio recordings and since the video surveillance equipment was useless - it had been deactivated even before the team had entered the building - it was his word against seven dead soldiers, eleven dead children, five adults and no terrorists.
But how could he explain to them that the terrorists in question, the ones they were supposed to stop were already dead? That the only way to kill them for real was a good piece of wood through the heart? That bullets were mostly useless? He tried, that was true, in a general 'I'm not a crazy pillock ready to go to the loony bin' way, but it was proven fruitless.
The trio of high ranking officers were quietly chatting among themselves while he stood ramrod straight, waiting for something. Once in a while a stray look would come in his direction, and he believed that if heat vision worked he would be a smoking pile of ashes in the ground.
The conversation ended, and he looked at the highest ranking officer, General David Eddington.
"Captain Zabuto, in light of the evidence presented before this committee, we can't form a precise course of action for you. In my opinion, you should be court-martialed and left to rot at some brig," he said, disgust clearly evident in every word, "but since my two estimated colleagues and some . . . outside resources . . . have pointed out, apparently there was nothing you could do, since the only thing those bloody audio recordings prove is that they were already dead before your team got in. So, we have nothing to do with you. Matter of fact, we don't /want/ anything to do with you."
The meaning was clear, they were giving him the boot. If he picked it up, it would probably be considered honorable discharge and he would get his pay and be forgotten, if not he would be put aside in some base around the world and forgotten the same way.
So, he took the only decision he could.
- O -
The airplane
Zan knew that his father had more than evidence enough to back up his claims. The heated discussion over the phone when he was back from the mission was proof enough that his father had more interest in keeping the Council's secrets than helping his own son. After all, the almighty Samuel Zabuto was a Watcher to the core.
- O -
African
Savannah
A few months
ago
01:47 PM
"Your father died, Zan," came the sad voice of his mother over the phone.
Zan took a deep breath, his mind in turmoil of confusing feelings.
"How?" he asked evenly.
"The Council's HQ blew up. Apparently there were no survivors. The police is blaming a terrorist group over it."
He took another deep breath, and after a few moments of silence, he spoke back.
"Now I can join the feeling with reality."
The ex-SAS, now safari guide heard his mother's breath stop for a bit on the other side. So, he continued.
"He died to me when he refused to help me. He could have provided me with just enough evidence to clean my name, mother. Instead, he decided to protect his beloved Council. Good riddance to him. He won't be missed, at least by me."
In the other hemisphere, Sarah Zabuto decided to break an oath that she took a long time ago.
"He helped you, Zan. Not in the way that you wanted, but he helped you."
"How did . . ." his mind suddenly returned to the words of General Eddington. "'Outside resources'. Father told them to boot me," Zan's anger build up a thousandfold in a matter of seconds.
"He did not. He asked a favor to a friend of his on the military, telling him that what you did had a rational explanation, but couldn't be divulged to anyone on the government. So, they changed your penalty to an honorable discharge."
Zan started crying, but out of anger. He almost broke the telephone, but controlled himself enough to speak his mind.
"The Council. Always the damned Council. Because of them, Keni is dead. Because of them, a ton of other girls are dead. Because of them, I was booted out and painted as a failure and a traitor. So nice of Father, mom. Pretty thoughtful of him. Now I hope he rots in Hell for all eternity."
"Zan . . ." she started, only to have the telephone hung up on her.
He stormed out of the phone company, and only called his mother three months later.
He didn't apologize.
- O -
The plane
The ex-SAS trooper kept on thinking about the past and the strange phone call of that Chase woman. How did she meet Keni? He still remembered the first time he met the Jamaican girl.
- O -
Jamaica
Seventeen
years ago
02:02 PM
He was sitting on the porch, waiting for his father's return. They had moved a month ago, and only now the reason for them to come from England to Jamaica would be revealed to him. He knew it had to be something related to the Watcher's Watchers' Council, since his father was so fiercely attached to them he wouldn't take a vacation if it wasn't expressly ordered by that bastard Travers.
So, when he heard the car's engine stopping in front of the house, he ran inside, passing the kitchen like a madman, scaring the hell out of his mother and going out by the front door. What he saw surprised him.
Attached to his father's leg like a human limpet was a pretty young girl, around five or so, with chocolate skin and large, scared eyes. She was looking around, looking at everything with wonder in her eyes. They locked eyes and gave one another a slight smile.
He approached her with slow steps, and stretched his hand. Before the girl could shake it, his father got in the way, speaking with his most severe tone.
"Evander, she is Kendra, a potential Slayer. I will train her and I want no interference. Understood?"
He deflated instantly and lowered his hand. "Sure, Father."
They walked inside in silence, and after his father had shown the young girl around, he managed to find her alone at her room, a bare place with a single bed and a small closet that Zan though it was supposed to be for visitors.
"Hello, my name is Evander. How are you?"
The girl looked at him with a mix of wonder and fear. With a shaky and heavily accented voice, she answered.
"S-scared," she said, lowering her eyes to the ground.
He got closer, trying to appear the least menacing as possible, and lifted her chin.
"Don't worry, Father may look scary, but he is a nice man. He will treat you right. And if you need anything, talk to me."
She looked up finally, and relaxed a bit. "T-thank you."
He smiled, and walked out. When he was crossing the door's threshold, he heard her voice.
"Y-you can call me Keni."
- O -
The plane
He had a sad look on his face, remembering the sad destiny of Kendra and hearing about her death from the mouth of his Father. That was the beginning of the end for both of them, and now the only thing that remained from those times was a feeling of emptiness that nothing could fulfill.
He finally fell asleep, trying to erase the memories, and failing miserably.
STCA HQ – Cleveland, OH
Eighteen hours later
Zan looked outside the window of the car. The neighborhood where they ended up was bad to say the least. He had been picked up at Cleveland's airport and escorted to a car, and brought here by a solicitous, yet apparently mute driver and another mute escort. Old senses were brought back bit by bit, and he started noticing several things: first, both escorts were armed. No surprise there. Second, the SUV they were riding in was also armored, and that came as a no surprise either.
What was interesting was what he noticed as he passed in front of the SUV when he was climbing aboard at the airport. Apparently, there was a second set of front lights hidden inside the front grille of the car, and he could bet a good sum that they were ultraviolet lamps on those.
Smart thinking. But the look and feel of the guys around him screamed 'government agents' over every pore of their beings, even with the apparent crosses dangling from their necks. And he could bet that if he put his hand down his seat he would probably find a gun and a stake hiding there.
Who were these guys? A new Council with American background?
They entered over a side garage entrance to a small building, and Zan noticed that apart from the rundown look, the amount of almost hidden cams belittled what the building truly was, a hidden fortress. Even the apparently bored-looking security guard at the garage entrance had that Special Ops 'feel' to him that was hard to disguise from one with almost the same training.
They parked in a nondescript area in the basement floor and disembarked. He was promptly flanked by his two escorts and they walked in group to a rusty steel door, naturally disguised in a shadowed corner. One of his escorts opened the door with a key and they walked in, standing in a small room with a less-rusty looking door in front of them. The same agent as before opened a small panel at a side and put his hand on it, the scanner reading his palm and body heat at a single pass.
Zan heard a series of bolts moving inside the door, and it opened. They passed on, and the ex-SAS noticed that the external look of the door was another disguise, since it was at least a foot thick and made of steel. As soon as they were in, the door closed over hydraulics hinges and the long corridor lighted up.
The black man noticed that it was small, only allowing one man comfortably at a time, and that the light fixtures on the ceiling had two sets of lights on them, only one set active now, normal fluorescent lights, the other were UV lamps. And sprinklers. And at even distances, either a crucifix or a David's cross adorned the walls. And the huge amount of cameras . . .
Whoever designed this building was a genius. Not only was it almost impossible to get in if you were human, it was downright impossible if you were a vampire.
/Who/ were these guys?
The long corridor twisted and turned around after a few yards, and it confused the hell outta him, but he had a brief suspicion that they were going to another large rundown building that Zabuto had seen almost at the end of the block, on the other side of the street.
They ended their trek at a small hallway with a couple of soldiers on guard with M-16 assault rifles in their hands and weird looking grenades on their belts, infrared goggles resting on top of their heads. The guards gave him a passing glance, while one of his escorts touched another hand panel on the side of an elevator door.
The car arriver with the typical 'ding', and they entered. Instead of the common floor buttons, there was a numeric pad on it. Escort #2 pressed a six digit code and the doors closed, following a smooth descent for an unknown number of floors.
Those people were really paranoid concerning security. They arrived at a floor, and the door opened, showing a small man with rimmed glasses and the general appearance of an accountant.
"Mr. Zabuto, I'm here on behalf of Ms. Chase. Follow me, please," he said, and turned around, without waiting for an answer of the tall black man.
Zan followed the man silently, his original escorts having stayed behind. They walked over a long corridor of closed doors. He noticed that the security measures here were now mostly on display, but he could see that some stuff was still hidden under carefully placed objects and angles.
The 'accountant' took him to a spacious meeting room, with a large desk for at least ten people and a series of monitors. It wasn't tastefully decorated, matter of fact it reminded him of a classier military briefing room, the main difference being the comfortable chairs and the absurd level of technology in it.
"If you could please sit for a while, Director Chase will be with you in a moment," the man said and left, again without waiting for his answer.
So, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. He was in some sort of Agency. One problem was: What kind of Agency?
A side door opened, and through it entered a stunningly beautiful woman, dressed in an impeccably cut feminine power suit in dark blue, which he supposed managed to hid a gun or something like it somewhere in her tall frame, with practical yet tasteful shoes and just a hint of makeup over olive skin. She stopped for a moment, and let her eyes wander over his impressive physique, somehow confirming her young age to his eyes.
But Evander Zabuto was smart enough to not judge a woman over her age, her initial behavior or her hormones. Keni had been a good lesson. The appreciation moment ended as soon as it began on both sides, and the woman extended a hand to him. He shook it promptly.
"Evander Zabuto? Cordelia Chase," she said, all serious and business-like. "Please, take a seat."
He sat in one of the chairs, and surprisingly, the woman sat at his side, not in the head of the table, as her position would demand. With this single gesture, one of trust, he relaxed slightly.
"Please, call me Zan. Everyone else does," he said, with his deep, cultured British accent. "So, aside from a couple of questions I would like to ask about Kendra, why am I here?"
Cordelia smiled slightly. Straight to the point, she liked him . . . it.
"Why don't you tell me . . . Zan? We chose you for a reason. Prove to me that we were right," she said, and looked him straight in the eyes.
He cleaned his throat for a second, while putting his thoughts in order.
"Well, I believe I'm in some kind of American Agency that deals with the supernatural side of things. The excessive amount of religious symbols, the UV lights and everything else I've seen so far points to that. Add to it the Special Ops looks of more than half the people I saw here, the Spartan yet practical setup of everything else and it gives me a general idea that the military are also involved. Since you knew Kendra, it tells me that you also knew about the Council, and somehow my . . . relationship with one of its former members and my military training gives me the sureness I'm here because of a job offer. Am I right, Director Chase?"
Cordelia was surprised. She was right, he was perfect. She clapped her hands lightly and smiled.
"I knew I was right. You are the perfect choice, but before I make the offer, I will answer all of your questions, so if you want to say 'no' you at least will have your answers. So, ask away."
"Ok, first of all, where am I?"
"The place you already know, the name of the Agency is Supernatural Threat Combat Agency or STCA for short. Another one to add to the alphabet soup."
"Any relation to the Watcher's Council?" he asked, warily.
"No, or at least not one to be disgusted over. We have some ex-Watchers in our payroll, and our mission is basically the same, but the methods are completely different."
"So, no slave girls?" he asked, resuming his disgust in a single expression.
"Nope, unless if you want to count me and Sam, I think sometimes we spend weeks in here without seeing the sunlight," she said with a grin, but her face darkened for a moment. "We have another special case, but we'll come to her later."
"The Slayer?" he asked.
"Yes and no. Yes, she is the special case, but no, not for the reason you are thinking. If you say yes, I'll explain, for now, let me say that she would be here regardless of our rules or decisions. She /wants/ to be here."
He let the matter go for a while.
"Why me?"
That was the loaded question.
"Well, you see, we all got thrown in this job for one reason or another, but most of all, because of our experience in the matter. No one in here hasn't suffered one kind of supernatural attack or other, either to himself or to someone close. So, we prize experience above it all, and you have both military and supernatural, as an ex-SAS and as a Watcher's son."
"Again, why me? I'm British, you surely must have someone in your midst to fulfill the teams, if I'm getting this right. And I'm not experienced enough to teach a Slayer how to fight the Watcher's way."
"Who said anything about filling the teams? The teams are filled, what we need is a Field Commander. You. As for the Slayer. Please; no Watcher from the old Council could train the newly empowered Slayer. I guess no one can, nowadays. The potentials, sure, we even have some ideas on this, but the Slayer herself, I guess not."
Zan's mouth fell to the ground with her diatribe.
"M-me? Why? I-I mean . . ." he blurted out. If it wasn't for his skin color, Cordelia imagined that he would be beet red.
"An ex-SAS, who has some very successful missions under his belt, plus an intimate knowledge on Watcher's fighting methods and ideas. We don't have many of those hanging around."
"And my last mission?"
"You want my sincere opinion or lies?"
"Your opinion."
"If your father wasn't dead I would kill him myself," she said, with steel in her eyes.
"So I gather you know about the back story?" he asked, grinning. He was really starting to like this Cordelia Chase.
"Probably more than you do. But we can discuss British assholes later, back to your questions, please. And your last mission was a big fuck up, no one knew what your team would end up facing, and no, I don't blame you. So stop worrying."
"H-how . . ." he started.
"My best friend used to be exactly like you. I know how you self-sacrificing White Knight's deal with failure."
"White Knights?"
"Never mind. Next question, please."
"What is that thing about the new Slayer?"
Cordelia then proceeded to tell him a resumed version about the recent past, the battle with the First and the change in the Slayer line. She omitted Xander's change and Buffy's downfall, simply because he still didn't need to know that.
"So, you're telling me that this new Slayer is some kind of ultimate predator, empowered by Mother Nature?"
"Sure is. Want to meet her? It might be nice to know who followed Kendra's footsteps."
"She's still the same girl? How? As far as I know, no Slayer lived that long."
"Another long story for another time. So, wanna meet her?"
"Sure."
"Okay. Faith, you hearing me?" she spoke with a bit more volume.
Zan found that extremely odd. Why didn't she pick up the intercom in front of her? Was the girl hearing from the outside?
A few moments later, the intercom beeped. Cordelia pressed the speakerphone button on it.
"Yes?"
"Yo, Boss C! What's up?"
"You busy?"
"Nope, just toying with a few motors."
"Come here, please. I wanna introduce you to someone."
A laugh from the other side.
"I must warn ya, Boss, I'm an one-man girl nowadays. What Boy Toy will think about it?"
Cordelia grimaced. "Come down here, /now/."
"Sure thing, C. Be right there," the incorporeal voice said, and the black man could easily identify the smile on the unknown face.
"She was listening to us talking?" he asked.
The Seer looked back to him.
"Not in the general sense, no. Her senses are so sharp nowadays that she can hear almost anything inside the base without too much trouble. But as she said herself, she can control it in some weird way, and she can be selective to what she truly hears, or focus on. She recognized my voice calling her name, and answered back. These walls are not soundproofed, we have some secure rooms that we tested against her," she continued.
"Where is she, right now?"
"Motor pool, three floors up and about a hundred meters . . . that way," she said, pointing to the left wall.
Zan couldn't suppress the whistle that came unbidden to his lips. Cordy smirked.
"I know what you mean."
"So, what can you tell me about Keni?"
"Sorry, who?" Cordelia asked, surprised.
"Kendra."
Cordelia remained silent for a few moments, eyes unfocused.
"Sorry," she apologized, "it's just that I have a hard time in changing Kendra the Vampire Slayer to Keni."
A sad smile crossed his face.
"I can imagine. She was a wonderful girl, caring, with a heart of gold. I saw her for the first time when she was around five. Scared, small, but wanting to do her best. I loved her like a sister I never had. Then, little by little, bit by tiny bit, my Father and the Council ruined her, changing her into a tool, a weapon. The Slayer."
A delicate, yet strong hand grabbed his own, and squeezed sympathetically.
"I'm sorry. I know how the Council was. But I didn't know Kendra that well, she never opened herself much with any of us. But . . ."
And she told her part of the story of the Jamaican girl who, like hundreds before her, lost her life in an endless war. When she was almost finished, the main door opened up with a bang, admitting a brunette bombshell wearing a grease-stained jumpsuit, sneakers and an attitude.
"Subtlety, thy name is Faith," Cordelia groaned.
"You raaaang?" the Slayer asked, eyeing the black visitor. "Oh, my God, we are hiring Blade! Boss C, how did you manage it?" she asked, smiling that knockout smile of hers.
Evander Zabuto groaned. He had a serious problem in his life, being almost a twin to Wesley Snipes. They had obvious differences, when you looked closer, but at first glance, he was always confused with the Hollywood actor.
"I am not Blade. Nor am I Wesley Snipes. So, could you please cut the jokes? My name is Evander Zabuto. Zan, if you prefer."
"Sure thing, Daywalker," she said, smiling. "I'm Faith."
Zan groaned again. "Is she always like that?" he asked to a smiling Cordelia.
"She's on a good day. Don't worry, she only calls people by her appointed nicks. Don't even try making her change it, won't work and you will only grow tired. Faith," she said, turning to the Slayer, "Zan here is the son of Sam Zabuto, Kendra's Watcher."
Faith sobered instantly. "I never met her, for obvious reasons, but people told me she was a good Slayer. Wanna share some stuff later? I would like to know a bit about her."
"Yes, I would. Nice meeting you, Ms. Faith."
"No miss in here, Blade. Just Faith. Need me for anything, Boss C?"
"Nope, go get dirty somewhere else. Just looking at you makes me wanna take a bath," she said.
"I could hug ya, then you would really need one. Later, Boss, Blade," she said, and departed.
Zan smiled, and looked to Cordelia. "I guess I'm running out of questions, so the next one is; what is your offer?"
"Come back to fight the good fight with us. We answer to no one but the President himself. And I like to put my head in the pillow at night and sleep my beauty sleep with a clean conscience," she said the last part almost as an afterthought.
The ex-SAS smiled, took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eyes.
"I need some time to think."
"Sure, I will ask someone to escort you to your hotel. Need I remind you that everything spoken here falls under that Secrets Act thingy?"
Zan laughed. "No, you do not, Director."
"I'm not Director, Sam is. I'm the Chief of Staff. The Director bit is because people like to think I run this show. I don't, Sam does."
'You do not?' Zan thought, with an internal smirk. "Then no, Chief. You do not."
"Okay, wait a bit, I'm going to find someone to take care of you."
A few hours later, Cordelia was having an internal fit over a pile of paper over her desk, when her phone rang. She flipped the cell open and waited while the scrambler aligned.
"Chase," she said.
"I'm in," came a cultured and deep British voice, and he hung up.
Cordelia smiled, wondering if he would be pissed with the call sign she had already issued to his file.
