Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,89

in the jungle, told me about a time, thirty years ago, when a man in his home village, perhaps a carrier of Brugada, got very ill. They treated him with an herb found in the jungle, an herb I now know is resistant to the effects of Agent Orange, but retains traces of Agent Orange in its roots. Trace amounts of Agent Orange are still found in most local food sources, but they used a large amount of the highly contaminated herb, including its roots. They ground it up, boiled it, and gave it to the man as a broth. That’s when things changed. A few days later the sudden death claimed him. Brugada and the flu had joined forces, so to speak. The flu continued spreading and the villagers began dying. The old man’s mother wisely fled before she and her family caught the infection, but the majority of the village was wiped out. Somehow, the flu survived, perhaps in the local monkey population not affected by Brugada, and eventually reemerged in Anh Dung. I watched it all happen, exactly as the old man described it, the way I first observed the Ngoui Rung.”

King fought with his bonds. He could kill Weston with his bare hands. Hell, he could do it with one hand. He growled as he spoke. “Everyone on the planet could die. Will you just observe that as well?”

Weston stood above King, a large stone suddenly in his hand. He raised the stone slowly, preparing to bring it down on King’s head. “Sometimes a species goes extinct to make way for something better. It’s been that way for millions of years.”

“What race?” King shouted. “There won’t be anyone left!”

“Oh my God,” Sara said.

King stopped fighting his bonds and looked at her. So did Weston.

Sara’s mind recalled the creatures at Anh Dung. Their inhuman captors. She’d sensed their bodies. She’d thought they weren’t human. Now she realized the truth—they were half human. “His children,” she whispered. “You might not be causing the extinction of the human race, but you don’t mind it.”

“Death is a repulsive thing. If the human race cannot find a cure for this awful disease then nature has deemed humanity unfit. It is the natural way of things. I’m sorry. I truly am. But we seek to preserve two civilizations at odds with each other.” Weston’s face brightened some. “That’s right. I haven’t introduced you yet!”

Weston put a hand to his mouth and called out in his best Ricky Ricardo impression, “Oh, Lucy!” He looked back at King and Sara. “I love doing that.”

Lucy stepped into the room. King blinked at the sight of her, thinking the firelight was playing tricks with his vision. His face became as stone, frozen and unmoving, when he realized the half-human creature standing before him was real.

Sara gasped and shuffled back as best she could. For all of Lucy’s attractive features—the face of a child and bright eyes—her more feral side—dirt-soiled hair on her face, back, lower torso, forearms, and lower legs coupled with long and dirty fingernails and toenails—revealed something ancient. Something children fear at night. Lucy smiled, revealing her inch-long canines.

“Lucy,” Weston said as he motioned to King. “This is King and . . .” He motioned to Sara.

Sara sat still like a nervous rabbit, her heart beating wildly.

“Pawn,” King answered. “She’s Pawn.”

“Chess pieces,” Weston said, nodding. “How original. And here I thought you just had an enormous ego.”

“Have that, too,” King said, though his confidence was more an act now than ever.

“King and Pawn,” Weston said, “this is my great-great-granddaughter Lucy. She is the most favored of all my children. My Neanderthal princess. The next generation of Nguoi Rung.” He shook the hair on her head. Weston pulled away though Lucy seemed to want more.

Neanderthal? Sara’s mind flashed to her earlier conversation with King. Plasticity. Genetic assimilation. Lucy seemed the likely product of both theories, but Weston had called her his granddaughter. A blood relation.

If Lucy is half human, Sara thought, what does her mother look like? She had seen the fossil remains of more than a handful of Neanderthals and Lucy looked more primitive. Thicker. Stronger. More predatory. Reconstructions of Neanderthals looked hunched and hairy, but overall not too dissimilar from modern man. Save for the keen eyes and language skills, Weston’s granddaughter was a brute.

“How many?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“How many . . . grandchildren do you have here?”

“Last time we counted, fifteen hundred.” Weston rubbed his chin. “But that was three years ago. With