Free Fight the Future by Chris Carter

said.
    From the other end of the line came a familiar voice, smoke-strained, laconic. "We have a situation.
    The members are assem-bling."
    The Well-Manicured Man winced; he did not like surprises. "Is it an emergency?"
    "Yes. A meeting is set, tonight in London. We must determine a course."
    The Well-Manicured Man's face tightened. "Who called this meeting?"
    "Strughold." At the sound of this name, the Well-Manicured Man nodded grimly. There could be no further questions. The voice on the phone continued. "He's just gotten on a plane in Tunis."
    Without replying, the Well-Manicured Man dropped the phone back into its cradle. A child was screaming. He rushed to the window.
    On the lawn beneath him, the lovely tableau had been shattered. From the house people were running—his valet, the housekeeper, the gar-dening staff—to where the children had gath-ered. A boy, his youngest grandchild. He lay on his side, his face contorted and white as paper. One leg was awkwardly crumpled under him. The valet reached him first and knelt beside him, gently stroking the boy's forehead and call-ing out orders to the watching staff. As the valet tenderly lifted the child into his arms, the Well-Manicured Man raced from the study, all thoughts of Strughold momentarily banished.
    • • •
    He did not arrive in Kensington until shortly after eight that night. The chauffeured town car slipped silently into the circular drive and stopped before the front door of a large but unpretentious red-brick building, its front door bearing neither name nor number.
    "Has Strughold arrived?" the Well-Manicured Man asked the valet who had met his car.
    The other man indicated a long, dimly lit hallway. "They're waiting in the library, sir."
    He led the Well-Manicured Man down the hall. The faintest susurrus of voices rose as they approached the library, where the valet inclined his head and left him. Inside, walnut paneling and discreet touches of brass and sil-ver ornamented a large room where a group of men stood, staring at the steely blue eye of a TV monitor. A poor quality black-and-white video was playing, dark forms moving jerkily across a darker background dotted with electri-cal snow. As he entered, the men turned expectantly.
    The Well-Manicured Man surveyed the group before joining them. A dozen men of his own age and rank, though none possessed his effortless hauteur. Faces no one would recog-nize, though a word from one of them might bring a government crashing to its knees. Men who remained in the shadows.
    In the center of the group stood a small, lean man with close-cropped hair, at once ele-gant and imposing. His gaze met the new-comer's, holding it for a moment too long, and the Well-Manicured Man felt the slightest fris' son of unease.
    "We began to worry," Strughold said in the deceptively gentle tone one might use to scold a beloved child. "Some of us have traveled so far, and you are the last to arrive."
    "I'm sorry." The Well-Manicured Man tilted his head in deference to Strughold. "My grandson fell and broke his leg." It was all the apology he would offer, even to Strughold.
    The other man seemed not to have heard him at all. Instead he went on smoothly, "While we've been made to wait, we've watched surveillance tapes which have raised more concerns."
    "More concerns than what?" he asked, frowning.
    "We've been forced to reassess our role in Colonization." Strughold's tone was even; he might have been discussing a minor unpleasantness on the trading floor. "Some new facts of biology have presented them-selves."
    "The virus has mutated," another voice broke in, more urgently.
    The Well-Manicured Man looked taken aback. "On its own?"
    "We don't know." The Cigarette-Smoking Man withdrew his lighter. "So far, there's only the isolated case in Dallas."
    "Its effect on the host has changed," said Strughold. "The virus no longer just invades the brain as a controlling organism. It's devel-oped a way to modify the host body."
    The