Legacy of Seconds

by Edge O. Erin

  Jon couldn’t help but look at Wezer, and think of Lester, before taking over from the Grand Lady:

  “If Bien were here, he would have a much better way of expressing it, but Wezer has truly made lemonade from lemons. His long tenure as an operator helped him survive captivity and parlay misfortune into fortune. To have gained the trust and even more incredibly, the respect of Ghan elites exhibits the potential Scorp saw in him.”

  “Thank you, Jon, and you too. Scorp, I’ve been lucky.” Wezer interjected.

  Keeper now took over.

  “Worthy sentiments and congratulations aside, what pertinent details can you provide on the mission to Prometer? Personnel? Wakee selection criteria, and so on?”

  Having been kept waiting, Keeper was going to press Wezer.

  “Where would you like me to start?”

  “From the beginning would be good. How about whether or not you will be going to Prometer?”

  “That’s up in the air.”

  “Actually, Prometer is up in space. Do you mean that it has not yet been determined if you will be directed to go, or have a say in the matter?”

  Wezer looked composed and unflustered by Keeper’s tact, but Jon wondered, he really wondered.

  “Mission Command has not officially asked me to go, but if they do, I will seriously consider it. I do have a preliminary report that includes personnel breakdown, proposed selection criteria for everyone, from academics to Wakees to hairstylists to security. I’ll give it to you right now.”

  Wezer slid a biscuit across to Keeper, and also keyed-in to the table.

  “There, you have the password.”

  “From what you have seen, is there anything that stands out or surprises?”

  “Yes, the quantity of soldiers and materiel is significantly higher than I would expect for an exploratory, slash colonization mission… and… there is a great deal of fuzziness surrounding what departments of the military establishment will be contributing what. It’s rather bizarre.”

  “Okay, good, I guess. Anything else?”

  “I put down some of my thoughts. Much of what’s on the biscuit is in its raw form. I know you and other experts will probably divine a lot more than I could. I’ve not had much time to work on it. My goal is to get you another report in the next two weeks as my schedule looks to be lighter than usual.”

  “Very good and understood.”

  It seemed Wezer was winning him over after his earlier transgression.

  “Grand Lady, would you like to weigh in?”

  “Yes, thank you. There is a profound connection between Yugon Menhance enterprises, historical or current, accumulation of new assets by some Ghan individuals in the Western Block, and ambiguities in the size and nature of the force being allocated to Prometer. When next we meet, I anticipate providing specifics and naming names.”

  The meeting continued for an hour, with more questions than answers and left all, especially Claire and Cooper, stressed out. Such was life in these most interesting of times.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lethal injection. It seemed such a cowardly way to kill someone. He looked at the extra pillow by the bed. Suffocate him, yep, that would be better. He grabbed the pillow, then rethought it: no, she will have my balls if I don’t do it exactly as she wants. She probably has a camera in here somewhere spying on me. He looked around; it would take too long to sweep the room, and if there were one, then she would be watching him look for it; how suspicious that would be! No, he would stab him in the thigh with the needle just like they said. What fun in that? Well, best get on with it…

  He pulled the blanket down and looked at a chicken leg of a thigh. Pathetic. It doesn’t appear he ever worked out, this one. He slammed the needle into the man’s thigh, and instantly the body flinched and a significant “ahh… err,” followed. Shezaz! The old coot had kicked back to life! What were the odds of that? An eye struggled partway open and may have looked at him. He grabbed the pillow and held it firm over the man’s face for a couple of minutes. There wasn’t all that much wriggling; either the drug had worked, or the man had suffocated. He was surprised to be sweating. Damn, this killing the feeble was some weird-ass shezazzin shit! He had a newfound respect for doctors and nurses.

  He tucked the pillow into his backpack and left. Mission accomplished!

  ***

  After a long illness that rendered him comatose, Bien de Woon-Ghan has passed away at the age of 62. Widely known for founding the “Bien Good Institute” for orphaned boys of mixed blood, his loss will be deeply felt across all social classes. People of Lower Town and High Town are holding vigils, and in an almost unprecedented move, the Ghan Estate will recognise his unique contribution with a Blue Garden and Fountain of Youth.

  Mr de Woon-Ghan was himself an orphan. The illegitimate son of Joriel Ghan and Aomi Woon, Bien was given over to a local orphanage after his parents were killed in a freak gas explosion. From a young age, Bien excelled in school, and his passion for the Sciences led him to learn of his pedigree and appeal to Abigailius Ghan to help fund the expansion and renovation of the unfortunately named “Nature’s Leavings Orphanage”.

  Jon paused reading the obituary, for he knew Bien’s parents were, in fact, killed by an act of rage by then reigning Grace, Louha Ghan, as the Red Articles at that time forbade a male Ghan fathering a child with a commoner. However, a female Ghan could marry and have a child with a commoner. In the latter case, the family would not be allowed to live on the Ghan Estate while in the former, the child would be placed in an orphanage for adoption. Louha Ghan wanted to erase all knowledge and evidence that her son had impregnated the dark-skinned woman, and Bien had leveraged this truth into what was then called “an exceedingly generous grant” and the “Bien Good Institute” was formed.

  The Bien Good Institute wasn’t just an orphanage and school; it was a working think-tank and the birthplace of MEM. Unencumbered by red tape and the Red Articles, its academia made significant advances, many of which were employed for the greater good. But some innovations were used clandestinely to aid MEM and undermine the Ghan plutocracy. Progressive thinking, in combination with outreach programmes and articles of faith, resulted in the formation of the Newvalutionist philosophy.

  He continued to read…

  Employing an admirable work ethic that was characteristic of his father and acumen that became noteworthy, if not legendary, Bien de Woon-Ghan became the vital force that enabled the Bien Good Institute to produce men of extraordinary quality.

  He stopped reading again, for he was pleasantly surprised that such an accurate and glowing statement had been allowed by the Ghan Gazette editors. Perhaps the fact that Joriel Ghan was once a contributor had begotten an obligation to recognise certain truths? Of course, they had left out that Bien’s mother, Aomi, was also very bright and worked as a translator at Kyles Books on Freemont.

  The obituary went on to list some of Bien de Woon-Ghan’s academic achievements and philanthropic works and ended with:

  His life’s work lives on in the hearts, minds, and memories of many hundreds of men who have gone on to realise decent and reputable careers. Thousands of others were elevated by his spirit and his biomechanical, cybernetic, and nanotechnological creations. His two children, Kila and Breth, will continue to run the orphanage with, one hopes, equal success. He joins his wife Dorn Berglund in the great beyond.

  It was an excellent, though far-from complete, obituary and did replace some of his sadness with a measure of pride and thankfulness. He had come to know Bien after his father’s death, for the two were associates and mutually invested in the cause. Bien was instrumental in furthering his education and becoming who he was today. With Bien’s passing, it fell to Keeper, Scorp, Grace, and himself to lead and mentor new leadership candidates.

  That same day, a hand-written letter, sealed with wax, was couriered to him. He read it under the influence of a stiff drink.

  My apprentice and cherished friend, if you’r
e reading this, I’m either incapacitated or dead. Please know that our association has benefitted me every bit as much or more than it has you. Rest assured; our paths will cross again.

  Now, know that we will inevitably be betrayed, with the turncoat being someone who has risen very quickly through the ranks. You will know of whom I speak. It’s often said all that can be done is control how one reacts to adversity. That’s partly true, but if one accepts something as inevitable, then it’s best to control how and when it happens. Therefore, you need to be proactive and deliver us to our enemy. Clearly, this should be done in such a way to further our capabilities while protecting those people and apparatus who most need protection. I have complete faith in our leadership group and trust in your individual and collective judgement. Sacrifices need to be made, people will get hurt, but ultimately it will be for the best, so don’t despair.

  P.S. I’m immensely proud of you and know you will do the right thing! See you when the wheel comes around.

  ***

  The simple oxen-drawn wagon pulled off the dirt track that ran more or less adjacent to the main thoroughfare. The seat springs creaked upon his departure, and his joints creaked as he lumbered towards the edge of the cliff. The teenager who was his swamper and in training to be his replacement followed along, but not too close for as he grew older and fatter, the flatulence became more frequent, and the air biscuits more pungent.

  The wagon brought essentials to the village and returned to town with fresh seafood, and arts and crafts. In better times, two wagons made the trip thrice a week. Now the trip was made but once or twice a week, and even then, it wasn’t financially viable. If it weren’t for the Commander’s ongoing patronage, it wouldn’t be worth doing. The support wasn’t entirely altruistic, for once a week, they would make this unofficial stop and check if there was a ‘special delivery’ from the depths below. It was the first time for the boy, Lee, a grandson of village elder Kehler, to take part in this, and he had already been sworn to secrecy.

  The villagers referred to the two of them as “the tortoise and the tarpon”. While he didn’t find it particularly amusing, he had to confess, as he tottered and Lee scampered along, that it was accurate. Thirty feet from the drop-off, he stopped and pointed to a few large slabs of rock perched angularly against one another. After he got his wind back, he said, “Under the rocks, whew, there is a tray where you might find a tube.”

  The young man checked the spot, and as it happened, there was a tube.

  “Good, give it to me, please.”

  The boy handed it to him, but not before asking, “Who sent it, and how did it get there?”

  “The who isn’t important, but it gets shot up from below, hits an angle of rock above the hole and gets deflected into the tray.”

  “Owww-kay. I should know who.”

  “In time, and don’t ask me again.”

  The boy shrugged it off with a “Yessir.”

  He and the Commander had grown up together. Being the only non-Talon to stand by him after the Redshirts’ raid, a lifelong bond had been forged. No, that didn’t mean they shared a lot, but they trusted each other completely, and he knew that if there was a tube, vital information was enclosed. When he returned to town, he would put it inside a large can of tea that was the favourite blend of a person from the big city, and it and some other miscellaneous items would be delivered by a special courier.

  That he didn’t know the intended audience, had never been to the city, and didn’t drink tea mattered not. It did matter to him that he could help the village, had a job, a true friend, and a supply of the best prison-labour rum money could not buy.

  ***

  It was a very well-executed spinning back-kick to the mid-section, and it hurt. He recovered just in time to avoid the ensuing flying-knee and managed to grab the woman’s raised leg and effect a take-down. She threw up her legs in an arm-triangle attempt, but he felt it coming and took her back. From there, it wasn’t hard to secure a rear-naked choke, though she refused to tap, preferring instead to go out. The ref revived her, and she got up and popped the unsuspecting arbiter, spilling him to the canvas. Oh, she had the fighting spirit all right!

  As the ref struggled to regain his feet and senses, Cooper wrapped his arms around her and said, “Fight’s over, fight’s over, you went out.” The young lady spun in his arms and expertly threw him to the ground, judo-style. She launched herself into the air to come down with a punch, but he rolled to the side. By then, the ref was up to the task and stepped in between them with a stern, “Stop! Fights over! Stop!” This time the message sunk in, and she collapsed to her knees, despondent. The ref shrugged his shoulders and looked at him, “She’s only lost once before, and that was to an older and stronger version, I mean, lady.”

  Cooper walked up to her and gingerly put his hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s okay, you know… you fought great. Good foot and head movement, well-tucked chin, fantastic back-kick, nice follow-up with the flying-knee… well-tried arm-triangle.”

  She looked up at him, fighting tears. “Ya, well, you still beat me.”

  “This is training, remember. You only lose if you don’t allow yourself to learn from your mistakes, and in fact, your only mistake is that you’re so good that you’re used to defeating your opposition with relative ease. Heck, if you knew I was accomplished, you probably would’ve approached it differently and landed that knuckle-sandwich on me instead of the ref!”

  She laughed then, “Oh, thank you so much, sir! My name is Tiot, what’s your name?”

  He was about to answer with “I can’t say,” but his minders intervened and instructed him to drill the young woman on various wrestling techniques, wrist-control, how to escape from holds, and the like. Despite having to wear lenses that altered the phi and golden proportions of his opponent’s face, he could tell this was one of the newish clones that he had heard about. He couldn’t and wouldn’t let on what he knew and instead did his very best to teach the young woman.

  When finished, she bowed respectfully, and before leaving, grabbed a hand with both of hers and gave a sincere, “Thank you so much, sir!”

  “My pleasure.” He had not expected a clone to be so polite and genuine.

  He was escorted to an adjacent facility to watch his colleague, Dana Troublesworth, finish up with the last of her trainees.

  Dana had shared the ride to the Estate with him, though only he had been blindfolded. The uncomfortable experience made him fleetingly think that he might someday be blindfolded and on the way to something far less enjoyable than a sparring session. It was nice to be away from Jop but spending the day with Dana didn’t warm the cockles of his heart.

  Dana Troublesworth was, for the most part, very much the typical Red security officer: haughty, strict, and unwavering in her loyalty to officialdom and the Ghans. But on occasion, she could be friendly, even likeable. The trip out was not one such occasion, for she only spoke to him once and that was to say,

  “Unfortunately, you can’t see the beauty of this place, but they probably want you to stay focused on your duties.”

  He didn’t bother replying.

  Sparring didn’t usually go into an extra — or in this case, third — round. Evidently, the two women were “feeling it,” and it only took thirty seconds of watching to be engrossed.

  It was a contrast in styles; Dana, silky movements, arcing kicks, speed galore and the clone; tactical, fluid, unflinching——and always moving forward. Dana’s quick feet and counterstrikes were necessary to keep the clone at bay. But no matter how well Dana moved or how fast she changed directions, the clone — he heard someone yell “Go, Riot Junior!” — would cut her off.

  Dana’s quick jab, calf kicks, and occasional “one-two’s” were crisp and would parlay into winning a point’s battle, but Riot Junior would answer with bombs, either in the form of heavy thigh kicks or smashing hooks. With a minute left, Dana narrowly missed a high-kick, and the clone took her down. Ri
ot swarmed her with punches, head, body, head until finally manoeuvring into full mount to drop a crushing elbow that opened a gash above Dana’s left eye.

  The ref was forced to step in and rescue Dana. Dana was miffed, but clearly, she had been badly hurt, and this was supposed to be a training session after all. The two ladies stood looking at each other in the centre of the ring, and for a second, he thought they might start swinging again. Instead, Dana bowed, followed by a bow from Riot Jr. They continued to stare at each other until they shared a halted, awkward embrace; it was peculiar.

  The contest had been so fascinating that he had almost forgotten to release the microbots! In retrospect, it was fortuitous for the microbots might end up on this Riot Junior, and clearly, she was a dominant clone.

  Unsurprisingly Dana had nothing to say on the way back to Demghan Hill. He replayed the closing moments of the contest; it sure was a wicked elbow, and while she had to be nursing a swollen noggin, she might also be suffering a corresponding blow to her pride, which she could surely use. It made him smile, and if Dana noticed it, she didn’t inquire, and that was perfectly fine by him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Well, how did it go?”

  Claire’s right eyebrow arching different from the left was a tell; if he didn’t already know it, he was going to have to be artful with his disclosure.

  “Better than expected; kind of a mix between weird and wonderful.”

  “Hmm, that’s interesting. What do you want to tell me about first, the ‘weird’ or the ‘wonderful’?”