by Edge O. Erin
“With Bien’s illness, there is a triumvirate. Two others and myself.”
“And these men?”
“One is a woman.”
“A woman, you expect us to believe that?” Riot said.
“Well, to be honest…”
“Yes, be honest. Your life depends on it.”
He cleared his throat, “To be honest, I am not one-hundred per cent certain that she is a woman as the individual has only be referred to in feminine terms as a ‘she’ or ‘her’, and she remotes-in to meetings as a projection of herself.”
“Well, let’s start with the name the men you do know then.” Vetch directed.
This was going to hurt. Jon was well-positioned in the government, and if MEM lost him, they would lose their top operator, and while he was going to have to bail on “the cause”, he didn’t want to see MEM wiped out. Keeper and Kyles Books was the heart — and with Bien gone — perhaps the soul of MEM. If they lost him, and by inference “it”, MEM would be toast. Scorp, though a friend of sorts, was expendable, and between Jon and Scorp, it would be Scorp that would find a way to kill him. If he made it through is, Jon could be contained, maybe even demoted and controlled.
“Tell us now, damn it!” Riot had risen from her chair and looked ferocious.
“Scorp Puyo, spouse of Arnie Puyo, imprisoned as we know, for publicly advocating equal standing and representation for men. Scorp is Station Leader for the city.” He lied some more.
Vetch stepped back, and he could hear her quietly delivering instructions to someone with the words “silence him,” drawing a shiver from his spine. This hurt as Scorp had been kind to him.
Vetch returned to her position behind him and rapped him on the shoulder with her baton. “Next!”
He looked up at Riot, and she nodded.
“Well, as I said, I’ve never met this other individual.”
“Yes, yes, but surely you’ve heard her name.”
“No, I have not. To my knowledge, only Bien de Woon-Ghan knew who she was.”
“Ok, fine. How did Bien or Scorp Puyo address her, or by what title was she referred?”
“‘Her Lady,’ sometimes ‘Grand Lady’.”
Vetch poked him in the back. “I don’t believe you. A ‘Grand Lady’ implies a Ghan, and no high-ranking Red would ever be involved with a group of danglers.”
“I’m telling you what I know, if you choose not to believe it, that’s your problem,” he bristled, still angered about giving up Scorp.
Mariot looked at him again. “Her name, Mr Smik.”
So, no more ‘Wezer’. Fine.
“I’m telling you I do not know, and even if I did, the Red Articles forbids a man of any station ‘impugning the name, office, agenda or actions of a Ghan elite’.”
Vetch spoke up. “How convenient. I think he’s lying. Not only do I not believe that he does not know the name of the high-ranking person in question, but I most certainly do not believe that any Ghan would be involved in MEM.”
Wezer shrugged. “It is what it is. Who can say, maybe the elite lady in question was thinking far beyond all of the danglers and was orchestrating the delivery of MEM or some sort of agreement that would’ve reduced terrorism?”
Riot nodded. “It could be something a Ghan would do. I believe Wezer is telling the truth. Vetch, you may go and do that what you do. I will contact you later for a progress report and with further info and instructions. More info will be forthcoming. Isn’t that right, Mr Smik?”
He nodded.
“Are you sure you want me to leave him here alone with you?”
“Oh, we are not alone; there is a security officer behind you in the corner with a weapon pointed directly at his head.”
“But should this guard be privy to this, he would not have the clearance?” Vetch cautioned.
“Yes, the person does, I conferred it just before the meeting.”
“Without my knowledge? Anyway, I’ve bigger concerns for the moment.”
“Indeed.”
Vetch turned on her heel and left; it was surprisingly terse and tense between them.
He wondered who was standing in the shadows with sights on his skull.
“Now, where is the headquarters? Where do you meet? I want time and schedules.”
“All communication is via Cyclops by hijacking a subchannel. I’ve never been to a physical meeting; it’s all rather secretive.” He took lying to a new level.
“Surely you’ve had cause to call a meeting?”
“Nope.”
“Well, how can it be that you were considered part of the leadership group?”
“I was there due to my knowledge of and access to government assets, information, and policies. My job was to inform, not guide. Bien, Scorp, and the Grand Lady did that.”
“Over the coming days and weeks, you will tell us all you know, attend meetings, provide more names, operational objectives, etc.”
“That would be a ‘no’.”
“What in uncircumcised-pee-peduncle do you mean ‘no’?”
It was one thing to sell out the higher-ups, but he wasn’t going to sell out the rank and file.
“I’ve said all I’m going to say on the matter. By now, Vetch has sent out communications that will be intercepted at some level. MEM will know I’ve been nabbed or turned or whatever.”
She smirked at him, “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“Yes, but apparently not smart enough.”
She dismissed the security guard, a crispy-looking guy. Having directed him out was a good sign.
“And now, what do you think I should do with you?”
“Take me to Prometer as I’m a dead man out there,” he motioned to the outside world.
“I will consider it, but first, take off your pants.”
“So, we’re all good?”
“Good enough,” she started to wiggle out of her skirt as he swept items off a corner of her desk.
Chapter Twenty
Assistant Secretary of Defence Vetch McGhan was seldom alone; fortunately, his credentials allowed him to determine when and where that was.
It turned out, she played tennis, and sometimes, after her coach left, she would linger on and practise tennis by hitting a ball against a wall. Just before dusk on this, his third time stalking was just such an occasion.
He watched her with admiration. She moved very well for a woman of fifty-six, and she was tireless. She just kept pounding the ball against the wall and bolting to one side or another to return it. He reckoned one didn’t get to her position without skills, particularly strength, perseverance, and conviction.
Her favourite and the lone remaining security guard was fidgeting slightly, and ever aware, she noticed and waved him off, saying something, probably along the lines of “You can go; see you at the vehicle.”
This was his moment. He spat. It wasn’t wise to chew and spew here, but this order was hard to swallow. He pulled some dirt over the pile with his boot, not taking an eye off his target. He shook his head, angry at himself for wavering. He had his order, and there was no not doing it.
He steadied the rifle on the limb. It was an easy shot; he took a breath and squeezed, and Vetch McGhan dropped. He looked over to the security guard and her vehicle four hundred feet away. The guard had sauntered off to feed some ducks at the pond, and his silenced shot went undetected. He looked back at Vetch; she moved. Goddess-damn! He shook his head; she deserved better. He got out his revolver and walked over to her.
Her ear gone and scalp partially torn away, she looked up at him. “Jop.”
“Sorry, just following orders.”
“Why?”
The bullet ended the conservation.
He looked around the private tennis facility and the treed grounds that surrounded it. Nothing. He stepped away before the blood ran to his boot.
***
Firearms, wrong-sized boots, and apparel all disposed of, he stood on his balcony and reflected o
n recent events.
First an invalid, and now a woman, a superior officer at that! It wasn’t how he wanted to rise through the ranks. But maybe this was the way they all did it. “Crux it!” It could be his brains on the pavement tomorrow. He spat a juicy stream out over the rail and didn’t even bother to see where it might’ve landed.
The microbots registered their report.
***
Yazmin recalled the events that had taken her little pet project to this point.
His badly burned body had been transported with the knife still in the chest, but the cocktail of drugs stopped the loss of blood and arrested further damage to the lungs and heart.
Irrespective of him being reclaimed or not, the system’s limitations would be defined, and that was all she could ask for. Knowing was a primary conduit to power, and the results would be informative and instructive.
The initial menhancements had been less invasive and more targeted and subtle than those applied to younger subjects. Had Beriit been fifteen years younger, then they might’ve been able to make him “bright”. They settled for “meh” and an opportunity to take advantage of his being astride the fence of legality and lawlessness.
Given the procedures would be incremental and intensive and resultant periods of healing extensive and extended, it was enough that she received periodic updates. Knowing what happened to the double agent wasn’t very far up her growing list of priorities, but related progress became an interesting sideline to her day every week or so.
The latest update showed the man breathing on his own. Biological bandages had prevented any infections, and scans suggested he had not suffered any brain damage. Skin-grafting was ongoing. He would never be much to look at, but that could have its advantages. People would avert their eyes while being sympathetic; higher degrees of trust and respect might be conferred, even while his appearance might invoke fear. His face could be made better, but upon consideration, she preferred he not be fixed up much. When they installed his new synthetic eye, she ordered it a pearly grey so it would sharply contrast the others’ brown. A little uglier and stranger would enhance his usefulness. It was unlikely he would even get a pity fuck, and the energy from sexual frustration could be channelled into more beneficial things.
But he did need a new name.
Yazmin jotted down a bunch of men’s names that she didn’t like and settled on “Ruprecht”. The last name should be relatively common and she immediately thought of a surname that had become synonymous with low standing and moral character.
Another update came in; the man had awoken and asked where he was. Perfect, he had his faculties.
“Welcome back, Ruprecht Krump,” she had said.
Now, after he had helped her secure the contract, she was fine with him attending to Riot’s personal defence needs.
***
Introspection was innate to her being. She understood her nature, knew her strengths and areas that could be improved upon. She also knew her sisters and their weaknesses.
Like all the early clones, she had been subjected to periods of accelerated development and prolonged periods of stasis. In stasis, they were “conditioned” via myth and misinformation, impulses, and counter-impulses. It was necessary to develop a mindset appropriate to their potential deployment and in sync with their physical abilities.
Identical appearance masked internal differences that could be as spectacular as they were subtle, and sometimes the subtle begat the spectacular. Different ligand — namely peptide, hormone, and neuropeptide — recipes were employed. “Limbic in limbo” was how one expert referred to the challenges in tinkering with that seat of emotion in the brain. In addition to minute changes in the pituitary gland and the unique and special way the Cyclops interfaced with the clones’ neocortex, meant they were not created equal and, as such, were exceptional. Her security level did not allow her full access to the clone development programme, and delving too deep, mainly as it applied to crack security codes, had caused her migraines. But she managed to ingest a great many files before the headaches became too debilitating.
A higher-than-average level of aggression was a function of being amongst others who were identical to you, the need to separate oneself from the crowd, to forge a unique identity and, significantly, to curry favour with the doctors, nurses, guards, and overseers.
They had started calling her “Riot” from a young age and not because of her violent nature, but rather due to the riotous laughter, her rude pranks and tricks often engendered.
Aside from Mary, she set herself apart — and above — the rest. While Mary lacked her physical strength and ferocity, she exerted power over others via intellect, self-control, and empathy uncommon to the ‘sisterhood’. One time, she shoved Mary to the ground and held an elbow to her throat, and the other girls had pulled her off and threatened to beat the Goddess out of her if she ever did something like that again.
It was the first time she had ever bitten down on her lip and tasted her blood, and strangely, it had excited her. A male security officer had witnessed the bullying event and directed her into a private interrogation room where he began to question her. It was then she recognised the most potent weapon in her arsenal: sexuality. She remembered it bittersweetly:
“I am going to have to report this Riot. We just can’t have you bullying others any more; we are too far along in this programme to jeopardise anyone’s health and potential trajectory.”
She knew this man well; he was always one to linger by their shower area, hoping to steal a glance.
Walking up to him, she touched his hand, which caused him to pull his hand away, but not so quickly.
No man could touch them unless it were to break up a fight or assist a doctor or nurse.
She grabbed his hand again, and this time he did not pull it away.
“If I let you kiss me, will you not report me?”
“Riot, I could… I could lose my job.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” She took his hand and tucked it around her bottom, and he grabbed it firmly.
He kissed her then, and it was her first kiss.
Until then, she had not felt attracted to men, but his strength and weakness — and smell — intrigued her.
A trace of her blood was left on his lips, and she used her finger to wipe it away.
“Now, you won’t tell?”
“No.”
She turned to walk out the door, but his heavy hand pressed hard against it while his other hand secured the lock.
It was her first time.
One of the first things she did after taking over from Mary was having the guard reassigned to a prison on the edge of High Town. Four days after he was reassigned, she paid him a visit at the guards’ washroom facility.
He had just stepped out of the shower, astonished by her presence. She held a towel in her hand. He reached for the towel, which she promptly dropped on the floor. He bent over to grab it, and she kneed him in the head. From there, she brutalised him with punches, kicks, and throws. He tried to mouth “Stop”, but his jaw was broken. She severed his genitalia and left him to bleed to death on the shower floor. It was her first kill.
Now it was time for another first.
“Please let in, Mr Rand.”
A uniformed man of average height and build, but above-average presence — due in part to his broad jaw and long, dark hair — entered, saluted, and sat down.
She kept her head down and focused her mind as “feelings” threatened to compromise cognitive ability.
“Corporal Cooper Rand. ‘Thirty, strong Red genetics, first-rate officer, unsubstantiated pedigree due to being adopted and raised at the Bien-Good Institute, expert self-defence skills, intelligent, calm under pressure, quick decision-maker, trustworthy, a born leader. Brown eyes…’ etc., etc.”
She looked at him appraisingly. “Given your mysterious and simple beginnings, you’ve done very well for yourself.”
“Thank you, My Lady.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m not much for talking about myself, My Lady.”
“Indulge me, please, and I will be sure to add ‘modest’ to my list.”
She looked down and tried in vain to smother a small smile.
“I was very fortunate to have a mentor that instilled in me the benefits of a good work ethic and to take pride in all that one does do, to do each thing to the best of one’s ability and allow the universe to dictate the rest.”
“Sounds rather ‘Newvalutionist’, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know My Lady, I’m no philosopher, preferring instead to get my hands dirty, making a difference by making an honest living in serving the greater good.”
“You sound philosophical to me even in your attempts to dismiss it.”
The man’s brow furrowed slightly.
She could tell she was starting to test his patience while simultaneously piquing his curiosity about why he was here.
“Ever learn anything about your parents or how you ended up in the Bien Good Institute?”
“No. There was no official paperwork, and a head injury I suffered apparently robbed me of my childhood memories.”
Riot knew enough to say, “I’m sorry to hear that,” but it came out devoid of sincerity.
“Thanks.”
“But clearly, you recovered and overcame that setback. Surely you must have wondered, “Why me?”
“Yes, but as time went by, I realised that if I were ever to make anything of myself, it would be based on focusing on what I could control, working hard, and taking ownership of my future.”
“Cooper Rand, the PEDE Philosopher.” She seldom joked or smiled, but she did like him.
The fact that he smiled back made her feel, well, human.
“May I ask how I can be of service My Lady?”
She smirked inwardly as such a specimen would typically trigger desire, but this time it triggered something else that her programming suggested she repress. But her will allowed it to remain.