by Jade Kerrion
Time for some well-intentioned chaos. After all, creating chaos was her specialty.
With a few quick taps on the keypad, she triggered the waking cycle. Moving silently among the other growth chambers, she activated the others as well. The clones would wake within seconds. Satisfied, she glanced at the blinking red lights on the chamber keypads and then climbed into an empty chamber.
Moments later, Galahad’s two clones entered the room. They exchanged startled glances as the chamber lids slowly swung open. The clones within the chambers stirred, and one of younger ones, a teenaged version of Zara, was the first to sit up. Bullets pounded into her vulnerable body. She gasped. Her violet eyes flared wide, and she slumped over. Crimson oozed through the translucent gel within her chamber.
At first singly, and then in groups in twos and threes, the clones rose from their chambers, obviously disoriented. The first four or five were killed instantly until the Galahad clones apparently realized that the females were not threats. The two clones lowered their guns and continued through the room.
They both glanced up at the rustle of noise from the next room, and ran through the incubation room, past the growth chamber in which Zara was hiding. They paused at the threshold of Sharma’s laboratory. They swung their guns up and fired at something in the room. No, they were firing at multiple things, and something in the room was firing back.
Sharma? No, my clone. Sharma must have activated the clone he had been working on, and that particular clone was far more dangerous than the groggy clones in the incubation room. That Zara clone had memories and skills to match, and—from the sounds coming from the room—access to weapons.
Zara sat up in the growth chamber. Without hesitation, she fired twice. The first bullet struck one of the clones in the back, penetrating his heart. The other clone swung around, firing, but he too fell, cut down by Zara’s precise aim.
She laid a hand on the side on the incubation chamber and vaulted out. She paused only long enough to check the pulses on the Galahad clones, and then looked into Sharma’s lab. Suresh Sharma slumped against a blood-streaked cabinet, his eyes unseeing. Zara’s clone was still alive, though badly injured. Her breaths heaved; the erratic sound rattled through her chest. She looked up at Zara, her violet eyes wide.
Zara aimed her handgun at her clone’s forehead.
Her clone’s throat worked. Tension rippled through her slender frame, and then, to Zara’s surprise, the clone nodded and smiled. The smile was faint, but Zara recognized the gesture for what it was. Permission to kill.
Zara did, executing her clone with a single bullet to the head. She killed the other clones too, including the ones who were scarcely older than Laura.
Death was merciful, but it was not without emotional cost.
Her head held high, her eyes glistening, Zara surveyed the tangle of bloodied limbs. She had to make certain that Sharma’s work would never be replicated; there was no place for an age-accelerated clone in society. She sat at the computer terminal and with a few keystrokes, wiped out the data on its hard drive and networks. No doubt, top-notch hackers of Xin’s caliber would find a way to recover the data nonetheless, but not if the data was literally in pieces. Zara pried the hard drive from the terminal, extracted the data card, and snapped it into four pieces. She would scatter them in various locales before returning to the safe house.
Zara strode into the elevator, and as soon as she exited the building, she reached for her cell phone and hit the first number on speed dial. Danyael.
The phone rang, unanswered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The woman was resting comfortably, her breathing slow and even. Her lovely face was turned to the side, her dark hair spread across the pillow. Zara, yet not Zara, Danyael mused as he placed a hand against her forehead. The woman was genetically identical to Zara, but something was missing, likely the same something, whatever it was, that inexplicably attracted him to the real Zara Itani.
What makes us special and loved isn’t really in our genes.
Danyael rolled his shoulders to work out some of the tension locked in them and then hobbled back to the desk. He needed something to take his mind off Zara and her propensity for attracting trouble in any shape or form. Hell, she did not just attract trouble. She went looking for it.
He had to trust that she would be all right. More than anyone else, Zara had shown a remarkable ability for getting out of trouble. He prayed her luck would not run out.
Danyael resumed his research even though it was difficult to focus. He tuned out the sounds of the two SOF teams patrolling the house and the gardens, but looked up when a shadow fell across the doorway.
Galahad stood by the door, his face drawn and hazel eyes pinched, which was all the more remarkable considering that he still wore his prosthetic face.
Danyael clenched his teeth as he fought down the surge of compassion. Galahad didn’t deserve pity.
But if not pity, what then did Galahad deserve?
Danyael stifled a sigh, his frustration self-directed. At some point he would have to stop being a sucker for alleviating someone else’s pain. Tomorrow, perhaps. Besides, basic courtesy wasn’t supposed to hurt. He spoke, his voice even. “You look tired. Perhaps you should have gone back to the hotel with Amanda and Chloe.”
Galahad shook his head. He did not quite meet Danyael’s gaze.
Danyael’s cell phone rang. He snatched it up, but the number listed wasn’t Zara’s. It was Jason’s. His mouth suddenly dry, Danyael accepted the call.
Jason did not waste time with frivolous greetings. “The lab results came back. No easy way to say this, but I’m not a close enough match for gene therapy to work.”
Danyael closed his eyes against the surge of despair. The dull ache tore out of him in a soft sigh. “It was worth a shot.”
“I’m going to talk to our father again. I’ll let you know when I twist his arm into it.”
Danyael released his breath in a shuddering sound. “Whatever you want.” He hung up, tossed his cell phone onto the table, and then pressed a hand against his eyes. Perhaps he had been crazy to pin his hopes on his brother. He knew the odds weren’t high, but Jason had been his only chance at survival.
Six to eight weeks. What can I do in six to eight weeks?
“Are you okay?” Galahad asked.
Danyael made sure his eyes were dry before he pulled his hand away. “I’ll be all right.” He looked up at Galahad. “Did you want something from me?”
Galahad hesitated, odd for him. “What are you doing?”
“Research.”
“On what?”
“Age-acceleration techniques.”
“Why?”
Danyael gestured to the chair next to him.
Indecision flickered through Galahad’s eyes, but he walked into the room and sat next to Danyael.
Danyael slid the computer tablets across the table so that Galahad could see what he was doing. “We know that Sharma age-accelerated the clones. I’m comparing his research to other work done on age acceleration to narrow down the possibilities of the method he used and its side effects.”
“You believe the clones have a weakness.”
“Yes, a weakness that you and Zara don’t. It may be the only advantage we have. Zara’s better than her clones, and you may be better than yours, but it’s hard to compete against sheer weight of numbers. It’ll come down to a physical fight, and I may not be able to help. Zara has no psychic shields; I can’t use my empathic powers without affecting her too. The best thing I can do is not to get in your way.”
Galahad pulled his chair closer. “Show me what you’re doing.”
The highly technical discussion that followed was one that Danyael had never expected to have with Galahad. It ranged from biochemistry to molecular biology, from genetics to developmental biology. They discussed organic chemistry and psychopharmacology, and through it all, Danyael felt only one thing—awe.
Galahad soaked up informatio
n the way a dry sponge absorbed water. Vast amounts of information that Danyael had gleaned with painstaking effort over years in college, medical school, and medical practice, Galahad processed with seemingly no effort at all. The insightful questions he asked, some of which Danyael could not answer, was more evidence of Galahad’s uncanny ability to connect bits of information into a unified knowledge map.
“It’s amazing,” was all Galahad said after their two-hour conversation. “I never realize how much background knowledge goes into something as simple as genetic engineering.”
“There’s nothing simple about genetic engineering. I take it Rakehell never spent time explaining the science to you.”
Galahad shook his head. “At Pioneer Labs, I wasn’t much more than a lab animal—larger and less compliant than a rabbit—but not much different in concept.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
Galahad hesitated. “Tell me about the bio-tracker. Can it be removed?”
Danyael sighed, unable to take comfort in a lie. “No, though it only carries enough charge to fire off once.”
Galahad looked away. “There is no need to kill a person again after his heart stops, is there?”
“No, I guess not. It can be recoded, though—the living genetic signature altered to your own, the countdown changed to decades or centuries. It’s not a death sentence, Galahad.”
“But right now, it’s a time bomb nestled against my heart.” He looked up but did not meet Danyael’s gaze. “Can you change it?”
“Alex Saunders can recode it. I can only reset the countdown, and I will, for as long as I have to.”
“Until you get tired of keeping me alive.”
Danyael did not need his empathic powers to hear the despair in Galahad’s voice, despair so dark that his virulent hatred seemed diminished in comparison. The alpha empath shook his head. “I wouldn’t waste your life, Galahad. It’s too precious.”
Shock flickered through Galahad’s emotional spectrum.
Startled, Danyael glanced up, but Galahad turned his face away, his gaze darting before their eyes could make contact.
Damn it. I did that to him.
Danyael knew what it was like to be so emotionally damaged that it required conscious willpower to make eye contact. Yet I did it to Galahad anyway. Why? Because he hates me?
He had taken the woman Galahad desired and kept the knowledge of Galahad’s child from him. When Galahad had, justifiably, attacked him in anger, he had struck back with his empathic powers against which Galahad had no defense.
I have six to eight weeks…
Did he really want Zara to contend with a bitter and hate-filled Galahad when he was gone? It could not possibly end any way except badly.
He placed his hand over Galahad’s, but Galahad pulled back, his eyes flaring wide.
“I’m sorry,” Danyael murmured. “I should have known better. Fear is a difficult thing to live with. Give me your hand, Galahad. I can undo it; I’m the only one who can or will.”
Galahad continued to stare at him.
Danyael waited; the next move had to be Galahad’s.
Galahad’s eyes narrowed. Suspicion oozed from him. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you undo it?”
“Because what I did was excessive and wrong. Life has enough challenges. You don’t need an alpha empath making things harder by instilling fear in you.”
“And you’re not afraid of me?”
Caught off guard by Galahad’s insulted air, Danyael laughed. “No, of course not. Life throws far worse curveballs. Whatever Zara says, you are an inevitable part of her life and Laura’s. Zara will probably try to make things difficult, but I would rather you have an amicable relationship. Don’t waste time fighting each other.”
Galahad hesitated for only a moment longer before he reached out.
Danyael stripped away the fear and terror, and then probed deeper. He found no signs of schizophrenia, at least not yet. As a preventative measure, he bolstered Galahad’s emotional resilience, anchoring the facets of Galahad’s personality into a seamless whole.
Galahad’s eyes were closed. “What are you doing?”
Galahad was also clearly more attuned to his emotions than Danyael had anticipated. Perhaps it was a side benefit from possessing the genes of an alpha empath. His work complete, Danyael sat back in his chair. “The genes you inherited from Joyce include a slight tendency toward schizophrenia. I can’t fix that, but a stronger emotional disposition may prevent it.”
Galahad drew in a deep breath of air and released it slowly. “It’s different.”
“What is?”
“Inside.” Galahad’s eyes opened. “You changed something in me.”
“It’s the nature of an empath’s touch. We change things, not always for the better.”
“Yet you try.”
Danyael shrugged. “Don’t we all?” He pushed slowly to his feet. He needed medication to take the edge off his pain and nausea. No worries about getting addicted to painkillers now. He limped to the attached bathroom where he washed down two pills with water. For several minutes, he leaned over the sink, his cold hands clenched into fists as he waited for the nausea to pass.
Emotions smashed against his psychic shields. Panic stabbed like a dagger through his eyes. Danyael convulsed over the bathroom counter, choking on the emotions electrocuting him. “Galahad—” His voice emerged as a croak.
“Danyael?”
“They’re here—”
Dimly, Danyael heard the sound of racing feet grow fainter. He dragged himself upright and stumbled from the bathroom. On the desk, his cell phone rang, its ringtone customized. Zara.
Before he could reach for his cell phone, Joyce shrieked from across the hallway.
A figure stepped through the doorway, a man wearing his face, Galahad’s real face.
The clone hesitated long enough for Danyael to realize that it was under orders to take him alive.
Danyael, however, had no such constraints. He lashed out, a backhanded blow that caught the man full across his face. Physical contact provided a conduit for his empathic powers. Pain rushed out of him. Suicidal madness followed.
Danyael did not stop to see how the man would kill himself. The man’s screams rang in his ears as he scrambled across the landing to Joyce’s room. He caught a glimpse of Tseng’s men at the bottom of the stairs, fighting a desperate battle for survival against Galahad’s clones. Too many. No way out.
Joyce screamed again.
Danyael raced into her room, his crippled leg dragging behind him.
The old woman huddled behind her recliner, obviously terrified but uninjured.
Galahad, his back against the wall and armed only with matching daggers, fought off four of his clones. He twisted out of the path of the bullets a fraction of a second before one of his clones pulled on the trigger. Bullets smashed into the wall behind him. Galahad ducked beneath the spray of plaster, flicked his wrist to release his dagger, and dropped into a forward roll.
The dagger raced ahead of him to sink into the throat of a clone. The man collapsed, gagging on blood as Galahad came up in a battle crouch beside him. Galahad yanked out the dagger and sliced its sharp edge across the man’s throat, before spinning around on one knee.
He slashed outward with both daggers. The double blades cut through another clone’s stomach, eviscerating him. The man dropped to his knees, his hands wrapping around his severed midsection, and then toppled sideways to the wooden floorboards.
Danyael had seen Zara fight. She was a marvel in hand-to-hand combat, both graceful and deadly. Galahad, however, was death incarnate and in a class of his own. A chill chased through Danyael. He could not let Zara fight Galahad; she would not win.
Galahad turned on his third clone, his daggers flashing. The fourth man pulled out his handgun and aimed it at Galahad.
Danyael reached out and touched the fourth man. The man was psychically shielded,
but it did not matter. Psychic shields provided no defense against direct contact from an alpha empath.
Skin touched skin.
The abuse Danyael had suffered for the first twelve years of his life as an undiagnosed alpha empath fueled the dark side of his empathic powers. It gave him the power to kill.
I’m sorry. Danyael’s heart, as always, recoiled, but his mind pushed out. The hell of his childhood churned past psychic shields, leeching into the clone, into a mind unprepared to deal with the amplified echo of an alpha empath’s emotional pain.
Danyael knew that to the clone, the echo was a deafening scream drenched with pain that would have driven the clone to his knees if he were not held upright by the hope that anchored the compelling psychic whisper. Kill yourself. End the pain.
Driven mad, pushed beyond despair, the clone turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger. Blood, flecks of bone, and brain matter splattered against the wall.
Galahad spun around as the clone collapsed, the blood-drenched body folding in upon itself. His gaze flashed through the room before locking on Danyael’s face.
Gunfire rattled through the house. The emotional bombardment of the SOF officers’ panic and fear against Danyael’s psychic shields vanished. The SOF teams were dead.
We’re out of time.
Danyael pushed Galahad against the wall and pressed a hand against Galahad’s heart. His empathic powers attuned to the delicate balance of the human body. The nanotechnology embedded in Galahad’s chest responded, accepting Danyael’s living genetic signature and resetting the countdown on the bio-tracker nestled next to Galahad’s heart.
Twenty-four hours. Danyael prayed he would have another opportunity to reset the countdown before Galahad ran out of time.
Danyael ripped Galahad’s mask off his face, twisted around, and tossed it from his hand. The mask landed on top of one of the dead clones.