by Simon Hawke
In the meantime, he erected barriers between himself and the criminal activities that had financed the whole thing to begin with. He carefully selected subordinates who did not appear to be subordinates and who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut and take the fall if it became necessary, knowing they’d be taken care of for their loyalty. And along the way, the campaign contributions and the community activity gave him access to important people and allowed him to determine which ones to stay away from, which ones could be manipulated, and which ones could be bought outright.
Hunter’s instincts told him to stay away. Getting involved with a man like Manelli could be dangerous, but then if he had wanted to play it safe, he would never have joined the C.I.S. in the first place. The trouble was, Hunter was having a hard time deciding what to do. The odds against his stumbling upon a confluence point all on his own were astronomical, not even worth considering seriously. The odds of his finding a way to contact the Underground were somewhat better, but he had no idea where to start or even if it was what he really wanted to do.
If his goal was to create a significant disruption in this timeline, then the Underground was an ideal place for him to be. He could convince them that he’d deserted from the Temporal Army and infiltrate their organization, using their contacts and their information to achieve his ends, although they’d kill him if they suspected what his plans were. Only were those still his plans?
Why not simply accept things as they were? He was trapped in this universe and chances were that he’d never find his way back home. But then, why should he even try? The life he had created for himself here was infinitely better than the one he had as an agent for the C.I.S. Why fight it? Back home, he never would have dared to try anything like what he had accomplished here. Even if the idea had occurred to him, he’d have resisted partly out of fear of getting caught and partly out of concern that he might somehow disrupt the timestream. Here, what did it matter? It made no difference what he did here, there would always be the fear of getting caught, so why not make the most of his opportunities? And if he did do something that created a disruption further up the timeline, then it would not affect him here and he’d be doing no more than his duty. The warp disc was his protection. He could always escape further into the past. The temptation to do exactly as his twin in this timeline had done and simply opt out was tremendous and Hunter was seeing less and less reason to resist it. The last thing he needed was to bother with someone like Manelli.
The problem was, Manelli was bothering with him. Hunter did not flatter himself that Krista had been coming on to him simply because he was so undeniably attractive, He’d been playing cat and mouse with her, knowing that she was subtly trying to draw him out and pump him, while at the same time he was purposely obscure about his background and tried to do the same to her, about both herself and her relationship with Domenico Manelli and his crowd. Prudence would have dictated that he break it off, but Hunter found himself unable to resist her and they had reached an impasse where both of them fully understood the game that they were playing, though neither would admit it to the other. They were both getting a perverse enjoyment out of it, though Krista was starting to exhibit some signs of frustration.
“I sometimes have the feeling that you’re not really who you seem to be at all,” she said, taking a gold cigarette case out of her purse. “It’s almost as it you’re playing a role.”
With playful mockery, she took two cigarettes from the case and stuck them both between her lips, then handed him her Dunhill lighter. Hunter grinned and lit the cigarettes for her. She took a drag or two to get them going, then took one from her mouth and reached forward to place it between his lips. If she had done so seriously, it would have been extremely comical, but with her slightly exaggerated humor playing on the role reversal, she somehow made it very sexy.
He took a deep drag on the cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Everyone plays roles,” he said. “Mine just happens to be a bit more subtle than most people’s. I don’t really believe in going around baring your breast to everyone you meet, that’s all. People who do that are insecure.”
“You’re definitely not insecure,” she said, smiling. “Most men would go to a great deal of trouble to impress a woman. But you’re not like that. You seem very comfortable with yourself. No need to prove a thing.”
Hunter shrugged. “It takes too damn much energy to run around always trying to prove things to yourself and other people. I haven’t really got anything to prove. But maybe that’s because I don’t have much imagination. I’m just an ordinary guy.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that at all. You’re the most elusive man I’ve ever met. You really don’t reveal very much at all, do you?”
“Well, I thought they said that a little mystery was supposed to add a bit of spice to a relationship.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” she said, arching her eyebrows. “Having a relationship?” .
“I don’t really know,” said Hunter, loosening his collar slightly. It was getting warm. “What are we doing? You invite me up here, cook me a world class meal and ply me with vintage wine in an atmosphere of mellow, romantic jazz, soft lighting, a dazzling view—both through the window and the tabletop. .” he grinned. “One would almost think that you were setting a trap for me. “
She smiled. “You’re absolutely right. I confess. It is a trap.”
“Ha! I knew it all the time! The wine was drugged!”
She pursed her lips and watched him over the rim of her wineglass. “No, not the wine,” she said, softly.
He suddenly felt dizzy as he stared at her, his vision blurred. She took her cigarette, which after the initial puff to get it going, she hadn’t smoked at all, and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
The cigarettes!
He lurched to his feet and the room started to spin. She got up quickly and backed away. He grabbed the table for support and abruptly lost his balance, bringing the glass-topped table crashing to the floor. It shattered and he fell in a spray of glass. He heard a door open and footsteps come across the floor. He tried, but he could not make out their faces as they stood over him. He couldn’t move. One of them bent down and pulled up his sleeve.
“That’s it,” someone said.
He felt the warp disc being removed and then everything went black.
Chapter 6
“There’s nothing there,” said Steiger, bending over the charts and studying them closely.
“Dr. Gulliver, are you sure that was the correct position?” said Delaney, glancing over his shoulder at Gulliver, who stood behind them, looking down at the charts spread out on the table.
“I’m absolutely certain of it,” Gulliver said. “I’ve sailed as a ship’s surgeon long enough to know my navigation, gentlemen. I took a reading with my sextant on the day of my escape. Longitude 110 degrees, 4 minutes east; latitude 30 degrees, 2 minutes south. “
“That would put it approximately 200 miles to the north-west of Perth, Australia,” said Steiger… And there’s nothing there.”
“Quite so,” said Gulliver. “I have already told you that the island does not appear on any charts. “
“If that was the case only with the charts available in this time period,” said Steiger, tossing aside the charts that Gulliver had obtained for them, “then that would be understandable. However,” he tapped the modem maps spread out before him on the table, “it doesn’t appear on any of our charts, either, and that’s impossible. You must have made a mistake in calculating the position. “
“I don’t mean to argue with you, Colonel,” Gulliver replied, “but had that been the case, then I would certainly have noticed it when I escaped, for I would have found myself off course. However, the course I had plotted turned out to be correct, which meant that my original reading had to be correct, as well. Lilliput Island lies exactly there.” He stabbed his forefinger down at the map on a spot that showed nothing but open sea.
S
teiger glanced up at Delaney and shook his head. “There’s nothing there, Finn.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out for sure,” Delaney said.
“Wait a minute,” Andre said, grabbing his ann. “You’re not seriously suggesting clocking out there blind? What if Gulliver’s wrong?”
“We’ll wind up very wet,” said Steiger. “And those are shark-infested waters.”
“Look, I may be a little reckless sometimes,” said Delaney, “but I’m not crazy. I’m suggesting that a couple of us clock ahead to base and pick up some floater paks so we can do an air reconnaissance. We can fly a search pattern within a fifty mile radius of Gulliver’s co-ordinates, or a hundred mile radius if that’s what it takes, but we’re obviously not going to get anywhere sitting around here and arguing about what is or isn’t on the map. We’re simply going to have to go out there and look.”
Gulliver cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Captain. “Yes?”
“Did… did I hear correctly? Did you just say that you were going to … to fly?”
“Don’t worry, Lem,” Delaney said, “no one’s going to make you fly. Besides, it takes a bit of training to learn how to use a floater pak. You’ll be staying here with Andre and Lucas while Creed and I clock out and fly our search pattern. And if we find your island, we’ll come back for the rest of you and see if there are any little people on it.”
“Six-inch commandos,” Lucas said, shaking his head. “Incredible. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’d run into a bizarre new generation of Drakov’s hominoids.”
“You know General Drakov?” Gulliver said.
They all spun around and stared at him with amazement.
“What did you say?” said Andre.
“General Nikolai Drakov,” Gulliver said. “He is the leader of The Lilliput Legion.”
“But that’s impossible!” Delaney said. “Drakov is dead!”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Andre, slowly. “And so was Lucas.”
Nikolai Drakov stood in Central Park with his hands in the pockets of his elegant, dark wool velour topcoat. A cool autumn breeze ruffled his thick, wavy black hair as he watched a young mother and her small boy from a distance as they fed the ducks with bread crumbs. The dark-haired boy bore a startling resemblance to Drakov. In fact, he was Nikolai Drakov, or more precisely, a clone being raised under controlled conditions and carefully monitored from time to time by his creator/father.
This was the end result of Drakov’s experiments with the hominoids, a subspecies of genetically engineered, human-based lifeforms that were first created under the auspices of Project Infiltrator, headed by Dr. Moreau and funded by the Special Operations Group. Drakov had deceived the S.O.G. and spirited Moreau away from the parallel universe with promises of generous funding and unrestricted research, the opportunity of developing his hominoids to their fullest potential. Instead, Drakov had taken control and carefully observed Moreau, studying the process until he had mastered it, and then he took the hominoids in directions Moreau had never dreamed of. Now, this was the crowning touch, the piece de resistance. He had replicated himself.
The young boy he was watching along with his “mother,” an earlier generation hominoid, had been part of the first run, a dozen versions of himself born out of petri dishes and artificial wombs, then clocked back to various periods in the past, each to be raised in different environments, but under highly controlled conditions with predetermined key stages of development, the first occurring when they received their cerebral implants in early childhood, enabling them to be programmed at specific points throughout their lives, and the last when they received the scars that matched his own, a diagonal knife slash that ran from beneath his left eye to just above the corner of his mouth.
The first of these secondary versions of himself had already been subjected to this process that Drakov called “time lapse maturation” and had been killed in an encounter with the temporal agents. They now believed him to be dead. Drakov smiled as he anticipated their rude awakening.
He turned and started walking back toward Fifth Avenue. Gulliver’s escape had been a minor setback, but it didn’t really matter. The temporal agents were alerted to the threat now, but it was far too late. Even as they prepared to seek the secret island base of The Lilliput Legion, the Lilliputians would find them. And this time, his little soldiers would know what to expect.
“Wake up! Cmon, wake up!”
Hunter felt his face being slapped. His head rocked back and forth with the blows as if it were somehow a thing apart from himself and he tried to ignore it all, to retreat back into the warm, thick mist of unconsciousness, but they weren’t having any of it.
“Come on, wake up, dammit!”
Whack!
“He’s still out of it.”
“The hell he is, he’s playing possum, only I ain’t buyin’ it.
Wake up, you bum!”
Whack!
An involuntary groan escaped him.
“Ah. there we go! Come on, baby, you can make it! Wakee, wakee!”
WHACK!
“Stop…” Hunter mumbled, his voice thick and slurred.
He felt someone take hold of his chin and steady his head. “Open your eyes.”
His eyes blinked open.
He was tied to a straight-backed wooden chair. There was a blurred face close in front of him and several people standing in the background. He tried to focus in. It came slowly. The blurry images gradually resolved themselves into a sharp. featured, hatchet-like face surmounted by thick, elaborately styled black hair and a custom-tailored, dark silk suit filled out well with muscle. The tie was incongruous. Bright canary yellow. Silk. The breath smelled of cigarette smoke.
Cigarettes.
Right. The cigarettes.
Behind the hatchet-faced, tough guy in the expensive, raw silk suit was another man cut from the same cloth, a smoothly styled sharpie in a mauve suit with a purple silk shirt and a purple tie the same shade as the shirt. And beside him stood the lovely, treacherous Krista, staring down at him as though he were some interesting new bug she hadn’t seen before.
“Who are you? asked the hatchet-faced man.
“George Palmer,” Hunter mumbled, giving the name that he’d been using.
Whack!
“Wrong. Try again.”
“My name is George palmer. I don’t—”
WHACK!
The force of the blow split his lip and he felt blood trickle down his chin.
“Look, my friend,” hatchet-face said softly, bringing his face up close to Hunter’s, “we know who you’re not, okay? What we’d like to know is who you are. And where you got this pretty bracelet.”
Hunter’s gaze was riveted on the warp disc being dangled before him.
“I don’t understand,” said Hunter. “Why are you doing this? If you want money—”
WHACK!
“Okay, now listen to me, all right? That was the last time with the open hand. I’m getting impatient. Next one’s a closed fist. And if losing a few teeth doesn’t loosen you up …”
Snik. The six-inch blade sprang out of the handle.
“That will do, Vincent. Take Krista and go make some coffee in the kitchen. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Hatchet-faced Vincent gave Hunter a long look and then left the room with Krista. Domenico Manelli came around from somewhere behind Hunter to stand in front of him, looking like an investment banker in his tailored pin stripes and rep tie. So far as Hunter could tell, there were only three of them in the room now–himself, Manelli, and the smoothie in the mauve suit.
Manelli loosened his tie and took out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and offered it to Hunter. “Cigarette? These aren’t drugged, by the’ way.” While Hunter watched, he took one himself, lit up and inhaled deeply. “I have no need of playing tricks,” he said. He shrugged. “Now that you’re tied to that chair, I could shoot you up to my heart’s content. A little Pentothol to make you
talk, some uncut heroin to make you stop . . . or I could call Vincent back in for some of your more basic persuasion. I’d really rather not, though. You strike me as a reasonable man. I think we could discuss things like intelligent human beings.”
He shook out another cigarette and offered it to Hunter. Hunter nodded and Manelli held the pack out so that Hunter could take the protruding cigarette between his lips. Manelli lit it for him with his gold lighter. The man in the mauve suit hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t even moved. He simply watched Hunter expressionlessly. Hunter decided that this man worried him even more than Vincent.
“The reason I sent the others out of the room is because they don’t know what this is,” said Manelli, holding up the warp disc, dangling the bracelet in front of him as Vincent had. “However, I do. And so does the gentleman behind me. In fact he has one just like yours. Now isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”
Suddenly, it was a brand new ball game. Hunter stared hard at the man in the mauve suit, but his face gave nothing away.
“I see we have your full attention,” said Manelli, with a smile.
“All right, what do you want?” said Hunter.
“Let’s start with your name.”
“Hunter. Reese Hunter.”
It was pointless to lie. If they did administer drugs, he’d tell them the truth anyway. The thing was to convince them that he was already telling them the truth and at the same time withhold some of it.
Manelli smiled. “There, you see? I knew we could discuss things in a reasonable manner. And how about your rank, Mr. Hunter?”
“Captain.”
Manelli looked impressed. “A captain, no less. And your unit?”
Hunter hesitated, his mind racing. Should he risk a bluff? They could easily find out, but how much time would it buy him? Fortunately, Manelli misinterpreted his hesitation.
“Ah, I think I understand,” he said. “You’re a deserter, aren’t you?”
Hunter chose not to reply, implying assent by his silence.