by Matt Forbeck
"How much?"
His face contorted with regret. "Ronan. You have to know I never intended– I was trying to do something good. To solve the problem of mortality. To beat death."
"And so you did."
"For some of us," Querer chipped in.
Winslow flinched at that. "I suppose that's part of the problem. When the vast majority of the world still lies in death's hands, those who have escaped its clutches have that much more power."
"That's even more true for those who control the means of escape," I said.
"You wouldn't believe what the Brain Trust has forced me to do over the years. I've tampered with the minds of every great leader in the world. At least those trusting enough to join the Amortals Project. I've edited their memories. I've affected their loyalties."
He stood, unable to keep himself in his chair any longer. Querer stood too, ready to move in case he rabbited. I stayed in my seat, hoping that my stoic stance would help calm him down.
"It's not all been bad," he said. "Some good has come from it. We've had nothing but peace between the US and our allies for the past hundred years."
"But not so much with our enemies," I said.
"True, but we've made new allies too. The promise of eternal life is a huge temptation for anyone, even our enemies. The Pax Americana has spread to cover more than half the globe."
"But our enemies are more entrenched than ever," said Querer.
I didn't like the way the conversation was heading. The more Winslow thought of himself as the worst criminal the world had ever seen, the less likely he would be to cooperate with us.
"Why don't other countries have their own Amortals Projects?" I said. "You'd think that once they knew it was possible, they'd do everything they could to crack it."
Winslow wavered before he answered. "For one good reason. Well, two really."
He counted the reasons off on his fingers. "First, we don't let them. One of the top priorities of the NSA and CIA is to make sure that no other country gets its hands on the technology. It's given us more of an edge than the atomic bomb, and our government is determined to make sure that we don't lose that.
"Second, the way it works is so– It is the most tightly held secret in the world. Only I and a handful of my protégés here really understand everything about it. Not too many more even know about the reality behind it, much less how it works.
"Third," he said, ignoring the fact he'd mentioned two points, "the Amortals Project gave us TIE, which no other nation has. Without that level of intelligence analysis, they can't possibly hope to catch up with us, ever, and we always know about it long before they can really give it a good shot."
I sat straight up in my chair at that. "What does TIE have to do with the Amortals Project?" I asked.
Winslow gaped at me. "You – you don't know?"
I shook my head. I glanced back to see Querer doing the same thing.
He ran a hand over his face. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry."
My stomach flipped over. How deep did this thing go? "Try telling us the truth."
He stopped as if I'd stood up and slapped him in the face.
"Come on, Juwan," I said quietly. "This is your chance. It's time."
His chin trembled. I thought he might burst into tears. Instead, a weak laugh leaped from his lips.
"No," he said. "I've thought that before, many times, but it's never been true. Not once." He slumped back down in his chair. "You just don't know how it is, how powerful…"
"You're wrong," Querer said, leaning over the back of my chair to speak to Winslow. "This is the time. It's now or never. Everything is in motion, and we're never going to have a better chance to fix this."
"Oh, I've heard about the riots," Winslow said. "You think shutting off the lights in downtown DC and letting people run wild through the streets is going to change anything?" He shook his head as he looked up at her. "You really are so young."
Querer stepped around from behind me to talk to Winslow directly. "Turn on your wallscreen," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "Tap into the newsfeed."
"What difference will that make?"
"Look and see," she said. She stood before him, proud and defiant, daring him to deny her this simple request.
His shoulders slumped as he gave in. His eyes unfocused for a moment as he accessed the wallscreen's control layer. "Which feed should I tap?"
"Any of them," she said, turning toward the screen. "All of them."
A talking head appeared on the wallscreen, standing in the reinforced press station set up on the edge of the south lawn of the White House. Behind her, the White House gleamed like a beacon in the night. Spotlights crisscrossed the sky behind it, picking out unmanned hunter-killer drones circling the place, ready to slaughter any of the rioters who dared to get too close.
The words "Breaking News" scrolled across the bottom of the screen, white on a field of red. The newscaster projected beauty and grim determination as she spoke.
"– again, we have word that someone has broken into the White House and taken the President and the First Gentleman hostage in the Oval Office. There are reports of shots fired. The assailant is allegedly none other than the amortal Secret Service agent who has saved the lives of more Presidents than any other: Agent Ronan Dooley."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Winslow's jaw dropped open so hard that he choked. I had to leap over and pound him on the back until he could breathe again. When he managed to speak, he said, "What the hell is going on, Ronan?"
I looked down at him and shrugged. "I'm just as surprised as you." His eyes were so wide I thought I could see his lens implants reflected there in the light.
"All right," I said, sitting down again, "maybe not that surprised."
Winslow spluttered at me as he struggled between feelings of betrayal and rage. "If you're here, then who is that in the White House?" he asked. "Is this all some kind of hoax?"
Querer intercepted that one. "Not at all. That's Ronan Dooley in the White House, and he is attacking the President."
Winslow gave me a look hard enough to shatter diamonds. "Then who are you?"
I put up my hands in surrender. "You tell me, Juwan. I just woke up here a few days ago. It's been a pretty hard start for a fresh life."
He wrinkled his brow at me, then gasped in horror. He began turning green. "Oh. Oh, God. You weren't killed. Your old body, that is. When we activated you, he wasn't dead. Oh, God."
He pushed his chair back from the table and put his head between his legs. I wondered if he was going to vomit, but he managed to hold his stomach together for now.
When he finally sat back up, he had turned pale, and a thin sheen of clammy sweat covered his skin. "I knew this would happen," he said. "I mean, eventually it had to. We'd make a mistake in verifying a death, and we'd suddenly have two copies of a patient walking the streets."
"Nothing like this has ever happened before?" I asked.
Winslow groaned. "There was that one time when that trillionaire went missing while trying to climb Olympus Mons. After an exhaustive search that turned up the bodies of every other member of the expedition, we officially called him dead and activated his next body."
"But he survived?"
Winslow shook his head ruefully. "After TIE found out about it? Not for long."
I squirmed in my seat.
"That was on Mars, though, with the new body still here on Earth. With you–" He threw his hands into the air. "Everyone in the world is going to see your old self taking the First Family hostage. There's no rug on the planet large enough for anyone to sweep that under it."
Querer shushed us and pointed at the screen. The woman there spoke again.
"We now have video from the scene at the Oval Office. The assailant entered the place during a press teleconference, waited for the right moment, and then attacked. Watch."
A video captured by an observer's optical feed zoomed onto the screen. At first, i
t all seemed perfectly normal. The President sat at her desk in the Oval Office, framed by the US flag on the left and the President's flag on the right. She was speaking to the nation about the riots in DC.
"There is no reason for alarm," she said. "We have plans in place for dealing with just such a cowardly terrorist attack as this, and the Department of Homeland Security is already implementing them. Order will be restored shortly, and the criminals responsible for instigating these troubles will be swiftly brought to justice."
As she spoke, I entered the room from the right, coming in through the west door, beyond which stood the President's private study.
It was really Eight, of course. He'd shaved his beard and colored his hair to look younger, like me. I thought maybe he was wearing makeup too.
The observer glanced in Eight's direction. Dressed in the standard Secret Service dark suit and tie, he looked tired but determined, much like I felt at the moment. Seeing that the interruption was only from a Secret Service agent – someone who was supposed to professionally blend into the background – the observer looked back to the President. She had continued to speak, not missing a beat at Eight's entrance.
"I will personally monitor the situation every moment until it is resolved," she said. "Keep calm and, if you live in the District of Columbia, please remain indoors until further notice. I will bring you new developments as they happen. Until then, goodnight, and God bless America."
As those last three words left her lips, Eight appeared behind her with a gun in his hand. He pointed it directly at the back of her head and spoke clearly and loudly. "Madame President, I'm here to arrest you for your numerous crimes against the people of America. Please put your hands behind your head."
At first, the President laughed. She clearly thought someone was playing a joke on her. Despite the fact it was an awful gag at a terrible time, she was determined to be a good sport about it. A lifetime politician, she was painfully aware the incident was being recorded and broadcast live to feeds around the planet, and the last thing she wanted to do was appear weak or humorless.
She turned around to see what sort of madman would have had the insane temerity to pull a prank on her in the middle of a press feed. As her eyes fell on Eight's face, she relaxed for a moment, then forced a friendly scowl on her face.
"Very funny, Agent Dooley. April Fool's Day was three months ago, but I suppose you don't remember that." She delivered the line so smoothly I wondered if one of her speechwriters had fed it into her teleprompter layer on the fly.
"This isn't a joke, ma'am. Somebody else should have done this a long time ago, but I guess it falls to me."
The First Gentleman came steaming into the picture then from somewhere behind the observer. "This isn't funny, Dooley," he said, oozing menace. "Give me that gun, and your badge along with it."
The President glared at her husband for stepping in, and she opened her mouth to chastise him for it. At that moment, Eight pointed his gun at the ceiling and fired a round right through the Presidential seal embossed there.
The video devolved into chaos as the observer scrambled for cover behind one of the couches that sat at the other end of the Oval Office.
"I am not joking," Eight said. He enunciated every word as if he was talking to idiot children. "The next person who fails to follow my orders will take a bullet for it."
The observer scrambled for the door, grabbed the handle, and found it locked.
"Don't bother trying to get out," Eight said. "The gunshot activated the automatic lockdown procedure. It'll take the agents outside a few moments to disengage it."
"What in the name of God do you want?" the President asked. She tried to keep her cool, but instead she sounded like an irritated mother.
Eight ignored her. "Mo!" he called out to the observer. Although I couldn't see the man, I knew it had to be Mohammed Sanza, the President's Chief of Staff. "Come back over here and look at me. I have a message for the American people."
Sanza turned around slowly and saw Eight holding the gun on him. He backed away as far as he could go.
"Come here," Eight said, louder. He stabbed the gun at one of the chairs in the conversation area.
"The Secret Service will be here in an instant," the First Gentleman said, his voice cracking.
"If they know what's good for them, they'll stay outside for now," Eight said. He knew they'd be following Mo's news feed and listening to his every word. "I'm sealed inside one of the best-protected rooms on the planet. The walls are lined with steel, and the windows can withstand anything shy of a missile."
"Just put down the gun, Ronan," the President said, playing the good cop to her husband's bad cop. "You've been through an awful lot lately. Turn yourself in, and we'll make sure you get the help you need."
"If the agents on duty are smart, they'll try to gas the entire room. It's sealed, and they have full control over the ventilation system." Eight sniffed the air. "As soon as I start feeling drowsy, though, I'm going to start shooting."
From the way Sanza gasped, I'm sure this shocked him. Eight wasn't talking to anyone in the room though. His words were meant for the protection team outside that was no doubt looking for a way to get at him.
"You're bluffing," the First Gentleman said. A former athlete in a life long ago, he moved in his fresh body like a panther on the hunt. He strode forward and reached out to take the gun from Eight's hand.
Eight shot him in the gut.
Paul Oberon – Secret Service codename: Mr Claus – folded over like someone had hit him in the stomach with a bat. He toppled backward, clutching his middle with both hands, trying to keep in the blood already seeping through his white dress shirt.
The President screamed at the sight, then got up from her desk to race to her husband's side. "Paul!" she said. "Oh, God! Paul!"
She fell to her knees next to him and cradled his head in her hands. He looked up at her with eyes filled with shock and horror. In all his many years on the planet, he'd never been shot. He'd died a few times – euthanized once he'd worn out his current body – but he didn't remember any of it, of course.
"He'll be fine," Eight said. "Won't you just activate another one?"
Gina Oberon lowered her husband back to the floor and spun to her feet, fixing Eight in a fiery glare. "You monster!"
I have to give the President credit. After that perfectly understandable outburst, she screwed up her face and got serious again. "Agent Dooley, as your Commander-in-Chief, I order you to put down your firearm and surrender!"
Eight ignored her. "You two weren't even married," he said. "Sure, somewhere there's a marriage license and wedding photos and all the other bits of proof that two people named Paul and Gina Oberon were once married in front of thousands of witnesses, but here's the catch."
He stopped and glanced at Sanza to make sure he was getting all of this.
"He's not the man who married Gina Oberon – and you're not that woman either. You're cheap, vat-grown copies living out an authorized sequel to someone else's lives."
The President gaped at Eight. "You're insane."
"Look at me, ma'am," he said, treating each word as if it was as fragile as an egg. "I'm not the Ronan Dooley whose rebirthday party you attended a few days back. I'm the man he was supposed to replace."
"That's a lie," the President said. "Don't say that!"
Eight kept the gun on her and turned toward Sanza again. "The Amortals Project has been a lie from the start. Open your eyes, America."
The President made a cutting motion across her neck, signaling to Sanza to stop broadcasting.
Eight kept talking. "You're being used. We're all being used. Take a look at the world around you, America, and make up your own–"
The feed cut off then, going entirely black.
The talking head appeared back on the screen. "And those are the stunning developments taking place in the White House at this very moment. We have reporters located in the White House Press Room, waiting
to hear more information. As soon as they have it, we'll bring it right to you."
The wallscreen went black then too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
"I've seen enough," Winslow said in a weary voice. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Despite the youth of his body, he sat hunched over like an old man worn with age, like every one of his years had caught up with him.
"Do you get it?" Querer said. "If this isn't the time, then there is no other. There may never be."
Winslow looked at his hands. "These aren't my hands," he said, his voice filled with both wonder and regret as he turned them over and examined them front and back. "They never really were."