Point and Shoot

by Duane Swierczynski

  Thing was: They also had manual triggers. Right there on the gun, mounted inside the tube.

  You didn’t need a wire. All you needed was a finger.

  By the time the Other Him realized what he was doing, it was almost too late. Hardie had pried open the gun port hatch and shoved his arm inside, fingertips brushing against the trigger. Just another couple of inches …

  The Other Him screamed at Hardie and then got all MMA on him, wrapping a beefy arm around his neck and pulling his free arm in a way that resulted in agonizing pain and seemed to defy the rules of human anatomy.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Wuh. … Wuh … watch me.”

  “We’ll both die!”

  “Yeah, maybe we will.”

  “Listen to me … this tube was designed to be jettisoned, so the walls aren’t bulletproof. You pull that trigger … we’re both dead, you stupid fuck! You want to do that to Kendra and Seej? Or do you want to save them?”

  “They’re dead if I don’t kill you.”

  The Other Him loosened his grip, then untangled himself from Hardie. “I get it.”

  Hardie was suspicious. “You get w-what.”

  “You think the biometrics might be a little off, and the moment I step into the capsule, an alarm will go off and they’ll send someone to kill Kendra and CJ.”

  Actually, no, that wasn’t what Hardie was thinking. But it was a good enough reason.

  “Yeah,” Hardie said, huffing hard.

  “Fine. You win, you stubborn old bastard. You search the craft, then. I’ll do my best to tell you what to look for.”

  7

  This ain’t no goddamn way to start a partnership.

  —Reggie Hammond, 48 Hrs.

  HARDIE COULDN’T EXACTLY chalk this one up in the win column, though. After scrambling back up to the main craft, he searched through every section of it, as instructed by his double. Through components labeled Propulsion. Avionics. Flight software. Communications. Power. Guidance. Environmental control. TCS. TPS. EDL. The Other Hardie called out each system like a drill sergeant, leaving Hardie to scramble to look for the label, then figure out how to pry the components open with his bare fingers, which left his fingertips raw, by the way, only to find …

  … nothing.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing like you’re describing. You sure you got it right?”

  “I wouldn’t travel a hundred sixty-six miles up into outer freakin’ space unless I had it right.”

  What the Other Hardie had been describing: a small black square of shiny plastic, mounted on four corners with some kind of gummy material.

  Hardie didn’t see anything like that.

  “We’re running out of time,” the Other Hardie said.

  “You keep saying that. Why?”

  “This mission’s on a strict timetable. I don’t get it right, then we splash down in the middle of fucking Oklahoma. Look, I understand your hesitation, but c’mon now. Let me trade places with you and take a look. I know what I’m looking for. If you just give me ten minutes this can be all over.”

  “Gimme that gizmo and I’ll look. You told me it could find it instantly, right?”

  The Other Him hesitated. “It’s not as easy as that. It’s not just going to light up and go ding ding ding when it finds something. I had to train for weeks to use this damned thing and learn what the numbers mean. It’s taking very precise measurements of electrical impulses, and this craft is full of them, so …”

  “You’re saying I can’t read numbers? That I’m some dope who can’t tell a two from a three?”

  “Argh. Will you just let me up there to look?”

  Hardie considered this for a minute.

  “You know, maybe it’s down there,” Hardie said. “In the gun tube, with you. Did you use your little magic device down there?”

  The look on the Other Hardie’s face was sort of priceless. He recovered and snapped, “Just keep looking.” Then he ducked back down into the tube.

  Why hadn’t you thought of that first? Some spy you are.

  It would be just like the Cabal to pull a fake-out move where the valuable object was safely hidden away in the disposable portion of the spacecraft.

  The more you think about it, the more it makes sense. Put Charlie Hardie, the armed guard, inside the craft, with access to guns inside the tube. On the off off off chance that somebody who looked exactly like Charlie Hardie would make his way up here, overpower him, then go looking for the dingus on the craft. The last place any sane person would look would be the gun tube, which would eject upon reentry and crash somewhere in the Pacific and presumably be forgotten. Unless … you were the Cabal, and had a secret way of tracking it, with a beacon or some other device.

  So you start scanning the interior of the tube, as much as it galls you to admit that Hardie might be correct.

  You weren’t kidding about the program’s being tricky. By its very nature, the dingus was designed to fool traditional forms of tracking. It emitted close to zero power, and any tiny bursts of power your tracking device did pick up could be attributed to random bursts in space. Detecting something that may actually be the dingus was a matter of interpretation; the device was meant to give you a possible nudge in the right direction, and then give you a place to start digging and dismantling.

  The numbers tell you: nothing.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not a trace.”

  “Is it possible you’re mistaken, and I’m not guarding this super–mystery shit you keep going on about?”

  “Then what else would you be guarding?”

  “I don’t know. This billion-dollar satellite would probably fetch a pretty penny in the scrap metal market.”

  “Har-har. No, it’s got to be here. They’ve just been super-clever about where they’ve hidden it. Maybe somewhere between the outer skins, where even you couldn’t get at it? No, that’s too risky …”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Well, I do have a Plan B,” the Other Him said. “But you’re really not going to like it.”

  8

  Lucky for me this place is soundproof. That way nobody gets to hear me beating the truth out of you.

  —Kurt Russell, Tango & Cash

  HARDIE WAS ASHAMED to admit it, but his body did an involuntary jolt when he heard Plan B.

  Sweet Jesus in heaven, this was the Other Charlie Hardie’s plan:

  “We’re going to knock the satellite out of orbit, crash-land in the Atlantic Ocean, and then get scooped up by my handlers. We’ll let the NSA tear this damned thing apart, one piece at a time.”

  That his body jolted when he first heard the plan was remarkable, because it took a few moments for Hardie to unpack and comprehend what this Other Him was suggesting. It was as if his physical body understood right away how painful—if not totally life-threatening—this plan was, leaving his brain to play catch-up. Hardie, with his slow lizard cop brain, picked it apart one awful segment at a time. Knocked out of orbit. Crash-land. Scooped up. Tear the damned thing apart. Not one part of that plan sounded good.

  So of course Hardie told him, “That’s a horrible plan.”

  “It’s our only choice.”

  “No, it’s not. There’s got to be something else. Don’t you get it? Once they notice it’s missing, my family’s dead. I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “We do have a decent window of time,” the Other Hardie said. “I can have my handler dispatch a team of double-hard bastards out to protect your family as soon as we make contact.”

  “No. Think of something else.”

  “There is nothing else. This is the plan. This is what I’ve been training for.”

  “Goody for you. We’re not doing that. You can just climb back into your fake-food drone there and go back the way you came.”

  The Other Him just stared at him. Even Hardie knew that was ridiculous. The food drones were one-way delivery vehic
les. Once the food was loaded onto the craft, Hardie pushed a button and the food drone (containing his own personal waste products) was jettisoned back into orbit, joining the billions of other pieces of space junk floating around up here.

  There was no way out for the Other Him. Not until three months from now, when a promised private space cruiser would dock with the satellite and bring him back home—presumably replacing him with another mook they’d blackmailed into freaky indentured servitude.

  “There’s no way out for either of us, Charlie,” the Other Him said. “You realize this, right? What did they promise you—a year in space, and all would be forgiven?”

  Hardie said nothing. That was exactly what they’d promised.

  “Uh-uh,” the Other Him said. “They’re not going to let you go. You’re up here for good … until you die. And they’re kind of counting on you being the indestructible type. That’s why you were chosen for this mission. You’re Unkillable Chuck, the man who can’t be killed.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I can sure as hell die.”

  “Of course. And they know you’re not immortal. But they’ve learned things about you over the years, leading them to realize that if they needed someone to spend an infinite amount of time in this orbiting tin can, that person should be you. Let’s say there’s a precious jewel at the bottom of a seriously deep lake. Who do you send to the bottom to retrieve it? The person who can hold his breath the longest. For all intents and purposes, out here in space? That’s you.”

  “What are you talking about? There’s nothing special about me. I have the worst fucking luck of anyone I know. That’s about it.”

  The Other Him grinned. “You really don’t know, do you.”

  “Know what?”

  “We don’t have time for this. C’mon up and I’ll figure a way to strap us both in so we won’t both get killed upon im—”

  But the Other Him never finished the thought.

  Hardie had been in these moments before—these supposedly do-or-die situations.

  About a year ago he’d been in such a situation. He’d had a loaded gun in the mouth of one of his primary tormentors, some really smug bitch named Abrams who’d basically sentenced him to rot in a secret prison forever. He could have pulled the trigger. Do or die.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead he found himself up here, in this satellite with a duplicate of himself, informing him what a fool he’d been to believe them, that he was basically sentenced to rot up here forever instead of on earth, where at least he could have had a proper burial.

  Each time, every time, when faced with a do-or-die decision … Hardie always seemed to select the worst and most painful option possible.

  His life, a series of bad decisions that led him to this, the worst predicament of all.

  So no.

  He wasn’t going to do it anymore.

  Hardie knew how this would play out. No matter what he said, this Other Him will try to take control of the satellite and crash it into the ocean or some such shit, promptly sentencing his family to death.

  So for once in his life, Hardie decided to preempt the bullshit.

  While the Other Him was busy talking about strapping the two of them in and not dying on impact, Hardie reached up, grabbed a fistful of fabric spacesuit, and yanked him with all of his might back down into the tube. The Other Him never saw it coming.

  Hardie guessed that sometimes you really could outthink yourself, couldn’t you?

  The Other Him’s body bounced once, twice … and then a third time at the bottom of the tube, near the food delivery hatch. The thumps sounded painful, and upon each impact the Other Him let out a strangled cry that sounded strange, because that was essentially Hardie’s own strangled cry. But Hardie didn’t give a shit. He scrambled back up into the control room proper and closed the hatch behind him. Engaged the locks. The Other Him was screaming something down there, but you know what? Too bad.

  His body aching from all of the physical activity, Hardie slowly made his way to the main controls and sat down. He just needed a quiet moment to think through his next move.

  On the monitor, he could see the Other Him, now standing again, and pounding his fist on the side of the tube, screaming something.

  Hardie flicked off the image. Let him cool his heels down there for a while. He should be thankful he didn’t machine-gun his ass out the airlock.

  The audio receiver was still engaged, and Hardie could hear the anguished protests of the Other Him.

  “It’s too late! You don’t understand! It’s too late!”

  Hardie stabbed a button with his finger. “Nope. You’re too late.”

  For once, Hardie thought, he’d pushed back. Show those evil, sneaky, let’s-control-the-world bastards he was a guy who couldn’t be messed with.

  Shit. It was almost a new lease on life.

  But then Hardie glanced over at the rows of sensors and controls. Lights he had never seen before were blinking urgently. Stern little warning tones were going bonkers, like a GPS unit that believed you were about to drive into a superhighway column. He’d never seen the spacecraft do anything like this before.

  Sabotage, Hardie thought. Damn it, the lookalike prick had sabotaged him! Hardie wondered if he should try to report this to someone, but of course communication only worked in one direction. They could talk to him; he couldn’t say jack shit to them.

  And his pre-launch question-and-answer session hadn’t covered this contingency. Okay, let’s just say I’m really soft-brained after all of those months in orbit, and I, you know, kinda accidentally let someone board the craft who looks just like me, even though you told me not to do that, under any circumstances, no matter who it may be, including my dead grandmother, John Lennon, or Mahatma Gandhi … but I do, and then this guy makes the craft go all haywire … um, what do I do then?

  Meanwhile Hardie began to become aware of a muffled sound. Words. A specific pattern being repeated over and over again. It was faint, but that was only because it was coming from the sealed gun tube.

  You, Hardie thought. What in the blue blazes do you want?

  That the murmuring was the same string of repeated words led Hardie to believe that his double had something specific to share and wasn’t just telling him how he was going to rip off his head if he ever got out of the gun tube alive.

  What else could he do? Information was power, after all. Hardie went over to the control panel near the tube and stabbed the audio button with a finger.

  The message came screaming through the speaker:

  “—our reentry sequence!”

  A pause, then the full message again:

  “I’ve already started our reentry sequence!”

  Oh.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  Hard.

  9

  Do you know how they say “Fuck You” in this business? “Trust me.”

  —Liam Neeson, The Dead Pool

  THIS IS NOT going at all how you planned. Or how your handlers planned. Who can plan for a force of living mayhem like Charles D. Hardie? You might as well try to plan for earthquakes or spontaneous combustion.

  Making things worse—at least in your own head—is the knowledge that you are the world’s leading expert on all things Charlie Hardie, since you look just like him and have studied him so intensely. You should have called this sequence of events, right?

  And now you are inside a steel tube that very soon will eject itself from the main spacecraft and you will tumble to your death. Fortunately, you’ll most likely pass out from the intense heat as the tube starts to smash into the earth’s atmosphere. Just like falling asleep in a tanning booth, you tell yourself.

  This doesn’t help.

  So instead you do the only thing you can: try to appeal to Charlie Hardie’s compassionate side.

  The man has one. You’ve studied it. You’ve seen it in real life. On the run from the LAPD, Charlie Hardie risked everything to double back and go into a fire
to save a family of four—TV star Jonathan Hunter, his wife, his son, his daughter. Risked everything—saved them, too—only to get his ass shot. He nearly drowned, and was abducted and drugged and put in a trunk and sent to a secret prison in the middle of nowhere and …

  Well, suffice it to say that he knows all about risking everything to help total strangers.

  You need him to feel the same compassion now. Granted, Jonathan Hunter didn’t beat the living shit out of him inside a steel tube floating in space. Okay, so maybe compassion was a bit much to expect.

  Brains, though … Charlie Hardie was smarter than he looked. And even a man with a low-wattage intellect had to appreciate that killing you wouldn’t do a thing to save the Hardie family …

  Killing his clone wouldn’t do a thing to help his family.

  If he sabotaged the craft, maybe he could be forced to unsabotage it.

  Hardie yanked open the hatch, mashing the knuckles of his right hand in the process. Gah, crap, hell. The pain centers of his entire arm lit up. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with. He grabbed one of the machine-gun triggers with his left hand, then looked down at his duplicate. The Other Him was bracing himself against the sides of the tube with his arms and legs.

  “What did you do to the satellite?” Hardie asked.

  “I’ve already done it. I’ve initiated the reentry sequence. We’re going down.”

  “What …? Why? Why in the holy fuck would you do something like that?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” the Other Him said. “This has always been part of the plan, with or without your cooperation.”

  “Not going to lie to … I’ll seriously kill your ass dead if you don’t tell me how to stop it. And none of this let-me-back-up-into-the-main-craft shit. You tell me from there, and you tell me right now. If you don’t, I’m going to squeeze these triggers and spray you into little tiny chunks. I’ll make it hurt, too.”