by Gord Zajac
“Whenever I was in the field, I always secretly hoped you’d try attacking us. How I longed to see you—to meet you face-to-face. To see for myself the infamous Major Karnage on the battlefield. I was sure it would be brilliant. But we never got that moment, did we? We were never allowed to share that spotlight. They brought an end to it all, didn’t they? Stopped the music, turned up the lights, and told us all to go home. But they didn’t really let us go home, did they, Major?
“Once the Nagasaki Treaties were signed and World Peace fell upon the Earth, I knew it was only a matter of time before they turned their backs on us. I could feel it in the air. It was palpable. So I slipped away—went into hiding before they could make me disappear. And I was right: they did make it all disappear.”
“Every battleship,” the first Patrick said.
“Every missile,” said the second.
“Every tank, pistol, and soldier,” the third one said.
“Gone,” the second one said.
“Right down to the last bullet,” added the first.
“It didn’t take them long to realize that they had acted rashly,” Mayhem went on. “That they still had a need for us. But they couldn’t admit that they were wrong. They had a reputation to uphold.”
“They were the saviours of the human race,” the first Patrick said.
“World Peace,” said the second.
“And all that,” said the third.
“And yet,” Mayhem continued, “there were still insurgents to eliminate. Rebellions to be quelled. Assassinations to be carried out. And who better to fulfil those needs than good old General Mayhem? I found I was able to contract out my services and expertise on a freelance basis—discreetly, of course. They had no idea who I really was.”
“They didn’t want to know,” the first Patrick said.
“They preferred not to ask,” said the second.
“And we preferred not to tell them,” said the third.
“If they had ever known my true identity,” Mayhem explained, “they would have locked me away for sure. Just as they did you. We’re terribly inconvenient for them, aren’t we, Major? A reminder of how savage the human race can become—and how noble that savagery can be. It’s easy to point to violence and blame it for all the world’s ills. But in hands like ours, violence isn’t simply a mindless force of destruction. It is performance art. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“No,” Karnage said.
“Your lips say no,” the first Patrick said.
“But your eyes say yes,” said the second.
“You understand my meaning precisely,” said the third.
Mayhem smiled impishly. “And that is what makes you so brilliant.”
“What do you want, Mayhem?”
“I wish for you to share in my glory, Major,” Mayhem said. “To offer you an opportunity.”
“An opportunity of a lifetime,” the first Patrick said.
“A partnership,” the second one said.
“A partnership like no other,” said the third.
Mayhem gestured towards the three Patricks. “I appreciate the tact you’ve shown in not asking about my ‘comrades.’ They are the keystone to the structure of my entire organization. Right before the blight of World Peace fell upon the earth, my top scientists were hard at work on a militarized variation of cloning technology.”
“Human bio-engineering.” Karnage looked over the three smiling Patricks. “That’s a direct violation of military ordinance number 778A5-3.”
Mayhem waved him off. “Yes, yes, of course it is. But you of all people should understand the need to occasionally bend the rules in the name of the greater good.”
“That doesn’t mean experimentin’ on your own men,” Karnage barked.
“Of course not,” Mayhem said. “And I did nothing of the sort. I was the sole test subject. And as you can see, the results were astounding. We learned to accelerate the growth rate. Discovered how to implant memories, emotions . . .”
“Experiences,” the first Patrick said.
“All of human consciousness,” said the second.
“The very soul,” said the third.
Mayhem motioned to his clones. “What you see standing before you are not merely carbon copies of myself. They are me.”
“We are me,” the first one said.
“So very me,” the second said.
“Delightfully me,” said the third.
“Why do they keep repeating you like that?” Karnage said.
“They can’t help it,” Mayhem said. The clones nodded.
“We can’t,” the first one said.
“It’s instinct,” said the second.
“Completely involuntary,” said the third.
“The consciousness transfer creates a permanent link between the clones and the host,” Mayhem said. “In essence, we share one mind.”
“One mind,” said the first.
“And many bodies,” said the second.
“So very many bodies,” said the third.
“So if I were to get up and kick one of you in the nuts,” Karnage said, “you’d all double over in pain?”
“It’s not quite like that, Major,” Mayhem said. “While we are cognizant of the others’ thoughts and experiences, we are still individuals. We are more an interconnected network of minds and experiences. A hive mind, if you like. While each of us is a thinking individual, we are connected to a greater whole. And that whole is so much greater than any individual part.”
Like the squidbugs, Karnage thought. “Why are you telling me all this, Mayhem? What the hell does all this have to do with me?”
Mayhem clapped his hands together in delight. “Why, everything, Major!”
“Everything,” said the first.
“Everything,” said the second.
“Everything,” said the third.
“I am dying,” Mayhem said. “Once I die, my reign will come to an end. My clones will live on, of course. They will live out their natural lifespan, and eventually die out as well. And my empire will die with them.”
“Why not just clone the clones?” Karnage said.
Mayhem shook his head. “I have tried, but . . . errors pop up in the process.”
The clones shook their heads in unison.
“Artifacts,” said the first.
“Mutations,” said the second.
“It’s not pretty,” said the third.
Mayhem’s eyes sparkled. “But that is where you come in, Major. I wish for you to become my successor. To take up the mantle, and take this organization boldly into the next century.”
Karnage’s eyes goggled. “Are you kidding me?”
Mayhem shook his head. “Oh no, Major.”
“We’re very serious,” said the first.
“Quite serious,” said the second.
“Couldn’t be more serious if we tried,” said the third.
“But what about the invasion? The squidbugs?”
Mayhem waved him off. “The players may change, but the game always stays the same. There will always be a need for our services.” Mayhem tapped a finger against his lips. “We will change your name, of course. Perhaps introduce you to our clients as a new partner. Call you John, perhaps.”
“What do you think?” said the first.
“Too on the nose?” said the second.
“We could come up with a more clever nom d’espionage, if you like,” said the third.
“So you’re just gonna clone me and take me out and pretend I’m somebody else, and you don’t think anybody out there is gonna recognize me?!”
“Of course they would—if we sent you. But we wouldn’t be sending you out on assignments.” Mayhem motioned to the cargo container door. The Patricks opened it, and a silhouetted figure stood on the threshold. “We would be sending him.”
Karnage stared at the figure. It was Karnage, thirty years younger. He had dark black hair where Karnage’s was grey. Smooth supple skin where Karn
age’s was scarred and wrinkled. He was Karnage in his prime.
Karnage’s clone walked into the cargo container, squinting into the darkness. He looked as bewildered as Karnage felt. He wore a chauffeur outfit like the Patricks. Karnage recognized the wary look in his eyes, the stillness in his body, the deceptive looseness in his limbs. He could sense the clone’s nervous energy.
Karnage’s stomach dropped. He could sense more than the clone’s energy in the room: he could sense him. As soon as the container doors had opened, it had felt like someone had cracked open a tiny door in his mind. Thoughts and emotions were flowing down through it. The presence of this clone was slowly cutting into Karnage’s brain like a knife through a roast. He could feel the presence of the clone’s thoughts inside his own. It made him want to throw up. The clone felt the same. They looked at each other, both horrified to realize they were sharing the same feelings of surprise and confusion.
They both turned to Mayhem. “What gives you—”
“—the right?!”
The two Karnages looked at each other in shock.
“Stop that,” Karnage said.
“Stop that.” The clone said barely a half-second behind. “I said stop it!”
“I said stop it!”
They both rounded on Mayhem.
“You’re mad!” Karnage strained at his bonds.
“You’re fucking mad!” The clone Karnage tried to charge at Mayhem. The Patricks grabbed him, holding him back.
Mayhem nodded eagerly, looking from the younger Karnage to the older. “It’s a mad world we’re living in, isn’t it, Major? Where great men like us are forced down into the sewers of society, while the vermin scuttle up into gleaming corner offices and heap riches and accolades upon themselves. This is your chance to grab a piece of that for yourself. We’ll show these fools what real power is. I’ll even give you top billing.”
“Karnage & Mayhem,” said the first.
“Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” said the second.
“Like an old vaudeville routine,” said the third.
“Karnage & Mayhem: One Night Only,” the second one shouted.
“Held over due to popular demand,” cried the first.
“We can’t exactly hang that on a sign out front,” Mayhem said, “but it can be our own private little joke. Karnage & Mayhem: together at last! Oh, how we’ll laugh. We’ll laugh at those bastards’ expense.” Mayhem grew more intense. “We’ll laugh and we’ll laugh . . .” Mayhem’s face contorted with rage. “We’ll laugh until their blood is running in the streets!”
Mayhem fell into a coughing fit. He grasped for the oxygen mask on his chest and placed it over his mouth, sucking greedily. The Patricks picked up on his mania.
“In the streets!” the first cried.
“All of them!” the second shouted.
“They’ll pay!” cried the third.
Mayhem stopped coughing, and beamed. “I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted,” he said.
“Give you time to get to know yourself,” said the first.
“To discuss your options,” said the second.
“Who knows?” the third one said. “You just might start to see yourself in a new light.”
Mayhem spun his wheelchair around and left. Once he had passed safely through the door, the three Patricks let go of the Karnage clone and pushed him into the room. Karnage felt his clone’s rage at this treatment. The Patricks filed out the door. The last of them turned back a moment. “Please, feel free to take your time,” he said.
There was a loud metal clank as he shut and locked the door.
CHAPTER TWO
The two Karnages eyed each other suspiciously.
“So,” the old one said, “you’re me.”
“And you’re me,” the young one said. “Apparently.”
The old one could feel the young one’s scepticism. “You don’t believe them.”
“Would you?” The young one leaned against the container wall. “Shit, one second I’m fallin’ through space thinkin’ I’m gonna die. The next I’m wakin’ up in some kinda goddamn lab full of these Patrick monkeyfuckers, all gushin’ and gawkin’ and sayin’, ‘Hello, you.’ Christ, it’s enough to make a man sick. And then they’re makin’ me look in a mirror and . . . well, shit, look at me. I’m fuckin’ young again. All handsome and clean shaven and got all my hair and none of its grey—and I’m wonderin’ what these crazy monkeyfuckers have done to me, and they’re tryin’ to tell me that I’m some kinda goddamn clone! And then I hear this voice in my head sayin’ that these Patricks are all General Mayhem, and suddenly I can see the resemblance and I figure for sure I must be dreamin’, but the Patricks keep tellin’ me I’m not, and then they start pushin’ me across the lab sayin’ ‘This way, this way’ and they stick me in here and . . .” The young one looked down at the old one.
“And here I am,” the old one said.
“And here you are.” The young one ripped off the chauffeur’s cap and loosened his collar. “I feel like a goddamn monkey in this thing.”
He eyed the old one’s straitjacket enviously.
They stared at each other, wondering what the other was thinking, trying to ignore the presence in their head that they knew was the other’s thoughts. They could feel each other’s suspicions: the distrust. It made it that much harder to voice them. Why articulate what doesn’t have to be said? They were thinking separately and yet the same. They could almost see themselves through each other’s eyes, a kind of double vision that made them both a little nauseous. They tried to block it out.
“What’s your assessment of General Mayhem?” the old one said, pretending he didn’t already know the answer.
“Batshit insane,” the young one said, pretending that the old one didn’t already know.
“You know what we have to do,” the old one said. The young one nodded. “We have to get out of here.”
“We have to save our troops,” the old one said.
“Cookie.”
“Velasquez.”
“Heckler.”
“Stumpy.”
“Koch.”
“Sydney.” They were both surprised at how their hearts had jumped slightly at the mention of her name. They looked at each other.
“We have to get back to Dabneyville,” the young one said. “We have to stop the squidbugs,” the old one said. They grew quiet. The sounds of their joined thoughts filled the silence. Dark things spiralled and swirled in their consciousness. Things that couldn’t be spoken, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to help anyone. Not even themselves.
The old one spoke. “You know we can’t live like this.”
The young one nodded. “It’s too much.”
“One of us has to die,” the old one said.
They looked at each other, then spoke at the same time: “It should be me.”
“Oh come off it, Major,” the young one said. “You’re the original. I’m just a copy. You should be the one to live.”
“That’s a load of horse shit and you know it. You’re just as much me as I am. Maybe even more so: you’re me in my prime. I’m me on my deathbed. Old and worn out like a broken-down race horse. You’re a goddamn thoroughbred. Not an ache in your body. Don’t act like I don’t know, cuz you know I fucking well know—and I wish I didn’t know, but too bad, because I do!”
The young one scowled. He balled up his fists. “It ain’t right.”
“None of it’s right,” the old one said. “We shouldn’t both be here. We didn’t ask for this. But here we are. We gotta assess the situation, and the situation is clear. You got the youth, the vitality, the experience . . .” The old one couldn’t bring himself to finish his thought.
The young one looked up, and finished it for him. “. . . and I got no Sanity Patch.”
The old one nodded. “That’s right. You don’t.”
The young one stood up. He smoothed down the front of his uniform, and nodded.
“You do us proud out there,” the old one said.
The young one saluted his older self. “You sure as hell bet I will.”
“Good. We got that settled. Now how do we get you out of here?” The old one said.
The young one jerked his thumb at the door. “Looks like the lab is in some kind of hangar. All kinds of tubes and tanks and cloning shit everywhere.”
The old one saw the picture the young one was bringing up in his mind.
“And hardware,” the old one said.
The young one nodded. “Military hardware.”
“Buncha hoverball flightpacks along one wall.”
“Right by that open skylight.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Now there’s a stupid question.”
“It may be stupid, but I’ll be fucked if we don’t try and have a conversation like real people, and not like . . .”
The young one looked towards the door. “Not like them.”
“I’ll distract Mayhem,” the old one said.
“Really piss him off,” the young one said.
“To get the attention of all of ’em,” the old one said.
“I’ll get to the flightpacks.”
“Head for the skylight.”
“Get the hell outta here.”
“Get to Dabneyville.”
“Defeat the squidbugs.”
“Find my troops.”
“Find Sydney.”
“Do you know how you’re going to do it yet?” the old one said. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
“No,” the young one said, “but I’ll figure it out.”
The old one looked over the young one. “Yeah, you will.”
The young one reached down and shook the old one’s hand. The touch was electric. They pulled away from each other, and nodded.
“Good luck, Major,” the old one said. He wanted to salute.
The young one saluted for him.
“Good luck, Major,” he said.