Cloud Rebel: R-D 3

by Connie Suttle

  I'm sure that the real Phillips and the real Askins would have been doing a jig about her demise, but I took satisfaction in the fact that they'd died before she did. I was now worried about their clones, wherever and however many of those there were.

  I'd like to see her body first, before it's placed on display in the capitol rotunda, I sent to the President.

  A slight shake of his head negated my request.

  All of us were invited to sit while the plans for a state funeral were made.

  * * *

  Personal Record

  Lendill Schaff

  "Why do they call this the ugly building in Arlington?" Norian asked after our introduction to Justin Griffin. He was tall-taller than Norian, with dusty-blond hair, blue eyes and a ready smile.

  "I didn't name it," Justin flashed a grin. "Want coffee?"

  Mack, the werewolf who'd transported us to and from the facility in Nevada, snickered as he helped himself to a cup of the dark brew.

  "Do you have tea?" I asked.

  "We do." Justin turned to retrieve a cup from the cabinet behind him. In seconds, a cup of fragrant tea was brewing in front of me while Norian accepted a cup of coffee.

  "We've been reassigned as your transportation crew," Justin said. "Gavin thinks the enemy may be planning an attack from multiple fronts."

  "Gavin?"

  "You haven't met him," Mack said, his dark eyes glinting with humor. "Old. Vampire. Grumpy. Need I say more?"

  "No, thank you," I pulled the small tea bag from my cup and sipped. "Good," I nodded. I only knew about vampires because my father had taught me about them. Werewolves, too. I felt comfortable with the young werewolf who stood nearby. A vampire could be another story.

  "My dad's a vampire," Justin grinned, causing me to choke on my tea.

  Rather than ask how it was possible for a creature that was sterile by nature to have fathered anyone, I apologized for coughing and went back to my tea.

  "Did the vampire happen to say where these multiple fronts could originate?" Norian tasted the coffee and stopped for a moment to determine whether he liked it or not. "This is good," he acknowledged.

  "I put cream and sugar in it," Justin said. "It's how I started drinking it years ago. Now I just avoid wasting time and take it black."

  "Gavin doesn't know exactly where the attacks will originate, he just expects them to come from multiple directions," Mack shrugged. "It's what he would do, if he were in charge. Divide the enemy-that's what he said."

  "The first attack could be the weakest," Justin nodded as he lifted his coffee cup. "It will draw our attention while they plan to hit us harder elsewhere, in more strategic and vulnerable spots."

  "What does a vampire know about strategy?" Norian played the skeptic.

  "Well, he was in the Roman army back in the day, if you're familiar with this planet's history. Then, he was the Vampire Council's elite assassin for a long time before he became what he is now."

  "An assassin?" I lifted an eyebrow at Justin's remark.

  "The best they had," Justin grinned again.

  "Perhaps he will consider working for the ASD after this," Norian suggested.

  Mack and Justin burst out laughing. While I failed to understand exactly what they found so humorous, I couldn't help but smile.

  * * *

  Captain Brett Walker

  Jen and I had gone out with Captain Finch the day before. We examined the Snow Cat used to launch the missiles responsible for the blast site in Quebec.

  The vehicle was a burned ruin, now.

  The identification numbers had been destroyed before the vehicle was used for its final purpose, although we did find wires and a metal box, which didn't belong. "That remote controlled," Bekzi nodded toward the remains of the box I'd set on the kitchen island. My job was to look through it for any type of identifying markers, which could lead us to its maker or seller.

  "Yeah," I shook my head. "I'm looking for something that could tell us where it originated."

  "Look for reason these so intent to catch Sergei. Katya. Friends of Sergei and Katya," he responded.

  I know I stared at him for several moments while that germinated in my brain. "Good question," I said eventually. "I don't have an answer."

  "Think I do," Bekzi murmured. "Need to see Corinne and Valegar."

  "What's going on?" Dr. Farrell walked into the kitchen. "No worry," Bekzi said. "We looking at remote control device," he nodded to the pile of junk in front of me. For some reason, he didn't want to talk to Farrell about what he and I had just discussed.

  That concerned me, and I was already concerned greatly about Dr. Richard Farrell.

  * * *

  Corinne

  I spent the afternoon listening to people talking about the matched black horses to pull the caisson carriage at the funeral, plus the one to be used as the riderless, caparisoned horse.

  It hit me then-so hard I wanted to destroy the Oval Office with the buildup of energy coursing through my body. We shouldn't even be talking about this. It shouldn't have happened. Everything the drug touched had been adversely affected.

  Dearest, excuse yourself, came from Val. You must release your anger elsewhere.

  I didn't excuse myself. Instead, I left a replica of myself sitting in the Oval Office while I folded space. I needed a place where I could scream my lungs out.

  Neaboria was beautiful, wild and uninhabited except by plants. It bore the brunt of my anger as I shouted at people, most of whom were already dead.

  For the first time, too, after I'd finished shouting where none took note, I returned to the Oval Office and replaced my mock-up with myself, with nobody the wiser.

  * * *

  Graye

  I have to attend the funeral-there is no way around that. I have to pretend to mourn, too, when I feel nothing. I was forever saddled with the name Graye Sanders, when I would have preferred something else.

  He says it will open doors for me. I didn't ask him which doors he meant. I feel his answer will be political in nature; therefore, I do not wish to know.

  I understand he is not former President Phillips-he is only an echo of the one who was. Hal worshipped the original. Always said he was a genius. Regardless, he is dead and a shadow takes his place.

  I worry that this one may not possess the genius of the original. I worry that all our deaths could come as a result.

  He says not to worry-that all will be well and we will take the country back.

  I wanted to tell him we already had much of it while Amelia Sanders occupied the White House. The wealthy moved and spent at our command. Armies and assassins followed our instructions. The people were oblivious. I failed to understand why this pretender thought it necessary to stand in the full light of day and open himself to possible criticism.

  After all, if you make a target of yourself, someone will surely aim in your direction.

  So much better to be the force behind the target, allowing them to take direct hits while you remain safe.

  Yes, some would say that is cowardly.

  I call it wisdom.

  Hal and my assistant had taught me well.

  Just get through the funeral, he said. Afterward, you may hide as much as you like. I will deal with everything past that point.

  I told him that's exactly what I wanted.

  "Your tea, sir," my assistant handed the cup and saucer to me. I accepted and thanked him before I drank.

  * * *

  Notes, Colonel Hunter

  "Matt Michaels is on the phone," James appeared in my doorway. I'd barely seen my office in several days, yet here was another interruption.

  "I'll take it," I said, lifting the receiver of my desk phone. Briefly, I wondered why he hadn't bothered to call my cell. This call could be recorded.

  I learned quickly that recording it was exactly what he wanted.

  "We need to get to Bethesda," he said. "They found something in the autopsy."

  "What the hell?"
I demanded.

  "I'm telling you I just got a call, and they found something. Looks like Madam President may not have died of natural causes."

  "Bloody hell," I cursed as I stood. "Fucking, bloody hell."

  Chapter 12

  Corinne

  I told them they should let me see the body. The answer was no. At least they wouldn't have been punched in the stomach with the news that a heart-attack inducing drug had been administered to Madam President, or that fingers were now pointing at Graye Sanders, if they had.

  "I think this was their plan," Matt muttered as President Granville and I walked into the meeting room at the hospital. "She only had a year left during this term, so of course they're going to put someone forward who'll promise the country whatever it takes to get elected."

  "And that someone will either be a Phillips clone or someone else with a Phillips clone's hand up his ass," I huffed.

  "Dearest, remain calm," Val appeared from nowhere.

  "So they're looking to discredit me however they can," the President said, sitting heavily on a chair and pulling it toward the standard, rectangular, brown, faux-wood meeting table.

  "It looks that way," Matt agreed. "Whether it's foreign policy or some other, domestic debacle of their creation, they'll be aiming in your direction."

  "When did elections become all-out wars?" Auggie asked. "Not just political, but physical, too?"

  Nobody replied.

  "What evidence do they have against Graye?" Granville asked.

  "Nothing yet, but the timing, according to the forensic pathologists who've calculated the drug's path through her system, says the only person who had access to her at the proper time would be Graye-while they were alone in the bedroom. FBI is combing through the residence now, looking for proof."

  Val squeezed my hand and led me to the table, where we both sat. He didn't want me to explode again, and I wanted to. I wanted to yell at Auggie and Granville both, for not allowing me the time or giving me permission to see Madam President's body.

  "You know what," I stood and snapped at both of them. "Nefrigar is right. I don't answer to either of you." I disappeared before Val could stop me. My destination was the autopsy lab, and I appeared there while shielding myself from those present.

  Yes, I felt ill at the sight of her body lying open on a table, but I could see her face below the opened skull.

  I saw her final moments as Graye bent over her. The word why was on her lips as she died.

  I needed to see Graye Sanders, and I needed to see him immediately. Somehow, I understood that the task could prove impossible-if my suspicions were correct, he was already dead.

  * * *

  "The note was found in his bedroom," the Phillips clone said during the interview. The President, just like the rest of us, was learning of Graye Sanders' death through an interview on the news instead of from more official sources.

  "We have a copy of the note," the journalist claimed. "The original has been turned over to the FBI."

  "When?" Granville exploded. "I've gotten no word of that."

  "Sir," a Secret Service agent stepped to the President's side and handed a cell phone to him. "FBI Director on the line."

  "Right." Granville rose and walked into the hall to answer.

  The rest of us, along with the entire country, were exposed to the suicide note at the same time, in which Graye Sanders admitted killing his wife because, in his words, she'd told him she wanted a divorce after her term was up.

  "I had no idea he had a gun," the Phillips clone wiped imaginary tears away. "No idea."

  "Coming up next, we have two psychologists who deal with suicidal patients, and the Director of the National Suicide Hotline," the female journalist declared.

  "Fuck," I muttered.

  "Cabbage?"

  Ilya had come. He sat on one side while Val had the other.

  "I'm okay," I held up a hand. "I've already had one screaming fit today. I can put this one off until tomorrow."

  "We must speak with Bekzi later," Val said. "Your Ilya must come, too."

  "This doesn't sound good." I leaned back with a sigh and closed my eyes. "Make it go away," I whispered.

  "Dearest, I cannot," Val said softly.

  * * *

  Former President Phillips' home

  Alexandria, Virginia

  "At least the snoopers are gone, now," the one posing as President Phillips sighed. "They looked through everything. We left nothing to chance-all will be as it appears, that Graye Sanders took his own life. I also appreciate your arrival on such short notice."

  "It is nothing-you know I will support you no matter what," the Merle Askins clone nodded. "I am available to you at any time-you must understand this."

  "I'm beginning to see that, but I worry that I rely on you too much."

  "I feel we will have need of our slave," Askins jerked his head toward the wizard in the corner. "I wish we had more like him, but that will not be, I fear."

  "Why can't we have others? I have been informed of the drug's use. I know how you brought me back from death, now."

  "It must be the blood of an original survivor," Askins insisted. "We have taken this one's blood many times, and it does nothing." He jerked his head toward the captive wizard, who sat at a corner table, his hands shackled firmly to its steel surface.

  "We keep attempting to find the original. He eludes us, as does his daughter and her husband. Our men failed to get information from Sergei while they had him-and he disappeared after his rescue. We imagined that tracking his friends would lead us to him, or at least bring him to investigate their deaths, but that effort has proven fruitless. What do you suggest we do now?"

  "Are you sure there is no more blood to be had from the original?" the Phillips clone asked, his expression thoughtful.

  "I am sure. There was precious little of it in the beginning. When Becker escaped, he brought what he could with him. The rest was destroyed with the mansion. I wish we had her blood," Askins said. He'd read all the notes concerning Corinne Watson. Before her death, she'd performed near-miracles.

  "It was destroyed inadvertently, when they thought her worthless," Phillips snorted. "According to Becker, before his death. I've read the reports, too, if you remember."

  "We learned never to send all our clones against an enemy at the same time," Askins noted. "The Becker clones are all dead, just like the original."

  "I hear there is no available information as to who cleared out the Nevada facility. I hoped to find at least a few grains of the drug. Nothing remains. Both our caches were destroyed. If any exists, the Americans have it."

  "Too bad Farrell is dead. He likely had some hidden for his own experiments."

  "And as a result of his death, we may never find it."

  "My question is this-why has the original not displayed any of the talents of our wizard?"

  "My guess is that whatever prevents the manifestation of talent in the original may have been voided when this one suffered a blow to the head shortly after receiving the blood. He was quite combative, you understand. He is a docile slave, now, thanks to our intervention."

  "Surely we could remove the chains?"

  "We will take no chances with this one. He is too important, and the one whose blood he received-he can kill with only his hands."

  "Ah. We will keep him chained, then."

  * * *

  Corinne

  Bekzi didn't come to us-we went to him. I really didn't want to go back to Canada, mostly because Finch and Farrell were there, but Val thought it necessary, so there we went.

  Neither Finch nor Farrell liked it that they were locked out of the meeting between us and Bekzi, but I really didn't care how either of them felt. Val studied Finch as he complained, but said nothing.

  In my opinion, Finch had either been born without tact, or sold what little he had through an online auction service. Either way, he didn't possess that necessary ingredient and it showed.

  Nathan s
hook his head behind Finch before leaving the room. I sent mindspeech to him when he left, telling him to hide for the next half hour. If he didn't, he'd be hearing all of Finch's current complaints, most of which centered on aliens and their secrets.

  Once the study door was closed and Val placed a shield about the room, Bekzi began. To say that I was shocked and dismayed by his theory would be putting things in terms too mild for contemplation.

  "I'm going to kill Farrell, and then go back and spit on Becker's body," I snapped when Bekzi laid out his hypothesis that there was at least one more Ilya somewhere.

  Ilya, his face stony, listened carefully to everything Bekzi had to say.

  "With warlock and Sirenali, they have transportation and shield," Bekzi said.

  "But warlocks have to have their talent awakened," Val began.

  "Look-your archives," Bekzi said. "At least three in past, have brain damage. Out pops ability. Two-murderers. One-she make dolls. Scare children. Adults, too."

  "All three are long dead," Nefrigar appeared in our midst. It was obvious that Val had either sent information or allowed his father to see and hear through his senses.

  "Here's my thinking-if they had him tied down, and they probably did," I began slowly, "the Ilya I know would have woke fighting. If somebody bludgeoned him to keep him from getting away," I shrugged.

  "Then that explains how some of them may have evaded the army of Lyristolyi sent to kill them," Val agreed. "He knows how to fold space, now. No telling what else he knows."

  "And it's likely that he's obsessed, on top of everything else. My question is this," I said. "How much power does he actually have?"

  "There is a way to find out," Nefrigar said. "But it will require opening this one's power to find the level of potential."

  "I don't want," Ilya began.

  "It matters not what you want," a man appeared as if he'd been called. I blinked at him. I'd read about him in the Archives. Erland Morphis, father of Rylend Morphis, King of Karathia in the future, had arrived.

  "Don't worry, it's not painful, or even scary, although I've known six-year-olds who've lost their breakfast because the older ones told them frightening stories," Erland smiled.