Hammer of Angels

by G T Almasi

  “Fredericks raised me,” he pants.

  “That’s impossible! I’d know if my father had given RUACH permission to clone him.”

  “Not RUACH.” His voice croaks around my choke hold. “I’m from ARI.”

  “You can’t be. ARI was shut down—” I hesitate. “Unless…”

  The punk nods his head a little but doesn’t say anything.

  “No…” I whisper, “unless Fredericks kept it going as a—”

  “Skunk project, yes.”

  I let go of his throat but keep my gun aimed at his jabber hole. I fish around his left side and remove a pistol from his holster. His stomach and chest heave under me while he gulps in a few breaths.

  “How old are you?” I demand.

  “Seventeen,” he says.

  “How do I know you’re not a German plant?”

  “This morning I shot five Purity Leaguers for you.”

  “So what?”

  “Can I get up?”

  I have no idea what to do with this guy. Normally I’d ice him, but he has helped me—twice in one day. This kid had two golden opportunities to shoot me dead, and he didn’t.

  If he’d been speed-grown in Carbon’s Gen-2, he’d appear a little older and act a lot younger. So let’s say he really is seventeen years old. I suppose Carbon could have acquired cell samples from my bad-ass father seventeen or more years ago and produced Falcon in Gen-1. But the Germans have plenty of their own bad-asses for that sort of thing.

  My dad is in Carbon’s Gen-3 for what he can offer mentally, not physically. If Falcon were—through an incredible fucking miracle—a Gen-3 clone of my father, the kid wouldn’t merely look and sound like him, he’d be him. And trust me, Falcon isn’t him. There’s no way in hell Dad’s bombastic Greek parents created the personality I see before me. No one from that family would ever be so composed while being assaulted like this.

  I climb off the kid. Li’l Bertha remains ready, but in a less menacing way. “Okay, Falcon, what’s your deal? What do you want?”

  He slowly stands up. He’s dressed in blue jeans, short black boots, and a black leather jacket over a dark gray hooded sweatshirt. “Maybe I should tell you on the way.”

  “Way where?”

  “Anywhere but here. We can take my motorcycle.” Falcon nods his chin toward the checkpoint. A police car has arrived, and my smoke-bomb victims are on their feet.

  “Fine.” I holster Li’l Bertha. “But you ride bitch.”

  We saddle up, and I steer us onto the highway. I crank the throttle over, and his bike whisks us away. I keep our speed reasonable so I can ask Falcon again who he is and where he came from. His story chills me even more than the winter air we’re riding through.

  Falcon is a product of the supposedly defunct Asexual Reproduction Initiative. I already knew this program was closed because they used genetic material from an off-limits minor. What’s news to me is the cell sample that grew Falcon was stolen from ExOps’s medical offices—two years after ARI was canceled.

  This explains where ARI’s old equipment went. All that kaboodle was going to be transferred to the new American cloning program, Reproduction Using Asexual Cloning Heuristics, to continue cloning research. However, the moral and legal realities of cloned humans were so convoluted that Congress simply gave up and limited RUACH’s charter to shepherding ARI’s offspring through their childhoods. The Asexual Reproduction Initiative was packed up—lock, stock, and barrel—then stuffed in a government warehouse under the desert outside Phoenix.

  During the probe of ExOps’s notorious moles, the Office of Security investigators traced some of their activity to that warehouse. All the ARI gear was missing, but who knows how long it had been gone? Now, having met Falcon, I’d say Fredericks swiped it within a year or two of ARI’s demise. Plenty of time to establish his own personal cloning program.

  Fredericks, as the Front Desk of ExOps’s German Section, had full access to his agents’ medical profiles and lab samples, including Dad’s. What on earth Fredericks thought he was doing is beyond me. For now it’s all I can do to wrap my head around a universe that includes this young version of my father.

  I turn off the A10 and onto the A18. I accelerate to 200 kph to see what Falcon does. His arm around my waist tightens, but he keeps his cool and doesn’t say anything. The freezing wind makes my eyes water, so I slow down again. When I ask Falcon about Jakob Fredericks, he lets out a sharp breath.

  “He’s got stacks of incriminating files about everybody in Washington. They’re all scared to death of him. The man is absolutely batty, but nobody has the guts to bring him down.”

  “Has he always been crazy?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, maybe. He’s been a bastard all my life, but he gets more unhinged every year. He raves about you a lot.”

  Great.

  Talking on a motorcycle is a bit of a chore, so we stay quiet. Avoiding the checkpoints requires a series of creative detours. We cut down dark alleys, zigzag across parking lots, and sneak through people’s backyards. Once we even putt-putt through the lobby of a blocklong office building, waving at the flabbergasted guards like it was Candid Camera.

  I still don’t know if this kid is telling the truth or if he’s playing me. It’s probably best to keep him away from Marie’s place. Unless, of course, he already knows about it.

  “How much do you know about where I’m staying?”

  “You and Darwin have been crashing at Marie Van Daan’s house in Calais while you heal from wounds you suffered in London.”

  Fuck. If Falcon knows all this intel, he probably got it from Fredericks. “Was that you watching Marie’s house the other night?”

  “No, that was an amateur, using his own car. The dope even left his real plates on it.”

  Falcon takes his surveillance seriously. He even spies on the people who spy on the people he’s spying on.

  We wheel onto Marie’s street. I switch off the headlight, goose the engine, and then switch that off, too. We silently coast down the road and into Marie’s driveway. I drag my feet to stop the motorcycle so the brake light doesn’t come on. We hop off the bike. I walk it into the garage, leaving the door open since that’s how Marie left it. I unclip Falcon’s rifle case, tuck it under my arm, then lead the way into the unlit kitchen.

  Nobody’s home. Marie is still in Brussels, and her husband is away on business. We leave the lights off, and since Falcon doesn’t bump into anything, I assume he has the same vision Mods as me. I pitch his rifle up on top of the kitchen cabinets, then grab two bottles of Beck’s from the fridge while my brain tries to figure out what to do.

  Falcon cracks open his beer. He’s about to take a swig when he stops short. His eyes flit to one side, at the doorway to the living room. The kid silently puts his drink on the kitchen table, and—forgetting that I’ve disarmed him—reaches into his empty holster.

  I whip out Li’l Bertha and jab her at Falcon’s face. The young sniper freezes and holds his hands out with his fingers splayed. Then he very deliberately inclines his head toward the living room.

  Dammit, did this punk set me up?

  My system has absorbed a heavy dose of Madrenaline, so it’ll be nothing to ventilate him if he tries anything.

  But then, why would he tell me where they are?

  I wave my sidearm toward the other room. Move it. You first.

  Falcon slowly walks into the living room. I layer infrared over my night vision and follow him. A hot red blob hides behind the sofa. A long blue shape overlaps the red blob and clearly outlines an automatic weapon.

  I shout, “Hey, Peek-a-Boo! You’ve got one fucking second to put your hands up or I’ll—”

  “Scarlet?” The red figure lays the blue weapon on the floor. “Don’t shoot; it’s Victor. My gun’s down. I’m coming out.” He slowly rises. I shut off my vision Mods and flip on a light switch. We all cringe in the glaring brightness.

  “Vic, it is you! Where have you been?”

>   “It’s a long story.” Victor climbs from behind the sofa.

  “Why didn’t you comm that you were here?” I go to shake hands and only then realize I’m still holding my fucking beer.

  Victor smoothly lifts the bottle out of my grasp, winks at me, and takes a gurgling chug. “Ah-h-h, thanks.” He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “I’d have called ahead, but I found out the hard way that comm-sets aren’t waterproof.” He extends his hand toward Falcon. “Hello. I’m Victor Eisenberg.”

  The kid, who clearly recognizes the famous underground leader, recovers his wits enough to take his hand. “Uhh, hi. I’m Falcon.”

  “Hmm,” Victor says quietly, “another American. Very interesting.” He turns to me. “You look much better, Scarlet. How are your injuries?” While I answer him, he retrieves his weapon, an MP-52-S with a very nice scope, from behind the couch.

  We settle into the kitchen. I tell Victor what’s been happening around Calais. He almost dies laughing when he hears how I knocked out Kruppe with a wine bottle. He makes me repeat the part about the meeting at Thiepval, which Patrick already told me is a French town with a gigundous war memorial. While Victor ponders that, I tell him about the bombs we set off last night. He says he saw the wrecked department store on his way through downtown Calais earlier today. I finish with our rescue mission to Belgium.

  “So, Falcon,” Victor asks, “you’re new to the team?”

  “Falcon was there, Vic, but he isn’t ExOps.”

  A car’s headlights swing through the kitchen windows. The vehicle pulls into Marie’s driveway. I draw my sidearm, and all three of us crouch down low.

  Now what? Did Fredericks send these people, too?

  I hand signal to Falcon: You wait here.

  He frowns and holds his fingers out like a gun.

  I shake my head, “No way.” Then I whisper to Victor, “Can you cover me in case I need to fall back?”

  Victor nods and gently cocks his weapon.

  The driver pulls into the garage, shuts off the car’s engine, and douses the headlights. I dive into the garage, roll across the cement floor, and take cover below the vehicle’s hood. Doors open on both sides of the car. The interior dome light casts a dim glow.

  A woman’s voice asks, “Where did that motorcycle come from?”

  Wait a minute. The car is bright orange. Li’l Bertha’s targeting screen fills with the tired-looking face of my partner. It’s Brando and Marie.

  “Darwin, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  Both of them nearly jump out of their skins. Marie exclaims something in that weird language she speaks. Brando’s training allows him to resist saying anything, but he still instinctively hides behind his car door before he recognizes my voice.

  “Scarlet? Damn, you scared the crap out of me! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m supposed to be here, dummy.”

  “I mean, why are you lurking in the—” My partner spots Falcon in the doorway and switches in midsentence. “Who in blazes are you?”

  Falcon taps his ear and doesn’t answer. I get Brando’s attention and sign to him, Deactivate your commphone. Comm-code cracked.

  Brando’s eyes flare open. Being compromised like this is potentially catastrophic, but his more immediate concern is to find out who the new kid is.

  “Okay, it’s off,” Brando declares. “What the hell is going on?”

  34

  SAME EVENING, 8:49 P.M. CET

  CALAIS, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  I introduce Falcon to everybody and give Brando a recap of my evening. It sounds like a child telling her parent about a stray cat. This clone followed me home; can we keep him? He’s housebroken, plus he’s a terrific shot!

  My partner is very quiet. Anything to do with Fredericks is suspect. Falcon seems like he genuinely wants to escape the man’s clutches, but for all we know this kid has been secretly equipped with remote-controlled surveillance gear or a tracker or a bomb or something.

  Hmm, tracker.

  “Falcon,” I ask, “do you have a No-Jack installed?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t work with my commphone offline.”

  Brando continues glaring at Falcon but remains silent.

  Marie clears her throat. “I think I’ll go inside and let you people sort this out.” She switches on the garage’s overhead light, walks into her house, and closes the kitchen door. Then she screams.

  I run inside. Marie leans on the sink with her hand over her chest. “I’m all right,” she says breathlessly. “Victor surprised me, that’s all.”

  Victor earnestly apologizes to Marie for scaring her so badly.

  Jeez, what a night.

  Falcon and Brando follow me in from the garage.

  “Hey,” my partner exclaims, “Victor’s back.” He raises an eyebrow at me, “Anything else I should know?”

  “Yeah. There’s a well-dressed rabbit stuck in the chimney who says he’s late for tea.”

  “Wiseass.” Brando crosses the room and gives Victor one of those manly half-hug handshakes. “How are ya, Victor?”

  “I’m well, Darwin.” Victor puts a brotherly arm around Marie. “Have you been taking good care of Garbo?”

  Brando sits at the kitchen table and grabs Falcon’s bottle of Beck’s. “More like the other way around. She’s been awesome.”

  We all look at Marie. The attention makes her cheeks flush. “For goodness’ sakes, stop staring.” She bustles over to one of the cabinets. “It’s been quite an evening. How about I make us something to eat? Victor, can you reach that pan for me?”

  While the very important asset and the charismatic rebel leader set about cooking a late dinner, I pull up a chair next to my partner, who swigs beer and studies Falcon.

  “Wow, Scarlet, I can’t believe how much this kid resembles your dad.”

  I hit Brando’s upper arm with my watch. “No shit, Sherlock!”

  He winces and rubs his shoulder. Then he asks Falcon, “Hey, can you hack our commphones so we can use them locally without Fredericks tracking us?”

  Falcon shrugs. “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Okay, great.” Brando mulls this over for a few moments. “Falcon, would you excuse us? I need to talk to Scarlet.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll take a look outside.” Falcon flips his dark hood over his head and goes out to the garage. His silhouetted figure strolls down the driveway.

  Marie and Victor chat at the sink while they rinse vegetables. The water splishes and gurgles noisily down the drain.

  Patrick leads me into the living room, pulls me close, and lightly presses his lips against my ear. “Falcon could be from anywhere,” he whispers. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “Me neither, but he did help us out. And I think he really wants to escape from Fredericks’s skunko cloning program. Can’t say I blame him. What should we do?”

  “Normally I’d check in with HQ for direction, but if our comms are being intercepted, we have to stay offline and figure this out ourselves. I have no idea what the kid will do if we tell him to beat it. If he’s telling the truth, he’ll be on his own and really vulnerable. If he’s lying, then he’ll keep following us.”

  “Or,” I whisper, “we could punch his ticket and bury him in a bog.”

  My partner considers this, then shakes his head. “Let’s keep him with us—I mean, he’s already proved useful—but don’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know.” Patrick sighs. “Now that we’ve met Falcon, I’d say it was Fredericks who betrayed us in London. Which means we have to leave Calais tonight.”

  I nod in agreement. “Why did you come back from Brussels so soon?”

  “You didn’t answer my comms, and I was worried sick.” He takes one of my hands into his. “I thought something had happened to you.”

  I turn Patrick’s face toward me and kiss him. His tongue flicks against mine and fires twin bolts of electricity down the length of my body. The bolts ricochet off the carpet and shimmy up my le
gs until they meet at the tops of my thighs. I moan and have to push away before I commit international perversion right there in Marie’s parlor.

  I take a second to recover while we stare into each other’s eyes. Then I squeeze his hand. “We’d better go. Let’s bring Falcon inside and tell Marie and Victor we’re leaving.”

  While we pack our stuff, Falcon repairs Victor’s comm-set and reprograms our commphones to operate on a private network so no one else can hear us. I’ve been on the ExOps grid for years, and the moment I’m disconnected, it’s like the whole world goes quiet.

  It wasn’t until then that I asked my partner what made him think the kid could do this for us. Brando gave me a two-word answer: “Your dad.” He meant Falcon has inherited Dad’s technical aptitude and probably other things, too. I hope the poor kid didn’t pick up my father’s love of drinking himself insensible.

  Meanwhile, Marie goes into cooking overdrive. She won’t hear of us leaving empty-handed, and her experience with the Circle has taught her how to make very portable food that will keep without being refrigerated.

  The three of us gather in her kitchen and pile our backpacks on the table. Victor walks in from the garage and adds his field pack and ammo satchel to our luggage heap.

  “Uhh, Victor, sir,” Brando says, “we’re kind of on the lam. It might not be a great idea to come with us.”

  “Hah!” Victor’s voice booms. “Hunted? Cut off? On the run?” He spreads his arms out. “Welcome to my world.” His bright smile sweeps away much of the anxiety filling the room. “Besides, the Circle needs your help.”

  I glance over at Brando to see what he thinks. He shrugs and says, “Sure, why not? You know the region, and it fits our overall mission. Plus, it’s probably the last thing Fredericks will expect.”

  We pack Marie’s field rations into our bags. Then she hugs us all good-bye, even Falcon, who she just met. Marie gives me and Brando an extra hug each. “Good-bye, young ones. Thank you so much for your help today.”

  “Thank you, Garbo. We owe our lives to you.”

  “Pah, it was nothing. You are easy guests, and having you here made me feel safer than I have in years.” She pokes Victor in his chest. “Do not let anything happen to them, Herr Eisenberg.”