by G T Almasi
This Job Number to confiscate Fredericks’s secret cloning clubhouse has been led by the senior-most agent within arm’s reach of the mission planners. Her field name is Bo-Li. She’s a Level 15 Infiltrator from the Chinese Section. Bo-Li is a tiny thing, even shorter than me, but her impressive résumé packs more moxie than the Redskins’ front five. Her Stealth, Edged Weapons, and Close Combat skill ratings are all an unbelievable 20 out of 20.
Bo-Li’s oval face presents what seems to be a permanent mask of ironic detachment, like everyone is just another pain in her ridiculously small butt. I have no idea how old she is; she could be five or five thousand. Her intense dedication is overlaid by a placid, serene manner that still implies deafening annihilation if you don’t chop-chop.
Bo-Li has done a great job pulling this mission together. There’s been no wasted movement. All of her directions have found the absolute most efficient way to assemble the bunch of us out here in Poisonburg.
The lab’s perimeter has been secured by our support squad of six unenhanced ExOps commandos. The other assault team consists of a Level 8 Interceptor called Ebony, his Info partner Venus, and another squad of six troopers. A trio of Protectors stand by as backup, ready to confiscate everything inside the Lake House.
Patrick and I kneel behind a scraggly hedge near the cloning lab, waiting to lock the place down. This is the first time we’ve stopped moving in almost ten hours, so I don’t mind a short breather. I double-check my systems through my Eyes-Up display. Then I review this Job Number’s dossier, hot off the press.
The brief includes the early rushes from ExOps’s ongoing interrogation of Talon. She quickly admitted she was a product of Fredericks’s cloning program, which we already knew from Falcon’s extensive testimony about his childhood at the Aberdeen Home For Cloned Wanderers.
Of course, Falcon would love to be with us right now, but Dr. Herodotus stuffed a big fat sock in that idea. Purging F-Bird’s Manchurian Candidate sleeper program required a huge effort and a lot of luck. No way is Dr. H gonna risk a relapse by sending the kid out here.
Bo-Li’s comm-voice tersely whispers through our team channel, “Sixty seconds.”
I increase my Madrenaline flow until my cheeks flush hot and my tongue feels like a piece of balsa wood. Patrick gently swivels his head around, keeping his situational awareness as high as possible, leaving me to my thoughts.
Talon’s timing was well chosen: The craziness in Europe provided the perfect opportunity to infiltrate ExOps. CIA has been spamming every federal agency and department with requisitions for as many Levels as they can get. ExOps has onboarded more field agents in the past few months than in the past five years. All Jakob’s little bitch had to do was walk in the front door.
Bo-Li comms, “Levels, breach and enter. Squads, maintain your perimeters.”
I cradle Li’l Bertha in my left hand, safeties off. Patrick and I get to our feet and approach the lab. The other team will be approaching the Lake House. A trio of Protectors stand by as backup.
The lab’s white-painted steel back door is set down a couple of steps. Looks like it leads directly to the basement. I cock my left leg to kick the door down.
“Hey,” my partner comms, “shouldn’t we try the doorknob first?”
My commphone transmits cracks and thuds as Ebony breaks into the Lake House.
“Fredericks can fucking bill me.” My foot bashes into the door. The slab flies out of its frame, leaving behind a dark, yawning rectangle.
Patrick raises his eyebrows and extends his arm toward the opening. After you.
We enter. Brando switches on the lights to reveal a large, concrete room. It looks like it’s the entire footprint of the building. The walls are lined with big compressor tanks, refrigeration units, and cabinets full of scientific implements, test tubes, and many other breakables. All the gear is old, with vintage glass-and-needle dials, chipped paint, steel handles with smudgy patinas, and ventilation hoses tidily patched with duct tape.
The middle of the space is populated by several waist-high tables bearing all manner of jars, beakers, books, computer printouts, three-ring binders, and stacks of file folders. One manila folder serves as a big coaster for a pair of white coffee mugs.
Patrick touches the mugs. “Cold,” he says, looking inside. “But not empty. A couple of hours at the most.”
Shit, Jakob tipped ’em off.
Along the far wall lurk a row of three small desks, each with a glass box on top. Dark electric cables and clear plastic tubes lead from the glass boxes to a tall aluminum contraption covered in dials, gauges, and buttons.
We approach the little desks. Our steps slow.
Inside each box is a tiny human baby. I can barely see them through the swirl of plastic tubes and wires curling around their minuscule bodies.
Sweat beads on my forehead. “They look like preemies.”
Patrick peers into one of the boxes. “More like pre-preemies.” He bends down for a better look. “They can’t weigh more than a pound.” Labels on the boxes simply read F, G, and H.
All three of the infants are girls. One of them shifts her weight and flexes her little fingers. She can’t cry out because of the breathing mask on her face.
Bo-Li comms, “Scarlet, Darwin, what’s your status?”
“We’re examining the lab’s interior,” Patrick answers. “No sign of our target or his, uh, associates. We’ve found three infants.”
“Clones?” Bo-Li comms.
“Yes, ma’am. Probably.”
“Understood,” Bo-Li pauses. “Stand by for—”
Suddenly a deep roar shakes the building, then tongues of flame gush from the ventilation shafts and set the room ablaze.
I drop to the floor. “Fire!”
The hair at the base of my skull stands up. Fredericks has suckered us in here, and now he’s going to burn the place down around us! Smoke roils into the room, thick as wool. Visibility is literally zero. I switch on my radar vision, which helps me recognize walls and tables but not much else. Something touches my fingers. I instinctively snatch my hand away before I realize it’s my partner, reaching out for me. I lean toward him and he grabs my shoulder.
We’re still next to the embryonic clones. I holster my sidearm and reach into the nearest baby-box. I lightly run my fingers along the cables and tubes linking the infants to the life-support system. The baby starts to move. Her wires and cables thrash under my fingers.
Patrick’s shoulder rubs against mine. He takes my left wrist and deposits something damp into my hand. It’s one of the girls, F, I think. The tiny child’s chest flutters like a hummingbird. I gingerly tuck the girl into the crook of my right arm.
Meanwhile, roasted air bakes my head and upper body. I squat down low. Patrick jostles into me again. He carries the other two infants. I grab the tail of his jacket and follow him away from the cribs.
Baby F convulses, and warm fluid soaks into my sleeve. It smells terrible.
My partner and I crab-walk across the room. He bumps into something and I bump into him. As we grope around for the exit, we stumble into benches, chairs, and cabinets. He loses his grip on my jacket. The smoke swims into my eyes. Scorching heat batters my neck. I lower my head over my arms to shield the child. Searing heat spreads across my scalp. I wrinkle my nose at the stink of burning hair.
Dear Lord, help me save this baby and I’ll—uhh—um—
I start coughing so hard Patrick has to drag me forward. Sizzling tears course down my face.
—Shit, I don’t know. Get us the fuck out of here, Amen!
I hack out a mouthful of smoke. I’m bracing myself for an even hotter cloud to enter my throat when a lithe, compact figure charges into the room. Her small fist reaches through the smog, grabs my collar, and practically throws me out the door. A moment later Brando lands next to me on the fou
l-smelling ground.
My girl has stopped moving.
“Medic!” I scream into the gathering blackness.
—CORE: SCORPIO—
2 SEP 1981
ABERDEEN INJURY REPORT
From: ExOps Medical Director Dr. Thomas Herodotus
To: ExOps Acting Director William Harbaugh
CC: Technical Director Philip Nico
Bill,
Attached you will find charts, X-rays, and photographic documentation for Scarlet (L10-INT.), Darwin (IO), Ebony (L8-INT.), Venus (IO), and Bo-Li (L15-INF.).
All five operatives suffered from smoke inhalation, especially Scarlet and Darwin. Ebony and Venus, although also caught in a fire, primarily suffered lacerations and compression wounds when the Lake House collapsed on them.
Bo-Li suffered minor burns as she extricated Scarlet and Darwin from the cloning laboratory. Scarlet received second-degree burns on her neck and scalp. Darwin suffered moderate burns and bruises while guiding Scarlet out of the lab. All five are responding well to treatment.
I’ll keep you posted.
—Tom
P.S.: We took the opportunity to install Scarlet’s next tier of Mods based on her accelerated Development Schedule. Following is a list of her new upgrades.
• Voice amplification module.
• Software patch to improve her reaction time.
• Another decamicron layer of polymetallic reinforcement for her cranium, rib cage, pelvis, spine, clavicles, scapula, and long bones.
• Second WeaponSynch pad on her right palm, per direction from Philip.
—TH
05
A little bluebird lifts me from my four-poster bed and sails me out the window, like Peter Pan. We float over London, except the Washington Monument stands in place of Big Ben. The bird settles on top of a moving train and we magically pass through the steel roof to the interior. The train leans from side to side and the wheels screech a rhythmic pentameter on the rails. It sounds less like a train and more like the siren of an ambulance.
EARLY NEXT MORNING, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 3:12 A.M. EDT
EXOPS HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA
I wake with a breathing mask muzzled to my face. Numbness and an overall sense of well-being tell me I’m coming around from general anesthesia.
Surgery.
Most of my Mods are offline, but the clock in my Eyes-Up display reads 3:12 in the morning. I look around. The glass of a dark window echoes my room back at me. The reflection of the door opens. I turn my head as Nurse Stace walks in.
“Well, now,” she drawls. “Look who the cat dragged in!”
I croak into my mask. Stace says, “Don’t try to speak, honey.” She taps the microphone of the comm-set she’s wearing.
I comm, “What happened to the girl I brought in?”
Stace grabs the clipboard at the foot of my bed. “News really does travel fast.”
Huh?
Nurse Stace leans over me to view the information screen over my head. “How did you hear about that already? It just happened a few minutes ago.”
Oh God, the little babies died.
I comm, “When did she die?”
Stace frowns at the monitor on the wall and whacks it on the side. “She didn’t die, sugar. She escaped.”
What?
“Talon.” Stace wiggles the monitor’s data cable back and forth. “She escaped. They’re chasing her all over hell’s half acre right now.” Stace turns from the monitor and slides her hands under my sheet.
“No,” I comm. “Not Talon. The three babies from Aberdeen.”
“Oh! They’re in the ICU at Jefferson. Goodness, you sleep like a strung-up june bug.” Stace pulls the sheet down so she can reconnect the monitor’s data cable to the output plug mounted on my hip.
I tip onto my side so it’s easier for her to access my port. Stace plugs the cable into me and sets me on my back again. Just this little bit of rolling makes me strikingly dizzy.
“Are they gonna make it?” I ask as the room begins to flip over.
“Let’s worry about you for now,” she comms.
The walls become ceilings and the floor drops away entirely. My right hand vise-grips Stace’s wrist and nearly crushes it. “Tell me!”
“Oww!” Stace cries.
Suddenly I realize what I’m doing and let go of her. Nurse Stace whips her arm away.
Omigod, what the hell is wrong with me?
“I-I’m sorry, Stace. I…”
I just assaulted my nurse.
Stace rubs her wrist and scowls at me. “Don’t do that again, Scarlet.”
“I won’t.” Another massive bedspin sloshes through my head. I feel like I’m gonna fall out of bed onto the floor. “I’m sorry.”
Stace stares at me through squinted eyelids. “Sorry for what, honey?”
“For, uhh…for grabbing your arm.”
Nurse Stace frowns deeply. “Scarlet, bee, you didn’t grab me.”
“Christ.” I forget to use my commphone, so this word emerges from my mask as a low buzzing sound. I comm, “I guess the drugs are still, um…did I say anything?”
“You asked about the infants, and then all your numbers spiked. You need to stay calm, sweetie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stace studies the screen over my head. While she records my vital signs, she comms, “The girls were severely hurt. All three of them are in critical condition.”
Damn, damn, damn.
Stace continues, “Coming off their support system so suddenly put the girls into shock, plus the smoke and heat damaged their lungs.” She remakes the bedsheet so only my head sticks out. “It doesn’t look good for them, Scarlet.”
Fuck!
I should have prayed better.
06
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 11:58 P.M. EDT
I wake up again. It’s almost midnight. A whole day and a night have passed. Lights from a passing car dance across the ceiling and briefly illuminate my hospital room. I itch like crazy, but the medi-spaghetti keeps me from moving around. I shift position and my arm lights up like a five-alarm fire.
Aagh!
I try to dose some Overkaine, but the Med-Techs have taken my neuroinjector offline.
Grrr.
I look around. Someone’s in the room with me. I switch to infrared to make sure. Yes, this person is real. I take a closer look.
Oh, duh. It’s my mother.
Cleo is racked out on the same couch she and I lived on last spring while we waited for Dad to regain consciousness. Her breathing is steady and slow. I leave her alone. God only knows if she’s gotten any rest while I’ve been laid up.
“Hey, Brando,” I comm. “You awake?”
After a few seconds, he comms back. “Hey! Yeah, I’m reading. How do you feel?”
I smack my dried-out lips together and scrape my bristly tongue through a mouthful of dust. “Sore all over,” I reply. “What’d they do to me?”
“The Med-Techs treated you for smoke inhalation and burns on your arm, neck, and scalp.”
“What’s the new shit in my Eyes-Up display?”
“The Meddies updated your Mods while they had you on the slab. I think they also installed some new ones.”
“Anything cool?”
“Don’t know. I’ve been so busy with Info work I haven’t had time to check your post-surgical reports. Want me to comm them to you?”
“Forget it.” I yawn. “I’m too groggy to read a sandwich menu.”
“Why don’t you get some more sleep?”
“Okay…hey, Brando?”
“Yeah?”
“They’ll make it, right? The girls?”
&nb
sp; “From the lab?”
“Yeah.”
Long pause. “I hope so, Scarlet.”
I let out another giant yawn.
“Rest, Hot Stuff.”
“Okay…I’ll shee yalatrr…”
I had no idea Shea Stadium is so tall. Standing on the infield is like being in a blue-and-orange, semicircular canyon of sixty thousand howling, screaming people. But they aren’t cheering for their team or booing the umps.
They’re burning.
The stadium’s air is so thick with burned hair and skin, I’d throw up if I weren’t paralyzed with terror. Someone drives a big, pink Lincoln limousine onto the field and pulls up next to me. I jump inside and walk into a drugstore. The pharmacist grunts at me as he slaps three bottles of pills on the counter. He puffs out his cheeks like a blowfish, and flames come out his ears. He’s an older guy, so I figure this is how he manages his ear hair.
I come out of a dream, lying on my stomach. My Eyes-Up says it’s seven in the morning. I blearily open my eyes and involuntarily twitch away from two big eyeballs, right in my face.
“Hmm.” My father leans back in the chair next to my bed. “So this is what it’s like.”
My mouth is still squished into the pillow. I comm, “What what’s like?”
“Having someone in the hospital.”
“Sucks, right?” I try to shift onto my side. Hot pain zings through my sore right arm and freezes me where I am. “Ow!”
“Lie still.” Dad pours water from a pitcher into a small Dixie cup.
I flex my fingers and instantly regret it. This slight movement launches a swarm of red-hot hornets across my right shoulder. Even though my right hand is metal and plastic, it’s still an integral part of me. I press my eyes shut and hiss.
“You all right?”
“Gah—yeah…uhh, not really.”