Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

  “Y...yes.”

  Glenda looked shocked. “Why didn’t you go public with it, Richard?” she asked. “It’s evidence.”

  “No, it’s not,” Xavier said. “It’s the raving conspiracy theory of a disgruntled former employee looking for revenge. If he had something more substantial like blood samples or hospital records, or financial transactions, maybe even tapped e-mails, he might have something. But this doesn’t prove anything. If he thought it did, he wouldn’t be hiding.”

  “What about Jones’s body?” Glenda asked Kelmer. “Isn’t there some method of distinguishing a clone from the original?”

  “Y...you have to u...understand these clones are virtually perfect replicas—impervious, even to conventional examination,” Kelmer said. “There are certain anomalies that can crop up, but your average pathologist or coroner wouldn’t give them a second thought. Only people with direct, personal knowledge of the program and the process would know what to look for and be able to recognize the pattern. I...I...In legal terms, it’s all untested procedure and educated guessing. No judge in the world would consider it.”

  “The implant in his head isn’t natural.”

  “But it is moot,” Xavier said. “Jones’s body was freeze-powdered after the standard autopsy. There’s nothing left to examine but a sack of plant food. I’m guessing they didn’t find anything out of the ordinary, in what little was left of his head; otherwise he might still be in one piece.”

  Glenda dug her hand heels into her eyes.

  “Oh, it was so stupid of me to call you,” Kelmer said. “I...I...I’ve gotten you into so much trouble.”

  Kelmer's guests were suddenly bemused. That didn’t sound right.

  “Richard, exactly why did you call me?” Glenda asked. “You didn’t know about me and Peter, did you?”

  “N...N...No, I didn’t. I...I called you because I was scared. I needed someone I could trust to pass information and evidence to as I collected it, in case Wallace...f...f...found me before I could expose him.”

  Xavier knitted his brow in a perfect fusion of anger and shock. “So you weren’t trying to warn Glenda about anything,” he said. “You were worried about yourself!”

  “I...I...I...”

  “Xavier, don’t,” Glenda reproved.

  But Xavier wouldn’t hear it. It was one thing to get caught up in circumstances beyond your control—terrorized and hounded by some psychotic, multi-billionaire with an Alexander the Great complex. But having to do it because some overworked shmendrick was too selfish to keep his problems to himself? That was a justifiable ass-whooping if ever there was one. “What the hell is the matter with you?” Xavier shouted at Kelmer. “How could you even think of dragging her into this?”

  “Xavier, it doesn’t matter,” Glenda said. “From what it looks like, I was in it before he even thought to call me.”

  “But he didn’t know that!” Xavier pointed out.

  “Xavier, please! This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  He sighed openly. “All right then,” he said to Kelmer. “Why her? Why not go to Dana Holliman with all this? She obviously is more suited to help you.”

  “Wallace...knows a...a...all of my working relationships, and my history,” Kelmer said pleadingly. “Dana would’ve been on his list, along with a number of coworkers I could literally count on one hand. I guess being a social hermit made that part easy for him. Glenda was the only person whom I was certain Wallace didn’t know I was acquainted with a...a...and...I knew I could trust her without question.” He paused, looking moony at her. “She’s such a g...g...good person.”

  Xavier buried his face in his hand. She’s such a good person, he thought. Now how the hell could he argue with that? And why did he all of a sudden get the feeling that Glenda would’ve landed ass-up in this situation with or without Kelmer...or with or without him? What the hell is it about good people that makes everyone want to kill them?

  “I...I’m sorry,” Kelmer repeated and hung his head.

  “It’s all right, Richard,” Glenda said. “I’ve never been the most responsible person in the world. It’s actually a compliment to think someone like you thought I was worth trusting with this.”

  Xavier put his game face back on and looked at Glenda calmly. He supposed if she could forgive Kelmer then so could he. But he wouldn't tell that to Kelmer. Not yet.

  “Alright, it looks like we’ve got two angles to work this from,” Xavier said. “Getting more evidence against Wallace or finding out how Simonton screwed you over.”

  Glenda blushed.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Kelmer decided to speak up once he was sure Glenda's friend wouldn’t bust him one. “We'd find everything if we could get inside the U.F.O.,” he said.

  Xavier sighed, giving Kelmer a “Like I’m supposed to know what that means” look.

  “It’s not the official name,” Kelmer said. “It means Upstate Facilitated Octahedron. It’s a name that our small band of Wallace’s handpicked researchers came up with. We don’t actually know where it is; we were always taken there by a preprogrammed shuttle w...with an interior we couldn’t see out of. One day we calculated the length of the trip and crunched a few other probabilities—proximity of air traffic, water, and power supply needs. We narrowed it down to somewhere in upstate, rural Ohio, within fifty miles or so of Lake Erie. All we knew was that the place had e...e...eight sides and officially it doesn't exist, you know like Area 51, Roswell; hence the title U.F.O.”

  “But you don’t know where it is?” Xavier asked.

  “No, b...b...but I...I’m working on it. I’m...”

  An electronic burping from the lab table cut Kelmer off. The tiny black pad that he had grabbed after vaulting from the locker, was being rude. Kelmer went over to the table, picked up the device and gave it a look that said “holy shit” in just about any language one could think.

  “What’s wrong, Richard?” Glenda asked, regretfully.

  “This is a jamming device,” he said. “I designed it to correlate with the satellite signal Wallace had planned to use with the clones. That’s why I grabbed it when I saw you two; in case you were clones.”

  “What does it do?”

  “It interrupts the signal Wallace uses to remotely control the implant, effectively shutting the clone down.”

  “And when that happens?” Xavier asked.

  “The clone would revert to the original mindless drone it was constructed as. It’s all assuming Wallace would still be using that method and not letting the clones run unchecked on their own, which I doubt. S...s...s...something’s emitting a signal around here. It's probably having a hard time breaking through the interference from the lab equipment, but it's still trying...and the device is picking up on it.”

  Chapter 44

  “This is ridiculous,” Pedro said. He reset his night-vision goggles on his forehead. “These people aren’t pros and I can’t make out any type of added security. Let’s go!”

  “Alright,” Bonaparte answered. “You’ve made your point. You go cover the back and I'll head up front.”

  “Done.”

  Bonaparte pulled down his own night-vision and watched Pedro cut across the fifty or so yards of open lawn to the rear of the house. When Pedro disappeared behind the house, Bonaparte reset the goggles to his forehead. For all the advantage they gave him, the goggles still manifested blind spots on either side and he preferred to have his peripheral vision in tact in the majority of situations.

  When he was satisfied Pedro hadn't been seen, Bonaparte made his run to the north end, never taking his eyes off the windows that faced his position. Somehow, he felt himself being watched the whole way. It wasn't until he took point at the front door, that he dismissed the notion entirely. It was one thing to stay on your toes, but another to drive yourself crazy. Bonaparte cracked the door's lock in less than thirty seconds. Lock picking was an invaluable skill in his business. He'd mastered it years before his first
kill, but had never used it more than after he'd started taking contracts. He opened the door and then entered, sweeping his gun from side to side, anticipating the reveal of targets.

  Pedro circled around the south end of the house with a depraved spring in his step. He drew his silenced, semi-automatic Zamorana pistol from his shoulder holster, and kissed the barrel for good luck. Screw those MAGs, he thought. The damn things were just too unpredictable. And this little black beauty had done the trick more times than he could remember. In fact, Pedro didn’t even own a gun with a powered clip. He was taught with automatic and semi-automatic pistols, and por Dios, they were good enough to kill with. They were also—hello, Bonaparte—“cleaner” than the average MAG, which is what tonight's job called for. Pedro did appreciate the Zamorana's biometric lock upgrade though. That was an easy addition. He could imagine lots of scenarios where it could save his ass, but not a single one where it would burn him. Mierda, if it ever came to that, then chances are he was fucked anyway.

  As Pedro prepared to circumvent the backdoor lock, a shadowed figure charged from his right side and disappeared behind the house like a puff of black smoke. Pedro had barely seen it, but heard the movements clearly. He waist-lined his gun and stepped quickly, but cautiously, to the point where the figure had vanished. He then reset his night-vision goggles atop his forehead. He likely wouldn't need them if the target was this close and, like Bonaparte, he didn't want his periphery hosed. He edged the corner, tightening his grip on the Zamorana. With a swift, smooth pivot, Pedro rounded the corner and spied a bipedal shadow running, like a shot, for the surrounding trees. Pedro was sure he or she had something strapped to their body and may have been gripping an object close to their chest like an NFL player racing toward the end zone. He threw down his goggles and let off three quick shots. Pieces of bark and wood went flying from the nearby trees as what Pedro was now convinced was a man, picked up speed toward the towering black shafts in a zigzag pattern. Pedro pressed his earbud.

  “Bona, I got one,” he said. “He ran into the woods.”

  “On my way,” Bonaparte answered.

  “No, stupido. I said only one. There are supposed to be three. He might be trying to lead us away so the others can escape. You find them. I'm going after this one.”

  Bonaparte agreed and returned to his own hunt inside the house. He had barely been inside a minute, but was amazed at how quickly his impatience accumulated without something to shoot. There were certain time constraints with this particular job—enough for Gabriel to offer a bonus if he and Pedro came in under schedule. Bonaparte saw that bonus getting shaved away with every empty room. Gabriel had better not try to screw them if they missed the deadline by a couple minutes, he thought, or Bonaparte wouldn't stop Pedro from collecting that genetically restored scalp as compensation.

  As he proceeded toward the south wing, a constant earthbound humming began to tug at Bonaparte's ear and he was able to follow it to a large closet at the end of the hall. He stopped, listened closely for a second then raised his MAG. Bonaparte had seen targets hide in dumber places so it wouldn't surprise him at all if he was making short work of the evening. He blasted a full bar of rounds through the doors at varying angles, practically cremating them. When he was done, he reloaded and listened carefully. No moaning, no screaming, no cries for mercy; completely meaningless, of course, if he had done his job. He used one hand to open the closet and maintained his aim with the other.

  Empty.

  And not just of blood and or bodies, but really empty; as in nothing. No clothes or boxes or even hangers. Just shelves and carpeting. And now, holes. His attention was immediately drawn to the pockmarked mess at the rear of the closet. Trickles of light poured through them speckling whatever they touched. He peeped through one of the holes and was amazed. He started inspecting the closet-space forthwith. If Bonaparte couldn't find the switch, then he'd just shoot his way through.

  Smelling fear was never just a metaphor to Pedro. He always swore, to his partner, the scent was unique, like perfume. Why it hadn’t appeared to always help him sniff out the prey was a criticism Bonaparte kept to himself. Pedro breathed deeply, searching for the scent as he entered the woods. The damp underbrush made a soft racket beneath his feet. He stepped deliberately forward, then angled, and went forward again. Not much need to wait for the shadowy figure to reappear and make the first move. The fact that the target had never returned fire was reason enough for that. When something leapt wistfully from the darkness and dipped behind a tree in the distance, Pedro fired two quick shots in its vicinity. He then jetted over to the area, but found no one. A good dozen or so yards to Pedro's left, and stiffened against a wise old maple, Xavier Hawkins stood as quiet as the proverbial church mouse.

  ****

  There was really no way to safely enter a potential threat-zone from an enclosed cubicle with only one exit. What Bonaparte wouldn't give for a flashbang or other distracting/disabling device he could just pitch out from cover. He could have looked for another way down, assuming there was one—a stairway perhaps—but that would only take up more time and it only made sense to figure any point of ingress would be nearly as risky.

  The second the door slid open, Bonaparte raised his gun and fired two quick shots, out and across, from his cover position on the right side of the lift. He then swat-turned to the left side of the lift and repeated the technique. The idea was to keep shooting if he glimpsed the slightest movement as he switched angles. He saw none.

  What Bonaparte did see, was the source of the consistent humming that had lured him: an underground laboratory with a huge, fucking...something plumb against the wall and droning like a power plant. It was also the only source of light in the lab, which left him having to use his night-vision. Look at all this crap, he thought. There must be dozens of places for a person to hide in here. In a fit of frustration, Bonaparte toppled some of the shelves and cabinets closest to him, ready to kill anything that moved. He second-guessed the strategy when several glass containers filled with both powdery and liquid substances broke open onto the floor. For all Bonaparte knew, this jackhole of a scientist could have measles or nitroglycerin being stored on one of these shelves like a jar of peanut butter. He backed away from the mess, nearly tripping over one of the padded wooden stools posted throughout the lab. He grit his teeth in distaste and continued to search the lab with renewed care. He poked his gun into every corner and crevice that looked large enough to hold a human being. When Bonaparte's eyes eventually fell onto the large door marked CAUTION, he walked toward it sneering. Would the targets figure him to be intimidated by a hulking door with a CAUTION sign? Maybe, he thought. Either way, he wasn't leaving until he'd searched everywhere. Bonaparte approached the door with his gun aimed directly at it from chest level. When he reached for its handled lock, something at his feet gave off the sound of breaking glass and a billow of dense white smoke expanded throughout his field of vision in seconds.

  “Oh, shit,” Bonaparte said and then felt the crack of something heavy across his upper back. One of those stools, he imagined, after he fell on his face. Part of it had struck the back of his skull and he damn sure knew the feeling of wood going upside his head. Lucky to still be conscious, Bonaparte turned and fired several shots into the smoke in an arcing pattern. He then braced to hear a scream or, even better, the thud of a body hitting the floor. But all he reckoned were footfalls scampering away from his position and the eventual sound of the lift in operation.

  ****

  “Where are you going?” Kelmer asked. He had intended to lead Glenda to safer spot on the second floor, but she had pulled away from him once they were upstairs.

  “To find Xavier,” she answered. “He’s out there somewhere with that killer.”

  “But h...h...he told you to find...a...a hiding spot and wait! You could get hurt!”

  Glenda looked defiant. “Listen to me; he’s already saved my life twice and I’m not going to just leave him out there by hims
elf against that murderer! I don’t give a damn how much it hurts his ego!”

  “Ego d...d...doesn’t have anything to do with it! He wants you to stay safe! He can take...care of himself!”

  “Well, so can I! I’ve been getting a lot of practice lately!”

  Kelmer balled his fists furious with himself. It was no surprise Glenda would rather risk getting shot than stay with him. After they detected the signal, the first thing Hawkins had asked him was if he had any bullets for his Beretta. Kelmer just shook his head, feeling like a total idiot. He could whip up a tube of sulfur and potassium nitrate on the spot, but he couldn't remember to stock up on ammo.

  “I saw motion detectors upstairs,” Xavier then asked. “What other security does this place have?”

  “None really,” Kelmer answered. “I jury-rigged the motion sensors from old equipment parts.” He looked away, ashamed. From the moment he'd arrived at the house, he'd relished the illusion of safety. So much so that he'd cast off the notion of leaving it even for a second just to procure additional equipment that probably wouldn't save him anyway.

  “You're thinking we can use something here to find where he's transmitting from, get the drop on him?” Glenda had asked Xavier.

  “No,” he'd answered. “Whoever it is probably isn't trying to call out with a phone. It's like Yosemite out there; the trees would play havoc with the transmission.” He looked at Kelmer. “Doc, I assume your jammer is sensitive to radio service frequencies?”

  “Yes,” Kelmer had said.

  “What does that mean?” Glenda asked.

  Xavier looked her in the eye even more serious, if that was possible. “It means two-way radios. Whoever is out there there's more than one of them.”

  ****

  Whenever Pedro sweated, it wasn’t good. He wasn’t a sweater. He always kept his cool and smelled nice. It was something that made him attractive to Bonaparte. As he crept softly through the trees his black knit shirt grew spongy. He realized this shadow-man, this Hombre de Sombra hadn't simply been running for the hills, trying to escape. It had lured Pedro into the forest on purpose, thinking to use the trees and darkness as a weapon. Pedro grimaced at his thoughtlessness. As much as he loved the thrill of the hunt, he couldn't imagine there was enough fun in the world to make up for getting your throat cut and being left for the bobcats. But that won't happen, he thought to himself. The target would have no choice but to continue to move as Pedro did. Eventually, Pedro would bag him or at least incapacitate him. And then the real fun would begin.