by T. C. Edge
Martha looked away, and didn’t answer. She knew some of what was coming, yes. It was possible Randolph was fishing too. Why would a man like this need to know about top secret military strikes?
“Anyway,” said Martha dismissively, taking cues from the President herself. “Mikel is a free agent. This is his reward for the work he’s done for us. He will be leaving here when he so desires.”
“Hmmmm, I’m not sure that’s wise,” said the short man. “It’s not smart to have a man of such power running around without a leash. Better for us to hold onto it.”
Yes, precisely what Pamela thinks…
“Well that’s what the failsafe is for,” countered Martha. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Randolph nodded slowly, then gazed out longingly as Mikel made another pass, sweeping around the hall in a few quick - very quick - laps. He slowed as he came around again, stopping ahead of them and turning to the wall. He took several steps forward until he was looking right at it, seemingly staring directly at them through the see-through wall. Of course, that was only an illusion. Mikel couldn’t see through the wall from that side. Could he?
“How…powerful is their eyesight, exactly?” asked Martha, slightly unnerved by the sight of Mikel staring right ahead at them. He leaned in closer, peering forward as he altered his expression, turning it sharper, more sinister.
He still looked handsome, though, despite his best efforts.
“Better than it will have been before, certainly,” said Randolph. He glanced back to Kurt and Rick, the towering Ravens standing behind. “The hierarchy has now changed. Nano-vamps no longer have the most highly attuned sense of smell, sight, or hearing. These synthetics, when properly practiced, will outdo them all. Soon enough, nano-enhanced soldiers will be usurped.”
Martha turned to take in her bodyguards’ reactions. They didn’t appear best pleased by the comment, though it couldn’t exactly be denied.
“He can’t see through things though, can he?” asked Martha, looking back at Mikel. She knew, of course, that he was merely looking at his own reflection from that side. But still, she had to ask. She didn’t know the full extent of what had gone into these synthetics yet. The specific configuration of their forms - both human parts and artificial augmentations - was currently a matter of secrecy. If she asked, Pamela might well have told her. But she hadn’t, yet.
“Oh, no that’s not possible,” said Randolph, frowning. “Future versions may include provisions for X-ray vision and other such visual embellishments, but not these. Their eyesight is profoundly advanced, and they can see great distances and take in great detail, but there’s nothing entirely…unnatural that they can do yet.”
The word ‘unnatural’ was perhaps spoken at the wrong time. At that very moment, another synthetic across the hall lifted an enormous rectangular block, hauled it onto his shoulder, and ran across the hall carrying it. He reached the other side and dropped it to the earth with a shattering crunch, enough to shake the foundations of the room…nay, the entire level. A couple of other synthetics hurried over to congratulate him. It appeared that hauling that particular block across the breadth of the training hall was some accomplishment.
“How heavy is that block exactly?” asked Martha, watching on as another of the young, identical men attempted the same feat, carrying the block - with a little less ease - across the hall. He made it halfway before dropping it, cursing loudly as he did. Mikel, meanwhile, watched on with idle interest; he’d stopped inspecting himself by this point.
Randolph looked down at his notes.
“That one…is…six thousand pounds,” he said, rather casually.
“Six thousand pounds!” exclaimed Martha. “That’s the size of a small jet!” She turned back to Kurt, who was the slightly larger of her two guards, and thus likely the stronger. “How much can you lift?” she asked.
He glared through the clear wall.
“Not that much,” he grunted. “Nowhere near that much…”
“Well, it’s only the beginning,” said Randolph. Others have lifted heavier blocks already, up to seven thousand pounds. As they grow used to their new forms, their abilities will sharpen up. We expect lifts of ten thousand pounds to be entirely feasible in time.”
Martha looked up, pursing her lips in appreciation at that, and saw that Mikel was wandering over to join the others by the blocks, various weights and sizes lined up at one end of the hall.
He glided along, moving with a slightly different gait to the others, the cadence and rhythm of his step seeming lighter and more elegant. Reaching them, Martha saw him share a few words with the three other synthetics, before he stepped up to another block - even larger than the one currently being tested - and began lifting it.
The other men watched on like a set of awed triplets, standing side by side as Mikel worked the long rectangular block onto his shoulders, and began pacing across the hall. He started slowly, then began to increase his speed as he went, managing to get into a light gallop. Even with that gigantic weight upon his back, he still moved with grace.
Without prompting, Randolph whispered lightly.
“That one’s eight thousand pounds,” he said. He sounded almost upset. “No one’s lifted that one yet.”
Martha slapped the squat man on the back.
“Cheer up, Randolph. I’m sure the other recruits will catch up soon.”
Then she nodded to Kurt and Rick, and stepped away.
Mikel felt alive.
This feeling of strength, of power…it was intoxicating. He’d grown so used to his nano-vamp form, and the limits he could achieve with it, that nothing really surprised him anymore. Life was all about finding that next meal, keeping his desperate hunger, his suffering, at bay. But this…this was new, exciting.
Exhilarating.
He had no hunger to contend with, no pain. He could enjoy this thrill, explore his new limits. Yes, his form still felt tight and slightly unnatural, but that was fading quickly. Even within that state, he was moving more quickly, more fluidly than ever. He was hauling weights his old form had never allowed for.
Right now, he held a tremendous block on his back. He’d noted the label upon it when he lifted it - eight thousand pounds of heavy stone. The other - the one that separate group of men were playing with - was only six thousand. They’d whooped and cheered when one managed to cross the hall with it. Mikel felt like outdoing them. He enjoyed that.
He dropped the block to the ground with a mighty thud. The ground trembled beneath his feet, spreading right through the hall. It was large, this place, filled with all manner of materials for testing. These blocks for testing pure strength. Narrow tracks for testing speed in tight confines. Handholds high up on the walls for climbing. Beams to test balance and coordination.
Mostly, it was a place for physical testing, and not for discovering the extent of ones visual, nasal, and auditory acuity. Still, Mikel’s senses were still working in the background; his keen sight, smell, and hearing - always one of his greatest assets - now appeared to be even more advanced. His eyes could take in great detail from across the hall, and his nose was being beset by the scents of the other five synthetics in the room.
They smelled very similar, just as they looked almost identical too. The slight differences with their odours was akin to the tiny variations on their physical forms; shades of eye and hair colour, for example.
Still, the fact that Mikel could differentiate between them said it all.
He stood now, at one end of the hall, with the rest of the men at the other. Two were training alone, trying to improve their command of these odd new bodies of theirs. The three others remained by the blocks, now in quiet discussion. Mikel, though at least two hundred feet away, listened in closely, and their whispers grew strong in his ears.
“Go on, Will, try again,” one said. Mikel peered at them from across the hall, and noted that it was the man who’d just carried the six thousand pound block who spoke. The other -
Will - was the man who’d made an attempt right after, only to drop the block halfway. “You want to be first out - first to get revenge? You’ve got to prove yourself.”
The man called Will - who looked almost exactly the same as the one speaking to him - nodded. They seemed to know each other, which wasn’t a surprise. It was likely that most, if not all, of the recruits here had been kept in this odd facility for some time. Perhaps they were soldiers, Ravens even, who’d served together. Many, by what Mikel had seen from his room earlier that day, were older, more experienced men. Now, they were in younger bodies, more powerful bodies. Only minor physical changes told them apart.
The man called Will had lighter blond hair, and a green sparkle to his eyes. The other man had darker brown hair, his eyes a cold blue. The third, who stood with them, had blond hair, though shorter. His eyes were a mix of hazel and blue.
Will nodded again, and turned his eyes to the block.
“Go on, Will, you can do it,” said the third, shorter-haired man. All of them had exactly the same voice. The same voice as Mikel.
Will hesitated before bending to pick up the block, looking over to the wall that lined the left side of the hall. It was reflective, just a long mirror. There would be many people behind it, watching them right now, Mikel knew. Watching, assessing.
With a little coaxing from the two other men, Will made his attempt. Bending, lifting, hauling the block to his shoulder. He did it easily enough.
Then he faced the end of the hall, where Mikel stood watching, and began to pace. One step, two…he walked more uneasily, though held his form. He passed the quarter-way point, then seemed to grow in confidence, moving at a slightly faster pace as he covered the ground. Soon enough, he was stamping on heavy legs, approaching the end. The other two men followed behind, cheering him on, supportive.
Mikel just watched, expression blank. It was his resting face, so he probably looked extremely handsome. He grumbled at the thought.
Eventually, Will reached the end and dropped the block, raising his arms in triumph and gratefully accepting the congratulations of his fellow synthetics. The man then looked towards the mirrored wall again. Pointedly. No doubt he hoped such a wondrous feat would count in his favour in…
The men started speaking again in whispers, closer now, and easier to hear.
“I’m getting out there first, if it’s the last thing I do,” said Will, buoyed by the magnificence of his triumph, chest puffed out. He grinned at the others.
My, do I really look like that?
Mikel shook his head.
“Do you know what their plans are though, Heston?” Will asked.
Heston, another name. This one belonged to the first man to achieve the feat, the one with the darker brown hair and cold blue eyes. Mikel wasn’t quite sure why he cared, really, but something had caught his interest.
Heston glanced around, shifty.
“Something big,” he said, leaning in closer. He had the same voice as the others - as all of them did - but his carried a more authoritative tone. His previous form, perhaps, was in a senior, high ranking role. He appeared like a man used to commanding others. “President Chase wants to introduce us to the world with a bang. I’m not missing out on that.”
“Nor am I,” said the third man with the shorter blond hair. How had he been performing so far? Mikel hadn’t really paid much attention.
“Then you’d better get proving yourself, Kendrick,” said Heston, with that authoritative tone of his. He shaped his cold blue eyes upon the man. “You haven’t done enough yet, far as I can see.”
Kendrick frowned, but didn’t contest the assertion. Yes, the pecking order with these men was becoming quickly apparent. Heston was obviously their superior, or at least he had been before. Most likely, he’d be earmarked for command for…for whatever President Chase had in mind.
The men seemed to notice Mikel for the first time, and then quickly disbanded, moving off once more to continue their training. They did so with increased vigour, spurred on by their discussion.
That discussion…thought Mikel.
It interested him, intrigued him. Something big was going down, a great splash set to cast a devastating wave across the continent. Chaos would follow. And death.
Perhaps, after all, Mikel might see himself involved.
94
Ragan had always feared the cage.
Any man who spent his life as a spy - harbouring secrets, telling lies - always ran the risk of finding himself locked away eventually. Ragan had built his lies like a stack of cards; it was only a matter of time before it toppled and fell.
He sat now, in the corner of a cell, tucked away in the basement of President Rashmore’s personal compound on the shore of Manhattan’s old Upper East Side. The place was a grand, stately structure, and looked strikingly similar to the old White House from Washington, destroyed during the Second Civil War. The place had been commissioned and built by Rashmore’s predecessor - who happened to be his father - many years ago, most likely with the intention of imitating the original White House, once the primary seat of power for the now defunct United States.
To put a new spin on things, this new compound had been christened the ‘Black House’, owing to its more sombre facade. It was an arresting building, not only for its aesthetic look, but the fact that it sat on the shore, dwarfed by the great skyscrapers that loomed above it throughout the island.
A couple of hours ago, Ragan had been hauled straight to it from the CID in chains - an undignified end to his career there - and taken straight down into this subterranean cell to wait upon the President’s judgement.
Really, that judgement was only going to go one way - however much Commander Wexley protested, Rashmore was clearly intent on seeing Ragan dead. Whether they knew of his involvement with Project Dawn now seemed irrelevant; his saving of Chloe from the CID seemed to be enough to procure a death sentence.
And I’d do it again, he thought. For her, I’d do anything…
The cell, however, wasn’t perhaps what he’d have expected. It wasn’t the grim dungeon it might have been, fitted with walls of dark stone, water dripping endlessly, torturously, from the ceiling, a grimy, soiled and uncomfortable bed on which to try to sleep. There wasn’t a disgusting toilet in the corner, nor a burly cellmate with whom to interact.
No, there was none of that, not here in the President’s compound. This wasn’t a prison at all; more a single cell down on a basement floor, perhaps used to handle minor infractions around here or lock away a staff member should they require a bit of punishing.
It wasn’t nice, really, but it wasn’t particularly unpleasant either. The place was well lit, with a comfortable enough bed and private space to use the bathroom. There were bars along one wall, but that was the only real thing that identified it as what it was…or was trying to be. If those bars changed into brick wall like the others, then he could just as well have been back at the base of Project Dawn. The accommodations up there in that old military base were not much better than this.
The cell did, however, come with its attending guards. They weren’t the President’s detail who’d accompanied him to the CID, nor were they any guards stationed here at the Black House. No, they were the same three men who’d been glaring at Ragan all day and who’d taken him in over in Cincinnati - the miserable Captain Maddox, and his two nameless subordinates.
All three Panthers sat in the adjoining room outside his cell, playing cards around a table. Intermittently, one would move up to the cell and glare at Ragan suspiciously, as if he might be devising some means of escape, before returning to the game.
A game - they were playing a game at a time like this. Something about that infuriated Ragan. Yes, they’d been assigned to watch him, and yes, there was little else they could do right now. But still, all three were at least aware of the threat that was brewing, and no one seemed to give a shit.
They don’t believe me, Ragan thought, sitting on his bed, peering
through the bars at them.
Commander Wexley had made it clear enough to Ragan that he would continue the search, and seemed to be quite convinced by now of Ragan’s argument, but that probably wasn’t the same for many others. Ragan’s reputation was now in tatters, so why should they believe him?
Because it’s the truth, Ragan thought to himself, his internal monologue a grumble. Sometimes the truth just isn’t enough, said another voice, another part of him. The part that was resigned now to a miserable fate.
Sit here, wait for his summons, be taken off to the gallows…
It might take hours, days, weeks, but eventually, he’d be punished for his crimes, hung from the gibbet by a President who was losing his mind. There was some irony in it all, of course. After all, he was likely going to be killed for helping Chloe escape, and not for his far more serious crimes of subterfuge and deception, of spying within the CID, and feeding intel to Project Dawn.
That crime, certainly, merited the full fury of the law. Helping Chloe get free of the CID seemed so tame by comparison, seeing as the data had already been extracted from her nanites. Yet, this was Rashmore we were talking about; a man who’d obsessed over Chloe even more than Ragan had, though in a rather different way. Anything connected to her father, Remus Phantom, sparked the President’s ire.
Ragan had spent the first hour or so subtly checking over his cell for a way out, given his predicament. It quickly became clear that breaking out of here by force would be impossible unless someone opened the gate first. He wouldn’t have the strength to rip iron bars free from their moorings, and even if he could, there were three highly trained Panthers continually watching over him. The concept of escape seemed hopeless, an assessment quickly drawn by his rational mind.
Without help, there wouldn’t be any getting out of here. Even if he could somehow trick Maddox and his men, disable then, and get out of the cell, he would still have the entire compound to navigate. There would be dozens of highly trained guards here, all of them nano-augmented. It would take a miracle for him to get free, and even then he’d have to procure a method of transport to escape the city’s grip.