by T. C. Edge
Mulchrone dipped his chin reverently, and Pamela turned to Randolph, still perusing the footage nearby.
“How many more combat ready soldiers to we have?” she asked the assessor.
“Another half dozen, Madam President,” said Randolph. “The others are making excellent progress.”
Pamela nodded.
“Good.” She turned to the General once more. “I imagine you’d advise we attack quickly, General?” she asked. “I have no mind for military strategy as you do, but suspect the element of surprise would count in our favour?”
“Certainly, Madam President,” said Mulchrone. “The synthetics are going through their debrief, but will be ready soon. All are being updated on latest targets and mission objectives.”
“Good, well as soon as they’re ready, I’d like them in action,” said Pamela. “Assuming you sign it off, of course.”
Mulchrone nodded again. Pamela had a healthy respect for the man, and though she enjoyed running the show, was humble enough to defer to his superior knowledge of military matters. That, at least, Martha could admit for the woman. She wasn’t quite so insufferable as to think she knew best on everything.
The conversation went on, a few more remarks passed back and forward, before a young technician came hurrying over. Martha noted the man’s slightly pallid expression and worried eyes. He moved in quickly and then stopped, standing to attention, waiting to be noticed. Neither Pamela, nor General Mulchrone, did at first.
Martha stepped in.
“Yes?” she asked the man, loud enough for the others to take note.
They looked over at the technician.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” asked Mulchrone, frowning.
“I was told to monitor chatter, sir,” the young man said nervously. “Over at the CID.”
“Go on, soldier.”
“Well,” the man gulped. “It seems that the CID have been tipped off to a possible attack. An ex-Spectre got in touch with them, mentioning the attack on the Colorado base, and warned that the same would follow in New York…imminently.”
“Slattery,” growled Pamela, eyes flickering with a renewed energy. “Either he or some other member of the Crimson Corps.” She snorted and looked to Mulchrone. “General, it looks like we’ll need to expedite the mission. We cannot delay and give them time to muster. The last thing we need are the other nations becoming aware of us, and banding together in the fight. We must destabilise them before they track our location here.”
“Of course, Madam President. I shall finalise preparations immediately.”
“Good.”
Mulchrone marched off without delay, grabbing the technician and taking him too, engaging him in a hurried conversation as they went. Martha inspected Pamela’s expression, and knew the stress was getting to her. That straining around the eyes was growing more pronounced. This was it right here - the future on a knife-edge.
“You think it was Colonel Slattery who tipped the CID off?” Pamela asked, looking out across the control room, distant. She gradually turned her gaze upon Martha. “He wasn’t a member of the Spectres, was he?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” said Martha. “He’s certainly not nano-augmented, though perhaps he ran a unit once. I’m not entirely sure, Pamela.”
“Well, regardless, there’s nothing to suggest it will make a difference. Our men cut through those Crimson Corps soldiers like hot water through snow.” She had a thought. “And didn’t Mikel infiltrate the CID on his own, when he stole the data?”
Martha nodded.
“He did, yes,” she said. “I suspect security will be bolstered now, though…”
Pamela’s gaze moved off again, just as Martha spoke, as though she wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.
“He should go with that team,” she murmured, thinking.
“Sorry, Pamela?”
“Mikel,” said the President. “He knows the CID layout. He should go with that team, not one of the others. It’s the most important of them all.”
“And you’re sure that’s wise?” asked Martha. “He didn’t exactly obey orders at the base, did he?”
“Not according to reports,” said Pamela. “But no matter. Agent Hunt is there, isn’t he? Give Mikel a sniff of him, and that’ll be one order he won’t disobey.”
The footage gathered from the fight, as well as testimony from the other synthetics, hadn’t painted the prettiest picture of Mikel’s involvement. He didn’t have a helmet-camera of his own, but by all accounts he’d abandoned his team in favour of a more flavoursome experience elsewhere.
Clearly, he hadn’t been satisfied storming the command centre, and had rushed off northwards to fight at the barracks, alongside Colonel Heston. Once he arrived, he tore through the remaining soldiers with joyous abandon, according to Heston and the other synthetics on his team.
A brutal showing, yes, but not the orders he’d been given. Pamela had purposely requested for him to be part of the less exciting team for that very reason - to test his behaviour, to see if he might be cooperative.
It was one of the few tests that had failed, though it hadn’t seemed to count much against him. Least not in Pamela’s eyes. Randolph’s suggestion that a man like Mikel merely needed to be ‘unleashed’, and not entirely controlled, had taken hold in her mind like a seed sprouting in the dirt.
“Can you imagine the carnage he’d cause in New York,” Pamela went on, a sparkle of malice glinting behind her eyes. “He still has that nano-vamp bloodlust in him. He’d be distraction enough to keep the entire city occupied for some time, I’d wager. Our other synthetics can do their job and exfiltrate. We’ll leave Mikel there to have his fun, and he’ll be off our hands for good.” She nodded, as if her plan had been finalised, then turned to Martha. “What do you think?”
Martha knew it was, though framed as a request for advice, nothing but a rhetorical question. There would be no changing Pamela’s mind when she had a bright idea like this. And did Martha even want to?
Truthfully, she was torn. A part of her wanted Mikel gone, out of her hair. Another part felt a primal rumble of fear at what he’d do if let loose in New York. Killing soldiers and government officials in the CID might only prompt a craving for more death. Unless he was disabled by them, he might just continue his spree elsewhere, raging through the city like a tornado.
Martha, in the end, chose not to offer any opinion at all. Why waste her breath, when Pamela was so set on an idea? The President smiled as if Martha’s silence represented agreement, and then headed off to update General Mulchrone on her plans.
She returned a moment later, smiling broadly.
“He thinks it’s a fine idea,” she said proudly. “Mikel will be prepped for the strike on the CID. After that, who knows? It’s kind of exciting, isn’t it?”
Martha regarded her old friend and saw nothing but a stranger. Exciting. It wasn’t the word she’d use.
But nevertheless, she nodded, and smiled, and displayed agreement across her face. Stuck here in this prison, with her daughter held for ransom, what else could she do?
Nothing.
Just grin and bear it, Martha, she thought to herself. After all, you created this mess. You have a duty to watch it play out, however horrible it might be.
102
Mikel sat in a military jet, shifting swiftly through the darkening skies, fingering absently at his chest.
His mesh bodysuit, provided by his new benefactors, was slightly damaged there, its surface a little discoloured, like scorch marks on a metal cooking pan. He felt no pain beneath, despite being shot at from point blank range, except the minor mental scarring that came with his failure.
Granted, he was still testing this new body of his, but that was a particularly rookie error he’d made. In his old body, that gunfire might have been enough to end his life. Yes, this new synthetic one was far more advanced, but he still needed to be careful. Recklessness wasn’t a state of mind he readily adopted. He was rathe
r more comfortable being cautious, pragmatic; sneaking around and keeping to the shadows.
Still, the fact that he’d taken gunfire at that range to the chest, and plummeted thirty feet right onto his back, without showing much ill effect at all, said quite a lot. A large part of that was the suit, yes, but his body was also far more durable than before.
That was good, and bad. Sure, he wanted to avoid injury if he could, but at the same time, he needed things to remain challenging. Part of the thrill came from the danger. Take that away, and make him overpowered, and all of this might just become…mundane.
He looked around the jet as it shot through the air, eyes turning from one identical synthetic to the next. Most of the dozen or so men around him weren’t wearing their masks currently, all of them sitting in lines, doppelgängers one and all.
He hated that. He had to say, he hated them.
Mikel couldn’t abide the idea of being one of many, just another clone. No, I am special, he thought. I am…unique.
He snorted and turned his eyes away, feeling so very uncomfortable in the presence of these men. Many were ex-nano-enhanced, the very sort he’d spent his life hunting. Yes, all were in new shells, but those thoughts hadn’t changed. He couldn’t work alongside these people. What a foolish, fanciful thought it had been that he could.
He wanted the challenge, that was all. To be part of the big splash as they were revealed to the world. Well, that was happening now, and after today, he’d set off alone.
Taking orders, attending briefings, having his actions watched and monitored; it was all so off-putting. He’d even been fixed with a helmet-camera now, so that the politicians and non-combatants back at the facility could watch his every move, sit back and enjoy the show as their ‘creations’ went to work.
It was all so…nauseating, being drawn into this pathetic game they were all playing.
Mikel had never enjoyed being ‘used’. That was the very reason he’d broken away and gone rogue in the first place, becoming his own man, his own authority, directing his own path with no one holding his leash.
Now, he’d chosen to have himself tethered again, his freedom temporarily lost. Well, no more of that foolishness. He’d enjoy his time in New York, and then disappear. Seek out Hunt, complete that particular game of his own, and then flee.
Yes, that was what he’d do.
The thought gave him some joy, of course, and some path beyond what might happen today. Though they couldn’t be sure, word had come around that Hunt was at the CID, helping them track down the location of the MSA facility. A location that, unfortunately, Mikel wasn’t himself aware of; as before, all combatants were knocked out before being loaded onto the jet, before waking during the flight.
They were clearly taking their security extremely seriously, and didn’t want anyone holding that knowledge, should they be captured and taken for torture and interrogation.
That was certainly of some interest to Mikel. Any chance to get an advantage was well worth his consideration - you never knew when such valuable intel might be of use - so he’d been keen to try to gather some clues to the facility’s whereabouts.
Those clues, however, had been frustratingly thin on the ground. All he’d really heard was something about Lake Michigan during a whispered conversation between two officers. Given how far away from them he was, he had no right to hear what they’d said, but his newly developed hearing had made it possible.
That small piece of information, minor though it was, had led him to think that the facility wasn’t underground, as he’d originally imagined, but was, in fact, underwater instead. It seemed possible, even likely, that that was the case. The lake, however, was a rather large place, so it hardly narrowed things down.
He mused on that point idly as the jet surged on, and the light outside continued to darken. The identical men spoke little as they went, adopting those grim faces usually reserved for soldiers about to go to battle. That didn’t seem necessary now.
After all, these men were all immortal, weren’t they? Wasn’t that the entire point of all of this?
Die in New York tonight, and it wouldn’t be the end. The synthetic body would be destroyed, yes, but the mind would live on, ready to be uploaded into a nice new form, fresh off the line.
At least, that was the theory. In actual fact, these men’s true, original consciousnesses, were all stored back in the mind-vault at the facility. They were, thus, being driven right now by copies. And if those copies were destroyed?
Well, it would be the original consciousness that would be copied again, uploaded again. It wouldn’t be these same men, would it?
It was all rather difficult for Mikel to get his head around that particular philosophical question, so he decided not to think about it anymore. He’d made the personal choice, as was his right, to have his stored consciousness terminated, meaning that this copy had, for all intents and purposes, become the only version of him left.
If he died, therefore, then it really would be the end. Of all the men within this jet, he was the only one who was truly at risk.
A briefing began, to which Mikel lent a generous amount of his attention. He still only gave it half an ear, but for Mikel, that was generous. He sat back, eyes half shut, and listened casually as his commander - Major Olson again - went over their mission once more. At the other end of the jet, another briefing included the second team. They had a different target, apparently. Mikel didn’t care about that.
Olson droned on in that voice identical to all the others, and all those identical faces nodded along, eyes alert, ears pricked up and listening carefully. Mikel noticed Olson eyeing him disdainfully, and noted the same expression appearing on other faces as they glanced over at him. They didn’t want him here with them, and he knew it.
He liked that, in fact. He was so much more comfortable when coaxing negative reactions from people, and felt more secure being an outsider. It led to this deliberate manner of his, purposefully getting under people’s skin, making them feel uneasy.
He sat, listened, grew bored, and then turned away. He could feel the stares grow harder, hear the mutterings about his presence grow louder. They drew a smile, and he turned back.
“Not to worry, all of you,” he said, grinning as smugly as he could. “After today, I’ll be off your hands. All you clones can continue your terms of slavery. I’ll be off to enjoy my life.” His grin widened, and the opposing glares sharpened.
“Good riddance,” one of them grumbled. “We don’t want freaks like you with us anyway.”
“Freaks?” Mikel said, amused. He frowned, and looked pointedly from one man to the next. “Forgive me if I’ve got this wrong, but aren’t we all identical now? Barring the odd difference in eye or hair colour, that is.”
“It’s not what’s on the outside, vamp,” grunted the man. He tapped his head. “It’s what’s in here. You’re not human in the head. You’re just a beast.”
Mikel laughed at that, which seemed to further fuel the man’s ire.
Major Olson stepped across, laying a hand on his shoulder and gripping firmly. He shot him a firm glare.
“Calm down, Kendrick,” he said. “Let him do his job - we’ll all do our jobs. Then he’ll be on his way.”
Mikel recognised the name - Kendrick. Yes, one of those three from the training hall, with the shorter blond hair and mixed hazel-blue eyes. He hadn’t recognised him in the dim light of the jet. The subtle differences between their appearances certainly made that difficult.
“You weren’t on the mission this morning, were you?” asked Mikel. He stared right at Kendrick, who dipped his eyes and shook his head. “Ah, of course, just a reserve then. I saw you in the training hall. Pathetic attempt to lift that light block. Struggling to come to terms with your new body, are you?”
Kendrick stiffened, and Major Olson stepped ahead of him, blocking his path towards Mikel. As if he’d attack him here, before such an important mission.
“Mikel,” Olson
said calmly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop antagonising my men. You only have to put up with us for a little while longer. Then you’ll be free.”
Mikel pursed his lips, nodding, rather impressed by the man’s measured authority.
“Spoken like a true commander,” he said. “OK, Major, I’ll play along. Just keep that one out of my way, or else I may add another target to my list.”
He eyed Kendrick, whose face coiled up angrily. Olson turned, spoke a few quiet words to the man, and then returned to the front, completing the briefing.
The jet continued on, the target growing ever closer. Before long, and after a rather enjoyable staring match with Kendrick, Major Olson once more addressed the men, calling for them to prepare themselves for ‘launch’.
This one was new to Mikel; as yet, he hadn’t had the pleasure of attempting a HALO jump. Apparently, it was the best way of getting to Manhattan Island quickly, and without being spotted. It did, however, involve a jump from a ridiculous altitude, and a high velocity plummet towards the city streets, before opening up their wing-suits at the final moment just prior to landing.
As far as expeditious infiltrations went, they couldn’t really be beaten. They were usually better done, however, with a little experience. It worried Mikel a tad that he had none, not that he’d admit it, or even show it on his face.
Still, that had been one part of the briefing that he did listen to with his full attention. From what he’d learned, the wing-suits would open and operate automatically once they’d reached a certain altitude, so he didn’t really have to do anything.
Except, of course, throw himself from the jet, miles up in the clouds. Even to a man without fear, that was rather daunting…
The alarm for launch began to blare, and the synthetics got into position. Mikel, by some stroke of luck, found himself right behind Kendrick. He dropped his hand onto his shoulder, just before the man put on his helmet.
“See you down there, Ken,” he whispered with a grin.
Moments later, that grin had widened, his body flaring with a raging thrill.