by T. C. Edge
“Do you all mind leaving myself and Cal alone for a moment,” he said.
The others clearly didn’t like the suggestion. Several voices rose in protest.
“Please,” Ragan repeated. “Just give me a few moments.”
His request turned into more of an order, enough to force the two girls to relent. The Panther appeared less inclined, however, and required a bit of further coercion. Eventually, after several objections, he gave in with a snort, marching out of the jet, Chloe and Nadia following behind wearing quizzical expressions.
Mikel’s, too, was similarly confused. As the three dropped out of the jet and moved towards the falcon, Ragan turned back to him, regarding him with a long, drawn out stare.
“Is this all real?” he eventually asked.
Mikel frowned.
“I…yes, of course.”
“You really don’t mean to kill us?”
“No.”
Ragan shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. He stepped back, taking on a slightly more defensive posture.
“And…when this is over. If we win this thing…what then?”
Mikel raised his hands, and smiled, putting on an entirely innocent expression. With this angelic face of his, that really wasn’t difficult.
“Of course not,” he said. “I have no personal problem with you people.”
Ragan’s jaw stiffened a little, now so thick with stubble he was almost wearing a beard. A pulse of anger spread out of him, like a buffeting wind blowing into Mikel’s face.
“Are you certain of that,” he asked, voice low. “You have tried to kill us several times before…”
Mikel started, mouth teasing open, threatening to gape. He stared at his old enemy, and saw recognition in his eyes.
“You can give up the pretence, Mikel,” Ragan said. “I know it’s you…”
Ragan stared at the young synthetic, wondering for a second if he’d made the right choice.
Over the course of the last few minutes, he’d grown increasingly convinced that they were dealing with Mikel. Now, revealing it directly to the man, and seeing those eyes turn cold, he had his confirmation.
It really is him, he thought. My God…
Mikel shifted his position, seeming to gain an inch or two in height. This new body of his was more intimidating than the last, physically speaking at least. But that youthful visage made him seem so affable, so nice, so welcoming and friendly. It was a dangerous combination, designed to put an enemy at ease.
Ragan took a step back, moving a little closer to the door. If needed, he’d call for the falcon to leave, to go without him, to protect the President and the information they held. How long could he possibly hold this thing off for, though? A minute? Thirty seconds? Ten?
The reality might be quite different. He may barely last a second.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, the gamble seeming worthwhile. Mikel had come here for a reason, and likely the very one he’d explained. If he wished to kill them only, he’d have done that already. No, he had a grander goal, one that appeared to be in line with Ragan’s own.
“How did you know it was me?” Mikel asked, his voice youthful, pleasant. His initial reaction of shock had drawn back, a slightly…amused smile rising on his lips.
“The pieces just added up,” Ragan said. “The way you looked at Tanner’s face, his scars, with that smile. The way you looked at the rest of us. I could sense you knew us already. You’re not that great an actor, Mikel.”
Mikel smiled and shrugged.
“I’ve never had much cause for it,” he said. “Still, that was a long shot, guessing it was really me from only that.”
“There was more,” Ragan explained. “Captain Maddox got a message from Commander Wexley, via his console in the command centre…”
“Ah, of course,” Mikel cut in, nodding slowly, enjoying all this. “Yes, I saw that. ‘Mikel is…’ That’s what it said. I assume he was going to say ‘Mikel is a synthetic’, or something along those lines.”
Ragan nodded, jaw stiff.
“So it was you who killed him,” he said, voice hollow.
Mikel grinned, his face far too handsome for the warped mind within, and lifted his hands in a feigned apology.
“I had to, I’m afraid,” he said. “He might otherwise have been captured and questioned by the…others.” He grimaced at the word; the reference, Ragan guessed, to the other synthetics.
Was that it? Did he just…hate them? Was that why he wished to see the facility destroyed?
Mikel’s face flattened out again, full lips curling into a smile.
“I couldn’t be having that, Hunt,” he went on. “It’s best if the MSA have no warning of the strike. We don’t want them preparing now, do we?”
“We?” said Ragan, bemused.
“Yes, we. I want this as much as you do, Hunt. I didn’t exactly intend on your finding out who I really was, but everything else I said was true. Well, almost…”
“Almost? You’re referring to Martha?”
“Well, yes. I was mostly being truthful about that, at least how she feels about everything. She can help, I assure you.”
Ragan didn’t exactly trust Mikel’s assurances, though what he was saying did make some sense. The group had conferred and discussed Martha’s motivations at length, and had generally concluded that she had done all of this for her daughter, Sarah. The idea of her now wishing to make up, or atone, for her crimes was something that Ragan understood, and could even relate to.
However, there were several issues with what Mikel was saying. Namely, how exactly could Martha help? And how would they contact her?
He put the latter question to Mikel first, seeing as the former would be irrelevant unless they could actually make contact.
At that, Mikel’s eyes twinkled, and he reached into his pocket, drawing out a familiar earpiece.
“Recognise this?” he said.
Ragan eyed the small comms unit, the very same one Mikel had used to communicate with Martha all along. He’d even used it himself a week or so ago, imitating Mikel and catching Martha out, forcing her to flee the base of Project Dawn.
So many events had been set in motion by this little earpiece. Was it now going to help bring everything to a close?
Ragan stepped forward, and took the earpiece from Mikel’s young, lab-made fingers. He studied it for a second, then looked up. It was so bizarre looking at this young man, knowing that, not only was he not human, but he was actually…well, Mikel now.
He didn’t look like him, sound like him, or even behave like him. He didn’t give off the same aura, the same creepy air. What exactly was he now? How would you describe an individual that had the mind of a nano-vamp, but a body that, presumably, didn’t function in the same way, or endure the same cravings?
Did he still hunger for their nanites? Was that a product of how he thought, or what his body required? If the former, surely he didn’t even have the means of feeding on nanites anyway. They wouldn’t build synthetics with fangs, would they?
The questions rattled through his mind as he looked at Mikel, before handing him back the earpiece, and taking several steps away.
“And she still has the other one, I assume?” Ragan asked.
“I believe so,” Mikel answered. “She made sure I had this before I left the facility.”
“Why would she do that?”
Mikel cocked his head.
“She wanted confirmation from me that I’d decided to go my own way,” he explained. “Perhaps she wished to keep tabs on me too. Either way, I can make it work to our benefit.”
Our. There it was again. Ragan felt queasy at the concept of working with Mikel. But, what choice did he have? He could be formed into a formidable asset, couldn’t he? And this ability to communicate with someone inside the facility…well, that was gold.
“Right,” said Ragan, beginning to think ahead. He had to work off the assumption that Mikel was being sincere. He�
��d never, ever trust him, of course, but if he could help solve their problem, then he’d have to tolerate him at least. “The question is, will Martha cooperate? And…how?”
“By providing information,” Mikel said. “She’s a mole on the inside. Hell, she has experience with that, right?” He grinned mischievously, a rumble of laughter bubbling up through his throat.
Ragan straightened out his gaze, regarding Mikel as he enjoyed his own comment. He couldn’t put it together - how was this man Mikel? It was incongruous, seeing him, and yet knowing his mind, and what he’d done in the past. Even this evening he’d likely murdered dozens of people while storming the CID, including Commander Wexley. But he just didn’t look like a killer anymore.
“It’s risky,” Ragan said, deadpan. “If you tell her we know about the facility’s location, she may take that information to the President and give warning.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” Mikel said lightly. “I heard things there, with these new ears of mine. I know how Martha feels, I can sense it. She’ll do anything to save her daughter, get her out of that prison. Oh yes, it’s a prison, Ragan. It’s not just soldiers and scientists there. Couples. Families. Children…”
Ragan felt a cold stone drop through his stomach.
“Children. There are…children there?”
“From what I could gather, certain scientists and staff brought their families. They couldn’t leave in case the location was leaked. Even I don’t truly know where it is. They drugged us out each time we left and entered the base. I guess that’s a failsafe, in case we’re captured and interrogated…”
Ragan half listened, his mind elsewhere. Children. There are children there? He couldn’t get past that.
Several options had been discussed, though he’d missed the most recent debate during his short phone call with Dax. Still, the idea of an airstrike, he knew, wouldn’t be easy with the facility situated where it was, and being submerged underwater. It would be preferable, of course, but not easy.
Now, however, that was surely out of the question. Could Ragan condone the destruction of the facility, knowing there were innocent children, families down there? If they stormed the place, and set charges to blow it from the lake, he hadn’t anticipated having to murder civilians. And…children, he thought again.
Only one solution presented itself - to evacuate the innocents, then blow the place up. But that would be so much more complicated.
“Such a soft heart you have,” came a murmur. Ragan looked up to find Mikel smiling at him. “You’re worried about killing innocent people, aren’t you?”
Ragan snarled at the way he delivered the question. It was far more like the old Mikel.
“And what are a few lives worth in eliminating this threat?” Mikel asked. “How do you weigh the cost against the reward.”
Ragan didn’t answer. He had no answer.
“Why do you even want this anyway,” he grunted, staring into Mikel’s new, deep blue eyes. “Is this just another part of your game? Another thing to occupy that broken mind of yours?”
Mikel raised his eyes, considering.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But…no, there’s something more.” He breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring, his eyes shutting for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Nothing,” he whispered. “I can’t smell your nanites anymore. I have no urge, nothing driving me, Hunt. Honestly,” he said, almost laughing, “I barely even want to kill you now. None of you.” He shook his head, looking out into the night. “But those clones, those…things that look just like me. I want every last one of them dead.”
“But…why?” whispered Ragan, strangely drawn in by Mikel’s simmering passion and hatred.
“Why?” Mikel huffed. “Because I’m just…another one of them now. I can’t look in the mirror and know there are others out there who are just like me. I felt sick just being near them, and I will do everything in my power to make sure no more of them are ever born.” His eyes widened, growing almost manic as he spoke, the old Mikel creeping to the fore. “I will hunt every last one of them down, Ragan. Once that facility is destroyed, you leave the rest to me, understand? I relish that challenge. I need it.”
Ragan listened, staring at him in a minor state of shock. He’d seen this sort of hatred before, but usually it was directed at him, or Tanner, or another of his friends. Seeing it directed elsewhere, at those Ragan was so desperate to defeat, was strangely…enlivening.
In that moment, he saw the truth in Mikel’s synthetic eyes. He really did want this as much as Ragan. He really was here to help.
“I…guess I can live with that,” Ragan said eventually. “But…” he looked to the door. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s best if the others don’t know who you truly are. I think Cliff might become…erratic if he knows it’s you.”
Mikel smirked at that, still devious, still cruel. It was plenty to make Ragan realise - as if he’d forgotten - just who they were dealing with. One day, he’d make sure Mikel suffered for all he’d done. But…that wasn’t this day. And it wouldn’t be tomorrow either.
No, he’d have to let this play out first. They had plenty of work to do.
And strangely…they’d do it together.
Ragan drew a breath, figuring things out in his head, trying to connect the dots. Eventually, he looked up at Mikel once more.
“We’ll revert to your original alibi,” he said. “You’re a spy working under the patronage of Martha. It makes sense, with the earpiece, and what we know about her already. I’ll need to put it to the others, discuss it with them before you make contact with her. I suppose you should know that there are a few others on the falcon, besides who you’ve seen already.”
Mikel smiled.
“Colonel Slattery,” he said. “Yes, I saw him at the base earlier. He actually shot me in the chest, the old goat.”
Ragan frowned, sighed audibly, and set his jaw. No doubt Mikel had murdered many of his colleagues in the Crimson Corps that morning. He’d add it to the ledger for now. He wouldn’t - he couldn’t - let his hatred for the creature derail all of this.
“Best to keep that quiet as well,” Ragan growled. “Tell them you weren’t one of the synthetics to attack the Colorado base. It will not go down well.”
Mikel nodded, suppressing a terrible grin.
“Noted. And…President Rashmore?” he said.
Ragan started.
“How did you know…”
“I heard you mention it to scar-face earlier,” Mikel said. He tapped his ears. “You’d be amazed at what these can do now.”
Ragan felt a shudder at that. He’d witnessed his strength, reflexes, and speed already. It was almost greedy to have superior hearing and, presumably, other senses too. Those were already developed enough in his nano-vamp form…
“Yes, he’s here as well,” Ragan said softly. “And I’ll need to get his consent before any plans are made. Oh, and don’t call Cliff scar-face,” he warned. “You’re not invincible, Mikel. I’m sure a bullet to the head will still kill you.”
Mikel smirked.
“Is that a threat, Ragan?”
“Just a statement of fact,” Ragan said. “Just don’t antagonise people. You want this facility destroyed, right?”
Mikel stared. That was a ‘yes’.
“Then play along, and keep who you really are to yourself.”
Mikel stepped forward, half menacing, and then drew a smile, reaching out his hand.
“Friends, then,” he said, grinning. “And remember, I’m Cal.”
Ragan felt sick, though was forced to take it. They shook, securing an alliance that neither, probably, would ever have thought possible.
“Friends,” grunted Ragan reluctantly, controlling his heaving chest.
He turned to the door of the jet, slipped his hand away, and headed back out into the night.
112
Martha Mitchell sat by her daughter, watching her chest rise and fall.
The sight was soothin
g, a tonic for her torn soul. Seeing Sarah sleeping so peacefully was a blessing she’d longed for, but knew she didn’t deserve. Yet she needed it, cowardly as she was, after spending the day witnessing so much death, so much carnage.
First came the footage from the Colorado mountain base - reviewed earlier that day - displaying the murder of Martha’s old colleagues, the casual destruction of the organisation that did so much good work. The second bout of attacks - covering the CID and Black House in New York, as well as the central government compound in LA - was a far more widespread affair.
Earlier, only a couple of the soldiers had been fitted with helmet cameras. That evening, every single one of them provided a window through which to watch the terror.
President Pamela Chase had, of course, watched on with utter glee, her eyes flicking from screen to screen, clapping, laughing, bubbling with joy. Others, like Randolph, viewed it all with an academic fervour, so delighted to be able to review all of the synthetics’ performances over the coming days. General Mulchrone, meanwhile, wasn’t given to any such shows of emotion. He ran everything remotely, directing matters with a surgical precision, liaising with the leaders of the strike teams on the ground.
It had been a sobering occasion for Martha, bearing witness to it all, feeling so distressed by it while others appeared so elated. It just seemed so wrong to celebrate such brutality, such wanton killing. The attacks hadn’t only seen specific targets terminated, but dozens, perhaps even hundreds of others too; lowly staff, unimportant personnel, even innocent bystanders got caught in the rampage.
Not all had gone entirely to plan, however. While the team that stormed the CID and the one sent to LA managed to execute their primary targets, the team that ransacked the Black House hadn’t.
During the attack, Martha had found her attention focused mainly there, and on one synthetic in particular, who’d chased President Rashmore and his guards to the rear of the compound. The soldier had attempted to terminate Rashmore, but found his efforts rebuffed, the delay long enough to see the President escape with a couple of his guards.