by C M Dancha
M.C. Sweats was ready to chastise the investigator for wasting his time when he decided to ask one last question. "What color skin does he have?"
"Wait a minute, sir." The investigator zoomed in on the visitor's face and studied it for a few seconds.
"Sir, I would say he is a white man or is a very light-skinned black man."
"How tall is he?"
"The drone's measurement app puts him at six feet three inches tall."
"Interesting, Very interesting." M.C.'s premonition that Rollie's clone would one day show up at Grandma LeeLee's grave might have paid off. He was the only member of the Sweats family who knew that Rollie had been cloned. The rest of the family believed Rollie was murdered and cremated somewhere in Europe. When he didn't show up for Grandma LeeLee's funeral, it confirmed the official death report out of Zurich. The doubters in the Sweats family gave up all hope of Rollie's survival.
As the First Officer for the World Government's 4th district, M.C. had access to confidential information from around the world. He was able to get his brother's murder case file from the Zurich Medical Examiner's office. He was shocked to learn that Rollie had been brought back as a replicant. Not only that, but he was wanted in the Euro Free Zone for questioning about several unexplained deaths and sabotage of government equipment.
His grandmother's favorite grandson had finally screwed up. It wasn't enough that the brother he despised had gotten himself killed. The golden boy then became involved in crimes against the State. Mr. High and Mighty was now on the run with no one, like Grandma LeeLee, to defend his reputation. This was M.C.'s opportunity to rid the Sweats family of its only anti-government, rebellious member. After all, he was only a clone, not a real person. And if he got another promotion for turning the clone into the government, that would be a bonus. The Sweats family would be so proud of him.
"Listen, Crutchfield. I want you to keep the drone on this guy until I tell you to stop. Forget everything else; focus only on this guy. Report to me every hour on where this guy goes and what he does. If anything unusual happens, contact me immediately. Also, get a close-up of his face and send me the image ASAP. Do you understand your orders?"
"Yes, First Officer."
M.C. leaned back and smiled to himself. This good news deserved a small celebration. He reached into the side drawer of his desk and pulled out a small, oval glass jar. After twisting the lid off he removed a fiber pad impregnated with a liquid opiate solution. He wiped the pad across the top of his left hand and sat back to enjoy the almost instantaneous high. For the next hour or so everything in his life was wonderful. He loved the euphoric state of mind which made him feel infallible, but most of all, he loved his new position in the World government which allowed him to buy illicit drugs and sex.
While his brother was flying high, Rollie got into his hover vehicle and headed over to Grandma LeeLee's neighborhood. He wanted one last look at Grandma's house which held so many wonderful memories from his childhood and teen years.
As he pulled up in front of the house, he almost expected to see Grandma sitting on the porch waving at him. This time, however, the only thing on the porch was a ‘For-Sale-or-Lease’ sign. Even from the street, he could tell the house was vacant.
Rollie got out of the hover vehicle and started for the front porch. Halfway there, he realized that he’d forgotten his cane and was walking without a limp. He surveyed the neighborhood to see if anyone was watching. Seeing no one, he returned to the vehicle and retrieved the cane.
Assuming the role of an elderly man, he started again toward the house. As he passed the front of the vehicle something glistened on its polished grill. At first, he thought it was a sun’s reflection but when he looked closer there was something moving back and forth across the grill. He stopped and pretended to catch his breath as he watched the reflected object. He was tempted to lean back and stare into the sky, but something warned him not to. Finally, Rollie identified the object moving back and forth in the grill. It was a drone. Rollie guessed that it was flying at about a hundred yards above his head.
When he recovered from the surprise of knowing he was being followed, Rollie hobbled to the front porch and peered into each of the windows like a snoopy neighbor. There wasn't anything to see other than the empty rooms Rollie had run through and played in as a child. On a couple of occasions, he saw the drone reflected in a window. Whoever was operating it had come in at a low angle to see what he was doing under the porch overhang.
He knew that Raul needed to be contacted immediately, but he had to do it in a busy location where local sounds would drown out his conversation. If he were to contact Raul now, the drone would hear his conversation.
Rollie shuffled back to the hover vehicle like an old man and drove aimlessly around the city trying to figure out where and when to contact Raul. There was no use looking into the sky; he knew the drone was locked on to his position. He stopped at a restaurant and went in for a late lunch. After he ordered from the artificial intelligence menu, he switched the video screen over to the local news station. Most of the news was the same government-sponsored and approved drivel he listened to in Charlottesville.
One story caught his attention when the broadcaster said, "This evening, our First Officer George Sweats will be speaking at the Center City Pavilion. The topic of his speech will be, "The Responsibilities of Every Citizen to His Government". Admission is free. Proper identification is required."
As two broadcasters made more comments about M.C.'s upcoming speech, an idea started to blossom in Rollie's head. By the time he’d finished eating, Rollie's plan to confuse and elude the spy drone was conceived. All he could do now was hope it worked. It was too bad he couldn't run the plan by Raul, who was a master of deception. Hopefully, he’d learned enough from the former Director of Security to give himself a fifty-fifty chance of success.
At 8:30 pm, Rollie left his rented room and headed to the parking lot. He’d shaved off the beard and washed the silver out of his hair. There was no long any reason to continue with the disguise of an old man. His new deception required that he drop forty years and become a young man. Besides, if he was going to walk into the jaws of a lion he might as well look his best.
Darkness had fallen over the city and the overhead lighting system had automatically turned on. Rollie casually strolled through the parking lot with his cane, sidestepping all of the overhead lights. He wore a wide-brim, Panama style hat which hid his head from the snooping, overhead drone. Without warning, he jumped into the vehicle and drove away.
The drone operator jerked to attention; he was caught by surprise. The marked vehicle was moving but he hadn’t got a good look at the driver. He asked himself repeatedly how he could have missed the old man. He berated himself for being unobservant but finally decided that it had to be the old man. Who else could have the required electronic sequencing to start and drive the hover vehicle?
The operator watched Rollie’s vehicle move through traffic at the posted speeds. He tried to view the inside of the vehicle but the window tinting feature was employed. After fifteen minutes the vehicle pulled into the pavilion parking lot and proceeded to the valet parking area where a parking attendant helped an elderly, bent-over gentleman exit the vehicle.
The drone operator hadn’t seen anyone wear a dark, Panama hat in years. It seemed odd but after several years of spying on people he was no longer surprised by anything he saw. People were strange and that included what they thought passed for fashion.
"First Officer, this is Crutchfield. I don't know if you're going to be surprised by this or not, but the guy I'm following went to the Center City Pavilion. Looks like he's going to attend your lecture."
M.C. didn't respond. He was too busy processing what the investigator had said and trying to determine what to do with the information. He couldn't help wondering what his brother was up to. Why would he attend the lecture? He certainly didn't believe in big government. Did he believe he was safe because he was r
elated to the First Officer? For that matter, did clones have the same memories as their host? It was too late now to research how clones think. M.C. tossed aside any emotions for Rollie and decided to treat him like any other fugitive wanted for questioning.
"Crutchfield, keep the drone on the vehicle. If it moves, you follow it. Call in to my assistant Sheffield if it moves before the end of my lecture which is roughly 11pm. Got it?"
"Understood, FO."
M.C. began to ask what FO was when he figured it out. First Officer. It wasn't a flippant or disrespectful remark by Crutchfield. It was an accepted descriptor used within the Investigative department which was a branch of government that had an acronym for damn near everyone and everything.
M.C. brought up the image of his brother from the Zurich Medical Examiner's office and transferred it to Sheffield. His assistant was stationed in one of the backstage waiting rooms at the Pavilion.
"First Officer, you're on in five minutes. Do you need anything?"
"Sounds like a big crowd. Do we have enough security people here tonight?"
"It's a sellout as they used to say, First Officer. Yes, we have a good security staff."
"Good, good. Here's what I want you to do Sheffield. I just sent you an image of a man who is wanted for questioning in Europe. He'll be in the crowd tonight. I want you to take the image, add a beard to his face and make his hair silver like an old man. Distribute the enhanced images to the security staff and tell them to look for this guy. Do not apprehend him. I repeat the subject is not to be apprehended until I say so. Understood?"
"I understand, First Officer. If you don't mind, who is this guy?"
"He's my brother, Sheffield. Let's go."
Sheffield was temporarily stunned and had to run to catch up with his boss.
As M.C. walked onto the stage, waved at his supporters and made a couple of witty remarks, Rollie was ending his conversation with Raul.
"Rollie, I'm not sure how clever it was to go to M.C.'s lecture but that's water under the bridge now. Here's what I want you to do. I'm going to have a man collect your hover vehicle. It's dark out so it might be hard for the drone operator to tell that the driver isn't you. Hopefully, he'll follow the hover with my accomplice in it. In about an hour, you'll get a call from a man identifying himself as ‘Lord Jim’. He'll tell you what to do next. Follow his instructions to the letter. Any questions, Rollie?"
"None, Raul. Thanks."
Raul terminated the contact and Rollie sat back to listen to his brother's speech. It was difficult listening to M.C. rant on and on with an endless list of accolades for the government. When the speech shifted to why each citizen had a duty to report anyone who defied government rules and regulations, Rollie wanted to leave the pavilion. Did M.C. believe this rubbish or was he playing along for the power and perks of his new position? Either way, he was ashamed of his brother. The contact from Lord Jim couldn't come soon enough.
To block out M.C.'s lecture, Rollie directed his attention to the lavender beret security guards stationed around the pavilion. He didn't think M.C. would have him arrested inside the pavilion but would wait until the crowd thinned out after the speech.
With as many times as the guards looked at their hand-held halo screens and then scanned the crowd, it was obvious they were looking for someone. Rollie expected one or more of the guards to make eye contact with him and maintain a constant surveillance. For some reason, not one of the guards locked on to him as a suspect. Was it possible that they were looking for an old man with silver hair and beard? Had Rollie taken them off his scent by simply shaving the beard and getting rid of the silver tint in his hair? If that was the case, then there was only one person in the Pavilion who knew what Rollie looked like. And, that person was on stage giving a propaganda speech.
Unknown to Rollie, his assumption was only half right. Sitting directly behind him was a sixty-year-old black man by the name of ‘Leeks’ Sweats. He was the comedian of the Sweats family. Playing pranks and making a joke out of every topic was the cornerstone of his personality. The kids in the family adored him. The adults tolerated his antics because he entertained the kids.
Leeks attended every function where M.C. made an appearance. He was a devout follower and supporter of M.C., his favorite nephew. In twentieth-century America, he would have been referred to as a M.C. groupie.
Tonight, Leeks' attention was focused more on the man sitting two rows ahead, about fifteen feet away, rather than M.C.'s lecture. Through the commotion inside the Pavilion, he overheard this man's conversation with someone on his micromic. His attention was drawn to this man's distinctive voice. The back of this guy's head looked somewhat familiar but there was no doubt he knew the voice from somewhere. It took about ten minutes for Leeks to realize that he was staring at a dead man.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Sweats, this is Lord Jim. In exactly ten minutes I want you to get up and go to the men's bathroom at the west end of the pavilion."
When the connection went dead, Rollie spoke into his micromic. "Alarm in ten minutes."
As Rollie was talking and setting the alarm, Leeks was making his way to a main aisle to get a front view of Rollie's face. Now he was ninety percent sure the man was his departed nephew. How could this be?
"Sir, you'll have to go back to your seat. No one is allowed in the aisles during the First Officer's speech."
Leeks turned his head to face the security officer who held his arm. "Sir, I'm First Officer Sweats uncle. I need to talk to him immediately. This is very important."
"Come on, mister. Do you know how many people claim to be related to the First Officer?"
"I'm his damn uncle. Here, look at my identification."
Rollie's attention was drawn to the two men making a fuss in the main aisle. Even from sixty feet away, Rollie recognized the one gentleman as his uncle Leeks. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Leeks glance in his direction several times as he bickered with the beret wearing security officer. Leeks was trying to convince the officer that he needed to see M.C. right away. Whatever Leeks used as an excuse finally worked and the two men walked toward the stage entrance door at the front of the pavilion.
"Mister Sweats, this is your ten-minute alarm. Good evening."
Rollie loved the woman's voice used in the micromic system. He had no idea who she was, or for that matter, whether she was real or computerized. He stood up and made his way to the other main aisle which was closest to the west end of the pavilion. When he got to the bathroom entrance there was a ‘Closed for Repair’ sign in front of the entrance. He looked up and down the corridor to see if there was another men's room close-by. Before he could check both ways, someone grabbed his arm and led him into the bathroom.
Rollie didn't get a good look at his abductor until they were in the bathroom. Lord Jim was about five feet, ten inches, fifty years old, overweight, with no facial hair or glasses. Rollie guessed his ancestry to be Italian or Jewish, or possibly French. This guy was as nondescript as a man could be, the type of individual no one ever gave a second glance.
"Remove your clothes; as quickly as you can."
Rollie started to protest but something in Lord Jim's eyes forced him to do as he was told. As he stripped down, he realized Lord Jim was doing the same thing. Surely Lord Jim didn’t think they could swap clothes? The difference in their heights and body frames made that impossible.
"Here, put these on." Rollie shook out the one-piece janitor's bib overalls so he could step into them. In the meantime, Lord Jim was slipping into a set of everyday street clothes. When they finished, both men put their original clothing into a cloth sack on a nearby janitor’s cleaning cart.
"Okay, when we leave here, I want you to turn right in the corridor to the door labeled 3A. The code for the door is Spartan. Go in, take your clothes out of the janitor's cart and exit through the exterior door of the building. Walk to parking space 343 which will be directly ahead of you, six aisles from the building. The code
for the hover vehicle in 343 is also Spartan. The vehicle is programmed for your destination. Sit back and enjoy the ride." With that, Lord Jim left like someone who had mistakenly walked into a woman's bathroom.
From the speaker's podium, M.C. could see the two men in the aisle quarreling about something. It was just what he needed; a distraction to divert the crowd's attention from one of his best speeches. He was ready to stop and ask Sheffield to stop the argument when he recognized one of the men as Uncle Leeks. There could be only one reason for Leeks raising hell. He must have spotted Rollie, the nephew who was supposedly dead.
M.C. scanned his notes to see how much dialogue remained. He needed to shorten his speech and find out what Leeks had to say. When he looked up, he spotted another gentleman making his way to the main aisle on the west side of the pavilion. Before he could utter another word, he stared squarely into the eyes of his departing brother. All M.C. could think of was where the hell was his beard and gray hair? That's was frigging great. The security people are looking for an old man when they should be looking for a guy in his late thirties. Why didn't Crutchfield tell him that Rollie was no longer using a disguise?
As if he was waking from a trance, M.C.'s attention was drawn back to his audience. They were talking among themselves, probably wondering why the First Officer had stopped his speech mid-sentence. M.C. cleared his throat and jumped ahead to the last couple of key points in his speech. He needed to wrap this up and apprehend his brother's clone.
By the time M.C. walked off stage to rousing applause, Rollie's vehicle was pulling out of the pavilion's parking lot. M.C. grabbed Sheffield and dragged him into a secluded side office, ignoring the media reporters and distinguished guests waiting backstage.
"Sheffield, I saw my brother. Take the image I sent you. Scrub the beard and color the hair black and send it out to the security officers immediately. We have to grab him before he leaves the area."
M.C. left Sheffield to complete the image change. He planned to make his way to the side of the pavilion where he thought Rollie was headed but was met head-on by an entourage of reporters and guests.