by Jade Kerrion
Gage held out his hand and a clone placed a serrated-edged hunting knife in it. With a gleam in his eyes, Gage met Danyael’s gaze, and then casually stabbed the knife into the clone’s abdomen.
Pain, immediate and brutal, speared through Danyael’s stomach. He convulsed, a gasp of pain tearing from him. His eyes closed and his breath shuddered as his body trembled. Against his will, his empathic healing powers poured through the empathic link Miriya had created, absorbing the pain, healing the injury. Danyael raised his head and watched as the blood pouring from the clone’s injury slowed and then stilled completely.
“Do we need another demonstration?” Gage asked in that same pleasant tone, and then stabbed another clone through his lungs.
That time, the injury wrenched a soft groan from Danyael. He slumped over, helpless and unresisting in the grip of Galahad and the clone who held him up. Galahad wrapped his fingers in Danyael’s hair and pulled his head up.
Dazed with pain, Danyael could hardly focus his vision on Gage’s sneer.
Gage stepped up to the bed and traced the nearly invisible scar on the right side of Danyael’s face. “We’re empathically linked to you, Danyael, all of us. When we hurt, so will you. Your miraculous empathic healing powers will keep us alive.” He spread his hand, encompassing his army of clones. “And to think that the secret of creating super soldiers was really as simple as telepathically linking the soldiers to empathic healers. Of course we know you have your limits, Danyael, and it would be a shame if you died before you came to your senses. Heal me. Stop my accelerated aging, and I will release you. There can be an end to your pain.”
“There will be an end to my pain, but it will not be by your hand or any decision you can make.”
“You have no choice, Danyael.”
Danyael shook his head. “You’re wrong. My power…my choice. You are the beggar here; you’re begging me to save your life. It isn’t worth saving. What have you done with it?”
“What have I done with it?” Gage seized Danyael’s shirt and shook him hard before slamming him against the concrete wall. “In two and a half years, I’ve accomplished what most people never attain in a lifetime. I am the leading mind in genetic engineering. What I know, what I have done has exceeded your father, Suresh Sharma, and Ehimaya Sadgati’s claims to fame. I perfected age acceleration—”
“Perfected? What are these unthinking creatures you call your army?”
“I saved them! I saved their sanity. Do you have any idea what it was like for me as a child, staring into the mirror, seeing myself age visibly day after day? I alone suffered this. I spared them that torment by adapting the growth chambers to accommodate more than a fetus. I designed the system to provide nutrition and stimulate their muscles so that when they emerged twelve months later, they would be in prime health for a twenty-five-year-old. I adapted the mental imaging technology to transfer muscle memory. I perfected memory splicing.” He threw out his arms. “I have made telepaths irrelevant. I can control memory. I decide what they know, how they react. I am their creator, their god.”
Danyael released his breath, the sound caught between a sigh and a chuckle.
Gage’s eyes narrowed. “You’re laughing at me?”
Danyael channeled calm through his physical contact with Galahad. Behind Danyael, Galahad inhaled deeply and relaxed. Only then did Danyael lash out at Gage. “I thought Galahad was an egotistical bastard. Now, I realize he has nothing on you. Does age do that to you? Is this what I have to look forward to when Galahad grows older?”
Gage lunged forward and seized Danyael’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. Dark eyes met—Gage’s filled with hate and Danyael’s with cold speculation. Gage spit into Danyael’s face. “Galahad is nothing, less than nothing. Perfect genes, but what has he done with them? He’s wasted the past three years pursuing mindless luxury and the life of a celebrity. His life stretches out before him—practically infinity compared to the little time I have—but he is no more accomplished than he was the day that mercenary freed him from Pioneer Labs.”
“Not true. Galahad imprinted on the mercenary, and she turned him into a living weapon.”
Gage flicked Danyael’s face to the side, the action dismissive. With a short laugh, he stood up. “I am surrounded by living weapons. When he comes for me, he will meet his match, and he will die.” He chuckled. “Oh, you think your little trick back at the safe house fooled me?” His dark gaze raked across the six men, perfect mirror images of each other. “I am the greatest intellect on this planet.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “You are nothing compared to me, Danyael, and Galahad even less so.”
Steady… Danyael eased Galahad’s flash of anger away. Not now. Not yet.
Gage turned in a tight circle, his gaze resting on each one in turn. “I know that someone here is Galahad, but I fear nothing from you. My life…our lives are all bound to Danyael’s. You kill us, he dies.”
Emotions churned behind Danyael—bitter awareness singed with hate.
No, he could not let Galahad blow his cover, not with all the odds stacked against the both of them. Danyael had to buy Galahad time; he had to trust that Galahad would find a way, somehow, to stop Gage—the perfect human being as he was against the perfect human being Danyael prayed Galahad would never become.
Danyael channeled peace. Breathe, Galahad. It’ll be all right. I trust you.
Gage snorted and turned to the door. His entourage of clones and Galahad followed closely behind.
“Gage,” Danyael called out softly.
Gage paused and looked over his shoulder.
“There’s something you should know.”
Gage raised an eyebrow.
“Galahad hates me far more than he despises you.”
Alarm, pungent with fear, seeped out of Gage.
Danyael smiled faintly. “Sleep well.”
Gage’s eyes narrowed. His mouth pressed into a tight line. His fingers flexed and then curled into fists. For a moment, Danyael wondered if Gage would strike him, but Gage walked out of the cell, slamming the door shut on Danyael and Joyce.
The old woman shuffled forward to sit down next to Danyael. A cheerful smile played on her lips. “I think you might have given him nightmares.”
Danyael sighed. “Everything considered it was the least I could do.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness did not settle the nausea. He pushed to his feet. Leaning heavily against the wall for support, he stumbled into the bathroom and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet bowl. He braced himself against the rim as nausea ripped out his meager dinner and the contents of his stomach.
He did not know how long he stayed on his knees, but the sickness eventually passed. Exhausted, he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth and raised his head to find Joyce peering at him, her soft brown eyes anxious.
He could have lied to her, could have told her that the sickness was the cost of empathic healing, but sometimes, he yearned for the truth. “I have leukemia,” he whispered.
The wavering dual-image of Joyce’s schizophrenic emotional spectrum jolted together with immediate and startling clarity. She reached over and turned on the faucet. Water splashed from the showerhead, the sound carrying above the volume of their voices. Anyone listening through the recording devices in the room would hear only water. When she looked back at him, the soft glow in her eyes was replaced by a hard gleam.
“What did you say?” she asked, her voice low.
Danyael averted his gaze. “I was diagnosed with T-cell-prolymphocytic leukemia a few days before coming out to Singapore.”
Her hand gripped his shoulder, startling him with its strength. “You’re getting treatment, right?”
He shook his head.
“But you must!”
“Jason, my brother, isn’t a close enough match for gene therapy. There is no one else.”
“Your father—”
Danyael turned his face away.
“You asked him, right?�
� Joyce demanded.
He nodded.
“He said no?” Her voice screeched with indignation.
Danyael raised his head and stared into the featureless concrete wall. “He doesn’t want me to live.” Willpower alone kept his voice steady.
“Oh, Danyael.” Joyce’s voice cracked. Her hand trembled on his shoulder. “How long?”
“Six to eight weeks. Likely less if Gage forces me to overextend my empathic healing powers.” He chuckled, the sound pained. “This was not how I intended to spend the last few days of my life.”
“What did you want to do?” she asked.
He did not know. Gage’s words, though intended for Galahad, had struck Danyael as well. What had he done in the past three years? He had spent most of it in a maximum-security prison, and the rest of it training super soldiers and working for less than minimum wage in the free clinic.
Danyael pressed his fists against the wall. Some life.
The unexpected and bitter sigh gave way to a rueful smile. I’ve lived this long without becoming a bitter bastard. I think I can make it another eight weeks. Don’t stare down the future. Don’t stare death in the face. Head in the right direction and keep moving, one step at a time.
The eight weeks will pass soon enough.
He had not written a will, not that he had anything to leave behind except educational debts, which would be forgiven upon his death. He would leave Zara, of course, but she would be fine. Zara was like a cat with an infinite number of lives. Her talent for survival and her willingness to mow through anything that stood in her way would always stand her in good stead. And Laura—
Danyael closed his eyes against the sting of tears and the ache deep in his chest. He would miss Laura. He would miss the way she screeched with delight when she saw him, the way she threw her arms around his neck and pressed kisses to his cheek, as if she loved him.
She had kept him sane. Against the odds, she had helped him heal after his months in prison and his forced stint with the Mutant Assault Group. She had loved him unconditionally at a time when he could scarcely look at himself in the mirror.
Joyce pressed her hand against his shoulder, jolting him away from his thoughts. “Let’s get you back to bed. You should rest while you can.” She paused. “Does Zara know?”
Danyael nodded.
“And Galahad?”
He shook his head. “And he cannot, nor Gage. Not until this is over, one way or another.”
“Why?”
“Right now, Gage believes he can afford to wait me out. If he realizes his window is six weeks or less, he may take a harder road.” And I’m not sure I can survive a harder road. His fingers traced the silver collar around his neck. At least Gage had not turned it on again, not after that first time, but the threat was always present.
“So what do we do, Danyael?”
He released his breath in a sigh. “I don’t have to give in to Gage’s demands, but it’s Galahad’s show now.”
“Why? Psychic shields or no, you can kill Gage if he touches you, and he has.”
“If I kill Gage, Galahad learns nothing.”
Joyce’s eyes widened. “You’re turning this crisis into a teachable moment for Galahad?”
“Gage isn’t the problem; he’ll be dead in five years. Galahad, on the other hand, could be alive for two hundred years or more. He will outlive me; he will be around when I can no longer protect Zara and Laura. More than anyone, he has the potential and the power to change the world.” Danyael leaned against the wall and dragged himself upright. He raked trembling fingers through his hair. “I can afford to wait out my remaining weeks and give Galahad a chance to redeem himself. What I can’t afford…what the world can’t afford, is Galahad turning into another Gage.” Unutterably weary, Danyael closed his eyes. “The council appointed me Galahad’s jury, judge, and executioner. Galahad has six weeks to prove that he can be different, or I’ll kill him too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
T minus twelve
Gage is fucking with my head.
His face impassive, Galahad spun into a kick. The impact slammed his clone against wall. A grimace of pain passed over the flawless features, but his clone recovered quickly—almost as quickly as Galahad himself might have. The clone swung out. Deliberately, Galahad took the next hit though he could have evaded it. He had to blend in with the others, even if it meant being subpar, being less than he could be.
The razor sharp studs on the clone’s leather glove tore gashes in his face.
Pain flashed for an instant before his flesh twitched, the open cuts stitching together. Galahad spared a glance at the large screen that dominated the length of the training room. The remote camera feed from Danyael’s cell displayed larger-than-life images of an alpha empath in agony.
His wrists cuffed together, the chain looped through the rail of the bed above his head, Danyael was not permitted the comfort of curling into a fetal ball. His body shook with silent, choking sobs as the empathic links forced him to absorb the pain and injury of each blow taken by the six people engaged in a free-for-all in the training room. Joyce hovered over Danyael, her hands fluttering, her haggard face set in lines of distress.
Gage stood on the far side of the training room, his gaze alternating between the screen and the open brawl. A faint frown marked his face and his dark eyes were troubled. He glanced at his watch and then held up his hand.
The fight halted. Six faces turned expectantly to him.
“Any serious injuries?” Gage asked.
“No,” Galahad replied after a moment of silence when it was clear that no one else would. “You told us to avoid inflicting brain and heart injuries.”
“Absorbing those would almost certainly kill Danyael.” Gage stared at the screen and shook his head, his expression dismayed. “Even so…”
“There are many ways to seriously injure a man without striking the heart or brain.” Galahad glanced at the screen. It was a miracle that Danyael was still conscious after an hour of what was essentially a six-on-one assault.
Gage released his breath, a shaky sound. “Come with me.” The six accompanied him through the well-lit corridors that led them from the clone quarters and into the large central shaft. Galahad followed Gage across the narrow walkway and spared a glance down into the inky blackness. The design would not have passed the safety code in the U.S.
“It’s a ventilation chamber,” Gage said without looking back. “Our underground laboratory is fueled by heat from the Earth’s core. It’s the first of its kind.”
“And you designed it?”
“Oh, the laboratory was here long before I arrived, but yes, I adapted its energy source. I needed something to do in between tinkering with age acceleration and memory splicing. It kept me busy.”
The project must have cost billions. “Who pays for this?”
Gage looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I’m sure you’d like to know, Galahad.”
He’s definitely fucking with my mind.
But Gage did not order his clones to attack Galahad. In fact, he did not seem to consider Galahad a threat. Only Danyael had dismissed Galahad as lightly. That fact galled him.
The walkway intersected with others over the ventilation shaft, creating a network of bridges and staircases that connected the rooms over the three floors of the underground laboratory. The path they took was a familiar one; it led to the windowless cell where Danyael and Joyce were held captive.
Gage tapped a numeric code into the security keypad, and the door slid open. He glanced at Galahad. “You come with me. The rest of you wait here.”
Joyce looked up, her usually gentle brown eyes narrowed with hate. “You sick, cruel man!”
Gage strode to the bed, Galahad a few steps behind him.
Danyael’s eyes were open, though Galahad doubted he saw anything. The black orbs were glazed with anguish, and Danyael’s shuddering breaths were shallow, each one an effort. The alpha empath curled on his side, his
legs drawn up to his chest, his hands still cuffed to the bedrails above his head.
With gentleness Galahad had not expected, Gage unlocked the cuffs, straightened Danyael’s limbs, and then tugged the sheets over Danyael’s body. Gage stared down into pain-dazed eyes. “Heal me, please.”
Danyael’s eyes focused on Gage’s face and his lips shaped a word. “No.”
Gage slammed his fist down. It punched the pillow a fraction of an inch from Danyael’s face. “You can’t hold out forever.”
Danyael did not flinch. He managed a faint smile in response. His eyes closed and after a moment, his tension-wracked body relaxed.
Alarmed, Gage held his hand under Danyael’s nose, and then he too relaxed. “He’s unconscious. We’ll let him rest; he needs it.” He looked at Joyce. “I’ll send dinner in a few hours, including nutrient pills for him. I know empathic healing triggers nausea, but he might be able to keep the pills down.”
Her lips pressed into a tight line and her nostrils flared. “It doesn’t make you any less a monster.”
“This may be hard for you to believe, but I don’t get any pleasure out of hurting Danyael.” Gage looked down at the unconscious alpha empath. His shoulders sagged with a silent sigh. “Of all my donors, he was the only one worthy of my respect.” Gage shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Tell him, please.”
Joyce lifted her chin and snorted.
Gage turned and stalked out of the cell, slamming the door shut after Galahad exited with him. “We’re done for today. Back to your quarters.”
The clones turned away.
“Not you, Galahad.” Gage shrugged away Galahad’s cool gaze. “The food they eat isn’t suitable for you. Their food is laced with a gamma hydroxybutyrate derivative to keep them obedient and manageable.”
“And I suppose you designed the drug too?”
Gage shrugged. “The technicians keep the lab running, but the research I do on my own. Science doesn’t have exactly what I need, but it has enough of the bare bones for me to build upon the greatness of others. This way.” He led Galahad across the walkways over the ventilation shaft and up a narrow metal staircase to a room on the third floor. The door opened into a modest-sized suite. The furnishings were almost as austere as those of Danyael’s cell, though the tables that lined the walls sagged beneath the weight of networked computers and stacks of binders. Apparently, paper was not entirely an artifact of an ancient age yet.
