2156

by C M Dancha

  "Who was that, Ingrid?"

  "Oh, that's the new girl who took over the Archives Department. She's only been here a week or so. I ate lunch with her the other day. She's very nice."

  Rollie didn't respond or go on to explain the assignments. He stood there thinking about the woman who walked by his office at a rather hurried pace.

  Ingrid took the silence as an opportunity to poke a little fun at her boss. "Why do you ask? Do you think she's attractive?"

  The tongue-in-cheek questions broke his concentration enough, so he looked again at Ingrid and responded.

  "I know that woman from somewhere. I've seen those eyes before."

  Chapter Four

  The Berlin Cell

  "I believe we finally have the answer to our leadership problem and how to move our plans forward."

  Krieger was the unofficial spokesman for the Tiger Cell of the Black Cross movement. In his mid-thirties, he was older than the other cell members and a veteran of various terrorist campaigns throughout the world. His initial terrorist training started at age 16. He joined the Chin Flay Liberation Front to fight against the central government in Mongolia. From there he moved on to the Andes Mountains to join and fight with several right-wing rebel groups. In twenty years as an insurgent and rebel, the cause always remained the same no matter where he was in the world. Overthrow puppet governments put in place by the World Council.

  German-born, Krieger tried to project an upbeat attitude toward the Black Cross movement. This was important to keep the younger members in line, prevent desertions and promote the recruitment of new members. It also played a significant role in attracting world credits from people who hated the World Council anarchy. These donors wanted change but weren't willing to get their hands dirty by fighting in an armed conflict against the Council's forces.

  What Krieger kept hidden was that he was getting tired of being a target. He had enough of being shot at, wounded and living like a frightened puppy. Always looking over his shoulder and waiting to be sold out or discovered by a World Council employee or snitch wasn't much of a life. He was getting too old for this crap and knew he was on borrowed time. Every other terrorist he befriended through the years was dead. They were either killed in conflict or blacklisted from the world credits program and succumbed to starvation or disease.

  He promised himself that this would be his last campaign. If it failed, he would do something else regardless of how insignificant it might be. He might end up washing floors or dishes or some other menial task in the underground economy because he had no legitimate resume. Plus, there wasn't a big demand for has-been terrorists.

  The thought of living his remaining years as a flunky was repulsive, especially when he thought of the opportunity he wasted nineteen years earlier. His father, a wealthy executive in Zone 4, somehow bypassed the annual lottery and got Krieger a zone position. Being an over-energetic idealist at the time, Krieger rejected the offer and went on to become a full-time terrorist. In his opinion, accepting the zone position would be a silent vote for the World Council. At the time, it seemed like a perfectly sound decision to turn down the position. But now he looked back and mentally kicked himself in the ass for being so stupid.

  Of course, the old man disowned Krieger. He would never get another opportunity to live in a quasi-capitalistic society. His chance at the "good life" evaporated into thin air like a wisp of smoke from his Cudis assault rifle.

  "What do you mean, Krieger? What's going on?” The questions came from an attractive young lady who joined the Tiger Cell less than three months earlier.

  "I don't know all the details yet, but we are being fed information about a Swiss company that has perfected human cloning. Our unknown source claims to have first-hand knowledge. Supposedly, a cloned human might be produced from a small cell sample taken from a corpse." Krieger purposely gave the group a vague explanation, so they thought the leak at the Swiss biotech company was communicating with someone higher up in the Black Cross organization. For his own safety, he thought it best that no one in the Tiger Cell know he was the contact person for the leak.

  The group of twelve Tiger members sat silent for a couple of minutes digesting what Krieger said. Some of them pretended to understand the consequences of such a technology break-through. In reality, all of them were still confused by Krieger's announcement. What difference could artificial beings have to the Black Cross and its goal of bringing down the World Council?

  "Krieger, I may be a dunce but what does this development have to do with our cause?"

  "You're not a dunce, Trish." It was the same young lady who spoke up earlier.

  "You just need time to think of what this innovative technology could mean to us. I've spent the last couple of days thinking about what we could do with this technology. The more I thought about it, the more possibilities I came up with. For example, what if our fallen comrades never die? We take their bodies and bring them back to fight again. Think of how your entire life as a Tiger would change. Instead of always be overly cautious, you could fight with reckless abandon knowing you couldn't die."

  "That's pretty cool, Krieger, but do we know if the artificial clones would have the same dedication to our cause and want to fight? Do the replicants always come back with the same memories, ideas, and beliefs? Or do they come back as an empty slate which needs to be filled with new experiences and values? In other words, do they have to learn how to be human all over again?"

  These insightful questions came from Ivan, the Croatian freedom fighter. He had the second longest tenure in the Tiger Cell behind Krieger.

  "Great questions, Ivan. Unfortunately, no one knows the answers yet. From what we know so far, the Swiss company has only brought back one animal. They have yet to attempt human cloning. Until a human replicant is produced no one will know the answer to your questions. So in the meantime, we need to go about our business and wait to see if this technology is real and what value it has to our cause."

  "How long is that going to take, Krieger?"

  "I'm sorry Ivan, I don't have that information. Our contact in the Swiss company is being very cautious with the frequency and amount of information she releases."

  "So our contact is a woman? Why is she feeding us information?"

  "Trish, the contact is a woman, but I don't know why she is cooperating with us. I'm sure someone knows why, but I don't. She obviously has some sympathy for our cause or knows..." Krieger stopped, realizing his rambling wasn't based on facts but rather speculation on his part.

  "Guys, the bottom line is that I don't know why she is giving us this information."

  The group stopped asking questions when they realized Krieger couldn't offer any more information. They broke into smaller groups to socialize and kick around wild guesses and theories about interacting with clones.

  As Krieger meandered from one group to another, he was pleasantly surprised by what he heard. There were great ideas raised on how this technology might be used by Black Cross and the Tiger cell to achieve their ultimate goals. He had no idea some of the cell's members were so creative.

  One comment he overheard was that clones would be reborn without the micro-monitoring device lodged in their kidneys. It was such an obvious thought. So obvious that he overlooked it during the last couple of days as he thought through the ramifications of having access to a CR47 machine. What a wonderful alternative to having the microdevice surgically removed from the kidney. He still could see the scar from having this surgery done years before.

  But he was more amazed that not one word was mentioned about using this technology to bring back leaders from history. The one thing most terrorist's groups lacked was strong leadership from a dynamic, intelligent individual who could plan and motivate the membership to a point of frenzied loyalty. A mediocre leader always led movements to destruction. A strong leader created fanatics who followed him blindly as though they were following a god. That's exactly what the Black Cross needed to overthrow the Wo
rld Council; a human god.

  Chapter Five

  Macon, Georgia

  In a low raspy voice, the old black woman spoke from the bed she was tethered to for over two months. "Georgie, why do you always have to argue with me? Can't you just once do what I ask?"

  Grandma LeeLee's death bed request wasn't difficult. It would take about thirty minutes to do. All he had to do was wrap a small maple wood box in a protective shipping container, take it to a nearby transport station and send it to the Swiss Zone. It was a reasonable request from his dying grandmother except for one thing. He had to ship the box to his younger brother, Rodolfo, who he considered a traitor to the Sweats family and World Council.

  M.C. Sweats, also known as Georgie to his 112-year-old great-grandmother, didn't want anything to do with his brother, Rodolfo. As far as he was concerned, Rodolfo died the day he left the family and moved to the Swiss Zone of Cooperative Thought. It didn't matter that Rodolfo sent hundreds of world credits to the Sweats family each month. He went out of his way to help them live a little bit better than most other families. And it didn't matter that he also sent gifts to each member of the Sweats family. He never missed their birthdays or year-end commemoration of World Unification Week.

  M.C. knew the year-end presents were really meant to celebrate the outlawed religious holiday known as Christmas. For the other members of the Sweats clan, it didn't matter one iota what the presents commemorated or celebrated. They loved receiving new clothes, toys, gadgets, appliances, and foodstuffs from Rodolfo. Everything they received kept them a step above poverty level. To them, Rodolfo was more benevolent and understanding than the central government which provided just enough to maintain a subservient existence. Rodolfo was a hero to all the Sweats except M.C. and a few distant uncles.

  It burned M.C.'s ass that his brother enjoyed such respect and appreciation. Who ran off to live a life of privilege in a free zone? And, who stayed behind to confront the daily problems of the Sweats family? It was easy sending gifts from the other side of the world. But, the real sacrifice was taking care of and watching every step taken by a group of under-educated, naive people like the Sweats.

  When Rodolfo's gifts arrived, the real challenge began for M.C. Each time he had to warn the family members not to flaunt their new gifts around town. Otherwise, they risked drawing the attention of government agents. The last thing the family needed was government scrutiny. M.C. had to make sure none of the Sweats appeared to have a better life than anyone else. It was important that everyone looked equally poor.

  The gifts from the zone were easy to spot due to their quality. But when the Sweats bragged about their gifts it made things dicier. M.C. knew it was a matter of time before someone in the family was tagged for violating the Standard of Living Codes. That person would most likely lose their allocation of world credits. Then, undue hardship would be placed on the remaining family members trying to keep the violator fed, housed and alive.

  Each time a transport agent arrived at the Sweats family home with a load of packages, M.C. wanted to write "no such person—no forwarding address" on the boxes. He'd love to see Rollie's face when they were returned. But he had yet to develop enough inner strength and courage to do this. He knew he would get caught and that would lead to more family turmoil than accepting the gifts. Until he thought of a way to deal with this delicate situation, he would let his hatred boil over each time the gifts arrived or heard the name, Rollie.

  M.C.'s thoughts about his brother were interrupted by LeeLee's wheezing and labored breathing. He didn't want to be at her bedside when she died but it looked more and more likely that was going to happen. Even though they argued often, he loved the old woman who was more of a parent to him than his own mother.

  For M.C., it was much easier watching an acquaintance or stranger die than someone he was emotionally bonded to. In fact, there was so much death occurring in the Macon area he became detached and callous to it. Malnutrition and inadequate medical health services resulted in alarming death rates. He ignored the problem and only spoke about the dead when he was drugging it up with his buddies and they needed something to laugh about.

  "Georgie, are you going to do what I ask, or do I have to send the Haints after you?"

  "Grandma, I'll send the box to Rodolfo. Just for you, my dear, just for you." M.C. took her hand and stroked it gently hoping to ease the pain and open the door a little wider for her departure. After all, living to over a hundred was almost unheard of. Rationed food and few medical supplies and equipment had reduced the average life expectancy by 15 years compared to rates before the FISS plague.

  She had lived a good life and it was now time to join her relatives in the afterlife if there was one. Besides, extending her life by using rationed drugs and technology was denying a young person of those lifesaving items. M.C. understood this philosophy but had difficulty explaining it to the rest of the family. They couldn't understand or agree with M.C.'s explanation of why Grandma's hastened departure would benefit the rest of society.

  As he sat at her bedside watching her soul slip away, M.C. couldn't help thinking back to their time together. Each laugh, argument and silent moment they shared raced through his mind. He almost laughed out loud when he thought about LeeLee's threat to send the Haints after him.

  He had been hearing about the Haints for as long as he could remember. She used them to scare kids, and sometimes adults, into doing things they didn't want to do. Grandma described Haints as departed souls who hung around Earth because they were having difficulty taking the last step into the spirit world. Having nothing better to do, the Haints made life miserable for anyone who was difficult or naughty by Grandma's standards. This was especially true of kids, who refused to do their chores or go to bed at night.

  Grandma LeeLee started every Haints story the same. "This is the way your great-great-great-grandfather told the story. Ya all know he was a slave on a cotton plantation in Mississippi." She then launched into a detailed Haints story which took at least twenty minutes to tell. By the conclusion, the younger children were frightened out of their wits. The older kids begged to leave and get back to the important job of horsing around. Clever Grandma LeeLee kept them at her side until they agreed to do whatever chore she assigned.

  Grandma's description and stories about the Haints were endless. M.C. couldn't ever remember hearing the same story twice. For him, her stories were entertaining, but he never considered the Haints as scary as real ghosts. What scared the hell out of him though was Grandma's LeeLee's belief in the existence of the Haints. She shuddered when she spoke about them and the look in her eyes was as convincing as the sky was blue.

  At age 40, M.C. was agnostic toward the existence of Haints. He could argue all he wanted about the Haints being lies or fables. Grandma LeeLee always came right back with five reasons from Haints folklore proving they were real. After years of arguing he gave up and declared them a possibility.

  At two o'clock in the morning M.C.'s mother, Frontane Sweats, took over sitting at Grandma's death bedside. M.C. crawled into bed to get a few hours of sleep before heading to the government distribution center where he was an allocation specialist. The four to five hours per day he spent at the distribution center were a great diversion from his boring life. It was so rewarding and fulfilling he wished he could contribute more hours per week to his post which was the socialist version of a job. But the government had strict rules about the number of hours each citizen could contribute. A mere 20 hours a week was all it took to maintain a person's value to society status. The last thing M.C. wanted to do was violate the government work code and blemish his perfect record.

  After leaving the distribution center, M.C. headed to the transport station to send Grandma's box to Rollie. If Grandma LeeLee was still alive by the time he got home, he didn't want to face her cross-examination about whether he sent the box.

  Before wrapping the box, he couldn't resist looking inside. He wanted to see what was so damn impor
tant that it must be sent to the Swiss Zone at an outrageous expense to the Sweats family. As he suspected, there wasn't anything important inside the box. In fact, it was empty except for a brief note from Grandma LeeLee which read: Rodolfo: what I promised you long ago. I've received word from Him that you need this now. Remember what I told you. The obvious isn't always obvious. Love Grandma.

  He was sure this woman was going to drive him crazy before she left this world. He knew she had strong religious beliefs but now she was communicating directly with God, the made-up Creator and Lord of the Universe. Who else could she be referring to when she used the word, Him? At least he got a little bit of humor out of this. He could see her in his cartoon bubble talking on a micromic communicator to the heavens or wherever God called home.

  And, what was the comment, "the obvious isn't always obvious" supposed to mean? It wasn't enough that she spoke to the Creator of Man, she also used code language to talk with her favorite grandson. M.C. laughed to himself thinking about his brother reading this sentence. He could see Rollie scratching his head in Zurich trying to decode and figure out its meaning.

  M.C. was tempted to toss the box in the trash, go home and lie to Grandma about having sent it to the Swiss Zone. As much as he wanted to do this, he knew he couldn't look her straight in the eyes and claim to have followed her instructions. Even with poor vision, she would feel his deceit. Somehow, she always knew when a kid was lying to her.

  After the moment of reconsideration, M.C. wrapped the box, paid the transport fee and sent it on its way. He could now quit being irritated by the entire ordeal and face his grandmother with a clear conscious.