The clone frowned. “We’re supposed to be preparing for departure tomorrow.” His head tilted again. “What do you think that will be like?”
The others had already lost interest in him, milling about bunk beds or playing cards. “It will be better than here, that’s for sure.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am.” Nick slipped on the long-sleeved gray t-shirt that he had tucked into the waistband of his pants, donning the uniform that the clones wore. “Are there extra shoes? I seem to have lost mine.”
The clone nodded. “Of course, you know where the garments are.”
Nick bit his lip.
The clone’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, you are serious?” He pointed toward one of the small canvas doors within the tent. “Over there.”
Nick’s thoughts whirled as he laced a pair of black boots. We’re supposed to be preparing for departure tomorrow. Outside the tent, the guards would be looking for him, ready to kill him, or worse, send him back into that slumber room where the other bodies resided in suspended animation.
But here, inside the tent, they wouldn’t find him. He was already here. Dozens of him. He needed to pretend to be himself and, well, not himself at the same time. Then maybe he’d have a chance at departure tomorrow too. Anywhere out of this captivity, he thought he would have a better shot at escape, a better shot at reuniting with Kelsey. Just be myself—and not myself. That should be easy, right?
Seven
Nick stood for a moment under the drab olive canvas that rustled with the wind outside. If he strained his ears, he could hear the whisper of leaves and limbs as they shook and brushed against each other in the jungle canopy. Mostly, though, he heard the sound of his own voice; a multitude of his voice. Each face he saw was his own, as if he existed in a dream world and watched himself from a hundred different angles. Yet, as familiar as they appeared, the other men’s gestures and expressions seemed strange and different. Dizziness swept through him as his vision swam and he grabbed hold of a bed rail. He waited for the lightheadedness to subside and fought through the panic and confusion.
He squeezed his eyelids shut, certain that the drugs he’d been slipped at the rave still circulated in his bloodstream and skewed his reality. But he couldn’t change the other men’s faces when he opened his eyes.
They were him. He was stuck in this nightmare.
Out of instinct, he patted the place in his waistband where he had tucked the Glock when first entering the barracks. It was no longer there, though; afraid that carrying a pistol around the tent would bring him unwanted attention, he’d hidden the gun underneath the large wooden crate that held the extra boots and clothes. He hoped it had not been a mistake to part with his weapon so soon.
All across the dirt floor and rusted bunk beds, copies of him wore gray uniforms with random numbers printed on the left side of their long-sleeved shirts. He assumed each number identified the clones and estimated there could be as many as a hundred of them crammed into the tent. If it were any other day, any other place, he might wonder if PTSD had gripped him as the post-deployment army psychologists had warned.
As an Exo-Specialist in the army, he had stalked the dense Congo rainforest with the augmented strength and protection of an Exosuit, on the prowl for Congo Resistance Movement paramilitary groups. Few airborne drones could navigate the entangling thickets and winding tree trunks, so his unit had been responsible for delving into the forests to clear out CRM soldiers from their hideaways in the dense foliage. President Canton had promised that the occupation of the Congo would end as soon as they eliminated the CRM forces responsible for systematic ethnic genocide throughout central and southern Africa. The CRM had transformed themselves from a long-ignored fringe military group into a seemingly unstoppable war machine that cut through Angola and Zambia on their way to South Africa. They had built a small empire. Each time Canton announced a decisive victory in stronghold cities like Lusaka or Kolwezi, the CRM would multiply like roaches and take back what they had lost.
In a world where remote warfare ruled, many special forces units still retained all-human squads. Technologies to immobilize mechanized drone units by cutting off communications or frying electronics with electromagnetic pulses had become more and more common in the Congo. Resilient and responsive, real live humans could adapt to such situations far easier. More importantly, humans served as cheaper fodder than the mechanized units or drones that cost millions of dollars to build and operate. The economics of human soldiers made utilizing them even more popular within groups like the CRM that could not afford to keep up with the advanced technology coming out of countries like the United States.
Now, he wondered if the CRM’s secret to rapid growth had less to do with the repugnant tradition of conscripting children into their armies and more to do with a taste for clone soldiers. The CRM officer he’d killed might not have been a first-time customer. It sickened him to think that these clones, born and bred to be soldiers, would still be more affordable and dispensable than drone weapons. These facilities had introduced a new era of slavery. While he did not subscribe to a religion, he still felt the idea of cloning an entire human being impinged on his moral fiber. Pretending to be gods, these men had cloned him without his consent. They had stolen his genetic material to create hundreds of these beings and imprisoned the clones at birth with no chance to live free lives.
And now, his clones were going to fight for the enemies that he’d once fought against.
“Would you like to play a game of cards?”
Nick stared at the clone, admiring the vibrant life in the man’s dark brown eyes—Nick’s eyes. The replicate spoke almost perfect English that unsettled Nick nearly as much as his appearance in this foreign land. “No, I’m okay.”
“I know that you’re okay. You don’t appear sick or hurt. But would you like to play cards?”
Raising an eyebrow, Nick exhaled. “I mean that I don’t want to play cards.”
The man scratched his head. “You have a funny way of saying things.”
“That’s the normal way of saying things.”
For a moment, the clone furrowed his brow. His uncanny appearance unnerved Nick. The replicate turned and invited another clone to a game of cards. The growth chambers that Blue Gloves had mentioned before might have done wonders for accelerating the physical growth of the replicates, but it appeared to leave much to be desired in the way of mental and psychological development.
Around him, his clones spent their time playing rummy or talking in pleasant voices with faces that bespoke a calm contentment. He wondered how the clones had picked up these games and their congenial attitudes.
It also seemed strange that they spoke English. Given that English had become an almost universal language, he figured the facilitators here had taught the clones English to make them easier to sell. Maybe it made them more marketable as soldiers for purchase.
He wandered between the rows of bunk beds in the enormous tent. The clones near the end he’d come from tended to play the most games and spoke with half-smiles on their face. As he approached the opposite end, more clones kept to themselves. Many read paper books—a novelty he had not seen in years—or talked in low, trenchant voices. He slowed as he approached a bunk where two clones sat side by side on the bottom bed in furtive conversation. Tight scowls etched their faces and their hands shook in small, angry gestures. Both glared as he drew near and their exchange ceased until he continued on.
A sudden whipping of the canvas doors down the aisle revealed two guards with tight scowls, dressed in camouflage fatigues and heavy black boots. They carried a resurrected brand of weapons, Danish Madsen assault rifles, slung over their shoulders. One of the guards held a small silver object shaped like a pistol—an electric crowd stunner. The two guards scanned the tent. All conversation and games between the clones quieted as eyes transfixed on the soldiers.
Nick retreated between the bunks. He pulled down the sleeve of his shirt over where the Chip had been to
rn from his skin. A bead of sweat rolled down his back and his heart stopped when one of the guards caught his eyes. His old combat instincts kicked in and he maintained a calm composure.
But inside, he reeled in fear. He wouldn’t see Kelsey again. The guards had discovered him. They’d shoot him right here. He’d never get to tell her he was sorry for disappearing, never tell her he was sorry for abandoning her. It took every fiber in his body to prevent himself from crumpling and sobbing like a frightened child.
The guard’s gaze moved to another clone. Nick exhaled. His bottom lip quivered.
Both intruders appeared on edge as they sauntered into the middle of the tent. They stopped near where he had interrupted the two clones. The guard with the stunner swiveled his head from side to side. Addressing the barracks, he posed an angry question in a foreign language.
Without access to his receiver, Nick could not translate the man’s words.
The guard stamped his foot and his voice shook with anger. His voice rose out again in thunder as he pointed at the clones. Nick figured the man wanted the clones to give him an answer, but he could not tell what the question had been.
When none of the clones responded, the guard stepped toward one of them. He grabbed the collar of the man’s shirt and stretched it until the fabric ripped. The clone stood as the soldier’s face scrunched up in a snarl and he demanded a response.
The clone’s eyes darted around the room. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Nick.
His heart slammed in his ribcage as he fought to appear natural, to appear as though he belonged in this room full of men made from his DNA. He gulped.
Eyes narrowed, the clone responded in the guard’s language and shook his head. His voice seemed laced with venom, a far cry from the almost jubilant voices of the clones Nick had first encountered in the tent.
Shoving the clone back onto the bed, the guard scanned the room again. Nick’s fingers trembled as he prayed the guards wouldn’t come to interrogate him. Unlike the clones, who were apparently bilingual, he spoke only English. He could conform solely through silence.
Another guard said something in a low voice to the man with the stunner. The guard sighed and pointed to a clone. He gestured around to the rest of them. It seemed from the man’s body language that they were talking about appearances. Nick wondered if they were trying to describe him, to search for him in this room full of identical people.
One clone spoke out and asked the guard a question. Slamming his fist on the rail of the nearest bunk bed, the guard threw a hand in the air. He yelled and pointed to a spot on his forearm where a small scar was visible from his own Chip implantation. Nick slid a hand up his arm and tugged down his sleeve again. Before storming out, one guard pointed to the bunks and barked another command.
Murmurs resounded around the tent as clones looked at each other with expressions of surprise and disappointment. After the guards left, the eyes of a couple clones near Nick bored holes into the side of his face. He froze, wondering how to appear natural. Minutes ago, he thought it would be easy to pretend to be another version of himself. Now, those vapid hopes dissipated into the cool winds that howled through the jungle. He might appear like them, but he felt like a stranger in their midst. Their shared physical appearance had given him hope that he’d blend in and escape from his pursuers. But this hope was turning out to be no more than a mirage in a desert, a false promise of a life-saving oasis.
The card games and conversations had not resumed since the guards left. Instead, the clones took turns disappearing into the attached tents that appeared to be their latrines. Five such latrines with separate entrances lined the wall of the barracks. Clones went in and out, scrubbing their faces and brushing their teeth with actual toothbrushes.
He marveled at the sight. He had always used the dissolving fizzer that would automatically clean his teeth when he popped the small pill into his mouth. He knew toothbrushes existed, but they were relegated to undeveloped, impoverished countries. He’d never used one himself.
Knowing he couldn’t stand by the bunks without appearing conspicuous, he walked to the nearest latrine. A long bench stood over a large, open trench that served as a communal toilet. The stench of the exposed waste assaulted his nostrils. He turned back to the sinks where a rack held rows of toothbrushes. He took one at random, brushed his teeth, and replaced it.
The clone next to Nick paused and cocked his head. “Are you trying to piss him off?”
“What?”
“One-Oh-Six. Are you trying to piss him off?”
This man’s demeanor was far harsher and more organic than the clones Nick had first encountered. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You used One-Oh-Six’s toothbrush and you put it back in the wrong place,” the clone said. “Look at you. You don’t even belong in here. Your sinks are at the other end, newbie.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Shit.” The clone spun around. “You new-breeds are all the same. Goddamn children.”
Nick stood for a moment in the doorway of the latrine, confused and unsure what he should do. Another clone pushed past him with an air of impatience and brought him back to his senses. Again, he scanned the room to get a sense of what the clones considered normal behavior. His armpits felt damp with sweat and his heart pounded. He worried that alone would set off alarms in the clones’ heads and it would be only minutes before he was reported. He needed to seem confident, yet relaxed.
Waiting for several minutes, he walked toward a bunk bed left empty after most of the clones seemed to have found a spot to sleep. Following suit, he folded his shirt and placed it on a small shelf near the end of the bed. A folded pair of shorts sat on the shelf. He took them, replacing the long gray pants of the clones’ uniform with the shorts. After watching other clones settle into bed, he did the same.
He forced himself to relax as an immense tiredness spread in his limbs. His muscles and feet ached. It seemed to him as though he hadn’t lain down in weeks or months. The metal frame of the bed dug through the thin mattress and pressed against his spine, but that did not deter him from closing his eyes. He could sleep here. Wake up. Ship out with the others. Just another day until they got out of this hellish prison camp. If they intended to sell him with the others as a soldier, he would be given a weapon. He would welcome the familiar comfort of a rifle in hand, something more substantial to aid in his escape.
Pinching his eyelids closed tight again, he wished he could tap into his AR lenses. With them, he could use the night vision he needed and access GPS systems. He could bring up a map to guide him through whatever unfamiliar terrain he found himself in and could send a video or text message to Kelsey. His fingers crept over his left forearm and he rubbed the spot where the Chip had been extracted. He felt naked and vulnerable. No, even if he could use his AR lenses, he would need the Chip to tap into the Net again. All he carried now were his organic senses and instincts. That would have to be enough.
Eight
Two hands gripped Nick’s shoulders and shook him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The guards had found him. He’d be killed, taken out of the tent and shot. Or worse. Put back in that cave of bodies, hooked up to the machines that kept him on the brink of life. His heart raced and his eyes shot open.
“What the hell are you doing, you dumbass?” The voice belonged not to a guard, but instead to a face just like his own, speaking English. “Get the hell out of my bed.”
As the clone’s face turned red, Nick held his hands out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know?” The clone pulled him out of the bed. He cocked back a fist.
Nick held his hands up defensively. “I didn’t know it was your bed.”
Several clones had taken interest, their faces stolid and staring at the two. “The hell you didn’t. How dumb do you think I am? What are you trying to do here?”
“I didn’t know.”
The clone punched.
Nick raised an arm, deflecting the blow.
“You better start telling the damned truth,” the clone said. “Are you trying to get me killed?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The clone struck at him again and Nick dodged the blow. “I’m sorry...”
“Sorry? You’re going to get us all killed if you pull shit like that again.”
The clone cocked his fist back again and Nick tried to recoil, but the man grabbed Nick’s shoulder. Unable to dodge, he closed his eyes as his attacker punched. A loud smack of skin against skin sounded but he felt no impact.
He opened his eyes. Another clone stood by him. The intervening man’s hand wrapped around the aggressor’s fist. “Let him go, One-Oh-Nine. I’ll take care of him. The guards don’t need to know about anything that might get us in trouble.”
His teeth gritted and his eyes drawn in thin slits, One-Oh-Nine stared at the other clone. Slowly, he let his fist fall to his side. He shoved Nick into another bed. “If he shows up over here again, I’ll kill him. You know what they’ll do if they think we aren’t obeying them.”
The clones on this end of the tent acted far more serious and dangerous than those on the other end. He made a mental note to be more cautious around them as his savior tugged him along. The clone shoved Nick against one of the support poles of the tent and leaned in close. “If you don’t want us to report you, you need to stay in line.”
He squirmed. “Report me? Why would you report me?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You’re not one of us.” The clone tilted his head to indicate the others near him. “I can tell.”
Nick opened his mouth to protest again.
“Stop denying it. You clearly have no idea what you’re doing around here. If you want to survive, you’re going to need to learn not to piss the rest of us off.”
“I understand.” He nodded. “I’m not trying to get in anyone’s way.”
The clone narrowed his eyes and spoke in a lowered voice. “That guard asked if anyone had come in here and One-Twenty lied to him.”
The Human Forged Page 4
