by James Morcan
THE ORPHAN UPRISING
Book Three in The Orphan Trilogy
(Sequel to The Ninth Orphan)
James & Lance
MORCAN
THE ORPHAN UPRISING
Published by:
Sterling Gate Books
52 Aranui Drive,
Papamoa 3118,
Bay of Plenty,
New Zealand
[email protected]
Copyright © James Morcan & Lance Morcan 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission by the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or they are used entirely fictitiously.
National Library of New Zealand publication data:
Morcan, James 1978-
Morcan, Lance 1948-
Title: The Orphan Uprising
Edition: First ed.
Format: Ebook
Publisher: Sterling Gate Books
ISBN: 978-0-473-23609-0
Prologue
Downtown Chicago’s streets were gridlocked and the Friday evening rush hour even more chaotic than usual as a result of three events that occurred simultaneously in the busy Loop district – an afterhours bank heist in State Street, a burst water main on Wabash Avenue and a fire callout to a hotel in Madison Street.
The heist ended almost before it began when the would-be robber accidentally shot himself in the thigh and had to be rushed to hospital for emergency surgery; the water main was brought under control within minutes and the fire turned out to be a false alarm. However, the unfortunate timing of these events ensured that Chicagoans had a long wait before the streets would be cleared and they reached home, or wherever it was they were heading. To add to their misery, the Windy City was living up to its name: a gale was blowing.
On nearby Michigan Avenue, commuters and pedestrians were too concerned with their own problems to notice a solitary blonde-haired woman who sat rocking, as if in a trance, on a bench on the sidewalk. She seemed oblivious to the cold wind that tore at her clothes. Had anyone observed her, they’d have thought she was a junkie or a homeless person, or both.
The woman was thirty-one-year-old Jennifer Hannar, though few from her past knew her by that name. Her official birth name was Number Seventeen – appropriate considering she was the seventeenth-born product of a top secret genetic experiment called The Pedemont Project.
There were twenty-two others like her, and like her they were all elite intelligence operatives – the beneficiaries of carefully selected genes that ensured they were superior in almost every way, physically and mentally, to the average human being. The Pedemont Orphans, as they were known, were all born within two years of each other. Each carried the genes of some of the world’s most intelligent men whose sperm donations had been secured courtesy of a clandestine medical trial called the Genius Sperm Bank. Its purpose was to advance the breeding of super-intelligent people.
While the orphans each had one mother, they all had numerous fathers. Their employer was the Omega Agency, a secretive outfit whose primary goal was to establish a New World Order. It was well on the way to achieving exactly that.
Seventeen recalled none of this. She hovered precariously on the brink of sanity and insanity – a result of something traumatic that had happened to her. Something that eluded her fragile memory. The former orphan-operative couldn’t even remember how she’d come to be sitting on the bench or how long she’d been there.
Memory flashes skittered through her brain like the lightning that now flashed across the dark sky above. She had brief recollections of being dismissed from the Omega Agency. Something to do with another botched assignment, they’d said. Fleeting memories of a drug-induced trip to a hospital, or was it a laboratory? Painful jabs from needles. Another trip, by train this time or perhaps by air. She wasn’t sure.
Try as she may, Seventeen couldn’t focus on her fleeting recollections long enough to make sense of them. She feared she was going mad.
However, for no apparent reason she had a clear memory of one thing: a street on Chicago’s Far South Side. What its significance was she hadn’t a clue, but something told her she had to find out. It was as if her life depended on it.
The traffic was moving again and Seventeen hailed a passing cab. It stopped and she climbed into the back seat.
“Where to?” the middle-aged African-American cabbie asked.
Seventeen’s mind went blank. The headlights of approaching vehicles momentarily blinded her, causing further confusion. Then it came back to her. “South Street, Riverdale,” she said hesitantly.
“Got a number?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
The truth was Seventeen hadn’t a clue what was drawing her to South Street. She couldn’t remember it was the location of the former Pedemont Orphanage, the only home she and her twenty-two fellow orphans had ever known up until their late teens. The orphanage had long since been demolished. Aside from the occasional brief flashbacks, Seventeen had no recollection of her childhood at all. For the moment, she could only think of one thing: getting to South Street, Riverdale.
Heavy traffic ensured the journey south was a slow one. When the cab reached Riverdale, Seventeen retrieved a small mirror from her handbag and studied her reflection. She hardly recognized herself. Her normally icy blue eyes were bloodshot, her hair straggly and her face pinched and drawn. She went to work with lipstick and blusher to make herself presentable – for who exactly, or what, still evaded her.
“We’re here,” the cabbie announced as the taxi pulled into a drab suburban street.
Seventeen looked at a street sign. It read: South Street.
“Let me know when you see it,” the cabbie ordered. He drove slowly to allow his fare time to study the houses on both sides of the dimly lit street.
Seventeen delved into her memory banks to try to remember what it was that had drawn her to this particular street in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Chicago. Nothing came to her. Then she saw it: a large, vacant section. “Stop here.”
The cab pulled up opposite the section. Nestled between two old houses, the property backed onto a block of apartments which, like the surrounding homes, had seen better days.
“Wait here,” Seventeen said as she climbed from the cab, crossed the street and stood on what was once The Pedemont Orphanage’s front lawn. Pulling her coat around her to help ward off the rain which was now falling, she studied the section and the surrounding homes. Why am I here? Nothing came to her.
A towering sycamore tree at the rear of the section caught her attention. The remains of an old tree hut could just be seen in its lower branches.
Seventeen could suddenly picture a young boy sitting in the tree hut with a white dog. Fragments of memories came to her. She remembered the same boy, binoculars in hand, climbing the tree.
Feelings of regret washed over her. Why, she couldn’t imagine. Another memory came to her. In her mind’s eye she could see an old man sitting on the front step of a neat bungalow. But it wasn’t here. It was in a plush part of town.
Seventeen turned and marched back to the cab. “Next stop the western suburbs,” she said to the cabbie as she climbed into the back seat.
“Got an address this time?”
Seventeen didn’t hesitate. “One twenty three College Ave, Glen Ellyn
.” As before, she hadn’t a clue what was significant about the address or who lived there.
Forty-five minutes later, the cab pulled up outside a neat bungalow in Glen Ellyn.
The cabbie looked at the meter then astutely studied his passenger in the rear-vision mirror. “Seventy-five dollars,” he said.
Only now did Seventeen pay any heed to the matter of payment. In her disorganized state, she’d overlooked the fact she had no cash or credit cards on her. She only remembered that when she looked into her empty purse. “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to have any money,” she mumbled.
“Goddammit, lady!” The cabbie reached over and snatched Seventeen’s purse from her. He quickly established she was telling the truth.
Before the irate cabbie could remonstrate further with her, Seventeen slipped the ruby ring she wore off her finger and handed it to the cabbie. “Will you take this instead?”
Still fuming, the cabbie studied the ring. He quickly calmed down when he realized it could be quite valuable. “Okay, but you better get out before I change my mind.”
Seventeen thanked the cabbie, climbed out and stood in the rain watching as the cab sped away. She then walked slowly up the concrete path leading to the bungalow’s front door. The place was in darkness, its occupant either asleep or away. Asleep she hoped. By the time she reached the door, she was crying. About what, she didn’t know.
It felt like a new experience for her. Seventeen couldn’t recall ever having cried before, nor could she make sense of the tears which now cascaded down her face.
Reaching the door, she rang its bell. No answer. She rang again for the same result. Still crying, she began banging on the door with her fist.
Finally, an interior light came on. Sounds of faint shuffling came from inside followed by the sound of someone fumbling with the door key. The door opened to reveal an elderly man. He was brandishing a walking stick, which he looked ready to use.
“Who the hell are you?” the old man asked.
“I’m Jennifer Hannar,” Seventeen sobbed. “Are you Sebastian Hannar?”
1
A man and a small boy knelt before a large, golden Buddha inside a Buddhist temple and recited an affirmation in well practiced unison.
I am a free man and a polymath.
Whatever I set my mind to, I always achieve.
The limitations that apply to the rest of humanity,
Do not apply to me.
A hundred flickering candles added to the tranquility of the setting. They’d been lovingly prepared by an elderly Buddhist monk who sat cross-legged just inside the temple door as he waited for his two guests to finish their devotions.
The distant sound of children playing outside carried to them on a gentle tropical breeze. Unfortunately, the breeze did little to alleviate the humidity, which was already oppressive even though the sun had not long risen. The temple’s occupants were drenched in sweat, but they were used to it: heat and humidity were part of everyday life in the Pacific Islands.
Finally, the guests arose and walked hand in hand toward the exit. The man was Sebastian Hannar, or Number Nine as he’d been unceremoniously labeled by the Omega Agency when he was brought into the world thirty-six eventful years ago; the boy was his five-year-old son Francis. They enjoyed the temple’s peaceful atmosphere and the togetherness they experienced within its confines, and so such visits had become a regular occurrence of late.
The affirmation they’d just recited was similar to one that Nine – for that’s how he still thought of himself – had been forced to recite every day of his life alongside the other twenty-two orphans raised at Omega’s Pedemont Orphanage in Riverdale, Chicago. Since breaking free of the agency five years earlier, Nine had changed the affirmation’s opening line from I am an Omegan and a polymath to I am a free man and a polymath.
Although the affirmation reminded him of a past he’d rather forget, it also served to remind him that not everything he’d experienced at the orphanage had been bad, and many of the lessons learned could be applied to everyday life.
As father-and-son approached, the elderly, bald-headed monk stood to receive them. Luang Alongkot Panchan, a native of Thailand, couldn’t help thinking how alike Nine and Francis were. Living in the tropics had darkened their skin so that they were hard to distinguish from the Marquesas Islanders who made up the bulk of the population in this remote corner of French Polynesia.
When the pair reached Luang, they bowed to him. He and Nine exchanged pleasantries. The ninth-born orphan treated the kindly monk with respect bordering on reverence. He viewed Luang as his adopted spiritual master.
Nine’s startling green eyes locked with Luang’s all-knowing eyes. There was much between them that was unsaid. Over the years, they’d come to know each other so well they could communicate without even speaking. Nine felt it was as if his friend could look into his soul and know him better than he knew himself.
Luang could see that Francis was straining to get outside and play, so he stepped aside and smiled at Nine. “Take care, my friend,” Luang said, bowing deeply with hands clasped in prayer.
“And you, my friend,” Nine said responding in kind.
The former orphan-operative allowed Francis to pull him by the hand outside. Though it was still early morning, the sun’s rays hit them like a furnace, serving as a rude reminder how hot it could get in the islands.
A cluster of frangipani trees some fifty yards away beckoned them, and the pair hurried toward the trees and the heavily pregnant woman who waited for them in the shade. She was Nine’s French-born biracial wife Isabelle, the mother of Francis.
“Race you!” Francis challenged his father.
“You’re on!” Nine said. “On three. One, two--”
The boy knew this game well and set off before Nine finished counting.
“Three, go!” Nine said. “Hey!” He took after his son whose athletic little legs were pumping like pistons. Nine quickly made up the lost ground, but slowed to make a race of it.
By now Francis was shrieking with laughter, alerting his mom to the imminent arrival of the two favorite men in her life.
“Faster, Francis!” Isabelle shouted in French.
Before the boy could reach his mom, Nine scooped him up with one arm and collapsed, panting, beside Isabelle. They were all laughing now.
As soon as he’d regained his breath, Nine kissed his wife tenderly. “Miss me?” he asked in English. As they’d done since first meeting, they effortlessly switched between English and French whenever they conversed with each other.
“Yes and so did our daughter,” Isabelle chuckled, rubbing her pregnant belly. This time she, too, spoke English, but there was no hiding the strong French inflection.
Nine placed his palm on her belly and immediately felt the baby kick. At the same time, he observed his wife lovingly. What a goddess. He never tired of her beauty. Thirty-three-year-old Isabelle’s French-African heritage combined with her strong accent gave her an exoticness that excited him even in her current state. Nine was convinced she looked more radiant than ever. It was obvious that motherhood and years of island living agreed with her.
“I’m thirsty,” Francis announced, breaking the mood.
Isabelle laughed and immediately produced a tumbler of freshly squeezed pineapple juice from a cooler, which the thirsty boy gulped down.
Squeals of delight carried to them from a nearby grove of coconut trees. Local island children were playing tag while their mothers looked on. The children didn’t seem to notice the heat. Beyond them, fishermen could be seen casting their nets into the turquoise waters of the bay. It was an idyllic scene so typical of this part of the world.
Francis recognized a couple of the children. “Can I go play, mama?”
“Of course you can, but don’t outstay your welcome!” Isabelle chuckled in French.
Francis ran off to play. His doting parents watched as he unabashedly introduced himself to the children and joined in their play.
“He makes friends so easily,” Isabelle said.
“Yes he does,” Nine agreed. “He gets that from you.”
“And from you,” Isabelle countered.
Nine shook his head. “No he has made more friends in the past year than I did in the first thirty years of my life.”
“Well, there’s a good reason for that, my love.” Isabelle kissed him tenderly.
“I guess.” Nine smiled. His eyes were drawn to the ruby that hung from the silver necklace Isabelle wore. He had inherited it from the mother he’d never known and had given it to Isabelle as a declaration of his love for her.
Isabelle noticed the object of his attention and reflexively touched the ruby. For some reason, its touch brought her comfort, as it had Nine when he’d worn it.
“Well, I must love you and leave you,” Nine announced.
Isabelle watched as her husband donned a pair of running shoes in preparation for his daily training run. “Don’t overdo it in this heat,” she warned.
“No, mother.”
“I mean it, Sebastian!”
“Don’t worry.” Smiling mischievously, Nine set off at a gentle pace. As always, he would pick the pace up as soon as he was out of his wife’s sight.
Isabelle’s concern was not without good reason. Nine had developed a heart condition, which his specialist had diagnosed as a relatively common complaint called stenosis – a narrowing of one of the heart valves.
The former operative had become aware all was not well soon after he and Isabelle had arrived in the tropics from France. Chest pains had prompted him to seek professional advice. The specialist had prescribed physical activity and a heart-smart diet, but warned an operation would be required if Nine’s condition deteriorated. That had been four-and-a-half years ago, and so far so good. Sensible food and exercise had seen no recurrence of chest pains. Even so, Isabelle had insisted Nine keep to the recommended schedule of quarterly visits to the specialist. A major inconvenience considering the specialist was based in Tahiti, nearly a thousand miles away.
