The December Protocol

by Devin Hanson

Angeline backed away as Mateo approached her cage and rolled the jailer over onto his back.

  “Holy shit, Anton. Miguel is dead.”

  The men gathered around the jailer’s body, staring down at it. Angeline backed slowly away to the far wall. Any moment she expected someone to notice the missing stunrod. They would search her cage and find it, and they would beat her. She was terrified. Half of her wanted to run to her cot and get the stunrod out. She could fire it up before they opened the door.

  But then what? She couldn’t fight three men at once. Min had been infinitely better at fighting than she was, but he had not succeeded. What chance did she have? Still, she’d rather go down fighting than meekly accepting her fate.

  She was poised to jump to her cot and grab the rod when Anton spoke, startling her. “Get him out of here.”

  “What about Esteres–”

  “I said, get him out of here! I’ll deal with Esteres.” Anton watched as the other two dragged the jailer out of the room. He paced the around the room, then kicked the crate that held Min. “Fuck!” he yelled.

  Angeline flinched. Then Anton strode from the room and she sat on the floor in sudden relief. They hadn’t realized the stunrod was missing. For the first time since she’d woken up in the crate, she felt a thin thread of hope.

  She would have to time things just right, and she would have one chance at it. She could stun whoever came to get them for their next trip to see Dr. Lenbroke, free Adora, and together they could make a break for the cluster.

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was a start.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  News Article from the New York Times, 23 December 2154

  Freedom!

  The long years of horror are finally at an end. The last of the immortals are gone from Earth. Our daughters, wives, sisters and mothers are finally free of Womack’s curse. It has been twenty-four years since the December Protocol. On this day, the twenty-fourth anniversary of that historic document, we, the people of Earth, celebrate our freedom.

  Never again shall an immortal set foot on the surface of Earth. We shall stay forever alert. For only through constant vigilance and unremitting determination will our planet remain free of the scourge. Let Mars and Venus suffer their immortals to live. While humanity lives on Earth, we shall remain free and pure, uncorrupted by the twisting science of Everard and Womack.

  Marcus Truman checked his tablet one last time to verify the address. This was the place. He put the tablet away and knocked on the door. He was, he thought, justifiably proud of himself. There had been no delays between picking up the “package”, a large crate, four feet long by three feet wide and two feet tall. Fore-warned about the size of the crate, he had brought an autodolly with him to the meeting place.

  Nobody had batted an eye when he showed up at the tram station and bought a freight ticket to Acheron Cluster. There were no seats and no passengers allowed in the freight segments, so he had bought a ticket in an adjacent segment where he could keep an eye on the crate. Finicky shippers must be common on Mars, because nobody had given him a hard time about it; in fact, they had been very accommodating to his demands.

  The trip to Acheron had gone without incident. He’d spent a total of six hours on the tram, with stops in two stations. At each station, he’d gotten up to stretch his legs and had hung out near the door where he could keep an eye on the crate. Upon arrival in Acheron, he’d rented another dolly and loaded the crate onto it himself.

  Something had seemed to shift inside the crate while he was loading it, but nothing had rattled or sounded broken, so he’d passed it off as a shoddy packing job. He was responsible for delivery, not the way the crate was packed. So long as he maintained a reasonable degree of care in the transporting, there was no fault of his.

  Nobody was answering the door, so Marcus knocked again, then noticed the buzzer next to the door and gave that a press for good measure. After another minute, a slot opened up in the door and Marcus could see a man looking out at him.

  “What do you want?”

  “I have a package delivery for Anton,” Marcus said.

  “What was the origin of the package?”

  “Vastitas Cluster.”

  The man grunted and slid the slot closed. After a moment the door swung open. The man was about a foot taller than he was, and dressed in clothes that were expensive but poorly maintained. He also had a deep bruise developing high on one temple, with his eye swollen half-shut.

  “Are you Anton?” Marcus asked.

  “No. My name is Vasco. Vasco Ajuilio.”

  “Well, Mr. Ajuilio, I have specific instructions to deliver this package to Anton Engel.”

  “Well, Anton’s my boss. Is that good enough for you?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Alright. Anton’s busy, but I can show you where he’ll want the carrier. If you want to bring it and wait for him there, I’ll show you the way.”

  “That works for me.” Marcus got his tablet out to guide the dolly. He maneuvered it carefully through the door and set out on Vasco’s heels. Remembering Dr. Bannister’s cautions about sensitive client information, he refrained from asking the dozens of questions that popped into his head. What kind of operations was this group running in the bottom layer of Acheron Cluster? And what was in the package that was so valuable it required someone to personally escort it to its destination?

  “Right this way, Mr…?”

  “Truman. Sorry. My name is Marcus Truman.”

  Whatever they were doing here, it occupied a full suite of rooms. Marcus passed a coldroom, the heavy, insulated door emanating waves of cold, then a chemical laboratory. He didn’t recognize any equipment in it, but had watched enough television on Earth to know a lab when he saw one.

  “This is the place,” Vasco announced, stopping by a nondescript door.

  “Thank you.” Marcus got the dolly lined up and through the door, then stopped in sudden shock. The room had rows of cages stretching down the two long walls. There were blood stains on the floor and the stench of feces in the air.

  But what really made him freeze in disbelief were the two girls locked into cages on one side.

  “What the fuck?” he gaped.

  Vasco looked at him, perplexed then registered Marcus’ surprise and horror. He drew the stunrod at his waist and snapped it to full length. The end fizzed and spat, blue lines of electric discharge popping from the terminals.

  “Is there a problem, Marcus?” Vasco asked, suddenly suspicious.

  Marcus turned to look at the man, his eyes wide and his heart hammering in his chest. He had to get out of here! He had to warn the authorities, cry for help, something! Then he remembered he was here to prove himself. His future depended on the success of this delivery.

  “Hey mister!” one of the girls cried out. “Get us out of here!” She rattled the mesh of her cage, her eyes pleading.

  He saw the marks of deprivation on her, the sunken eyes, filthy skin, and ratty hair. She had been here for days already. Perhaps even weeks. Still, Marcus didn’t move. He met the girl’s eyes and saw the desperation in them. She knew she was doomed. He dropped his eyes first, unable to look at her.

  Marcus knew he could probably bluff his way out of the situation. He could reassure Vasco, get Anton’s signature, and go back to Vastitas. It would be a simple matter to blow the whistle once he was at a safe distance. The police would come down on the operation with the weight of furious justice. It was a certainty.

  But then what? Grendal Crade would know it had been him. Dr. Bannister would find out. His future on Mars would suddenly be in tatters. There would be no trade, no source of income. He would burn through the credits his remaining water could bring, and then he would die.

  He hadn’t crossed interplanetary distances and beaten terminal cancer to fail now. When he had made his decision to leave Earth and receive the Womack Process, he had made his peace with the likelihood that his treatment serums w
ould be derived from murdered girls. In the end, what was the difference between getting the treatments and turning a blind eye to the murder?

  Marcus cleared his throat and nodded at Vasco. “No problem, Mr. Ajuilio. Just surprised is all. Where do you want the crate?”

  Vasco eyed him for a moment before putting the stunrod away. “In the first cage on the left. Let me open it for you.”

  Marcus guided the dolly into the cage and unloaded the crate. Now that he knew it contained another girl, the way the contents shifted no longer surprised him.

  “Maybe you should stay here until Anton comes back,” Vasco said.

  Marcus could see the unease in the man’s face. “Not a problem.” He went and sat on the crate in the middle of the room with his back to the other girls. He might have convinced himself that he could act as a courier for these people, but he didn’t think he could see the victims waiting for their death. “I need Anton’s signature for the delivery anyway.”

  The mesh rattled behind him. “You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you? Another sellout piece of shit angling for a payday that you didn’t earn. Well, fuck you!”

  Marcus looked at Vasco. “They ever shut up?”

  Vasco chuckled nastily. “After a beating or two they learn their manners. Hey, chica, you want another beating? I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

  The girl cursed, but it was muffled, and the banging stopped. “Thanks. Hey, when’s Anton coming?”

  Vasco shrugged. “He’s having a meeting with Esteres. Probably come back when he’s done.”

  Marcus nodded. He could wait. Vasco looked nervous, and Marcus didn’t feel like trying to make small talk in front of the girls. He tried to get an idea of the number of girls that must be killed in a year. There were two here now, and he had just brought a third. There were eight cages available in this room. If there were four or five girls captured every month, that meant there were between fifty and sixty girls captured every year.

  Even considering the profit loss from illegal trade, that added up to an incredible amount of credits. This operation probably made a profit of tens of millions of credits a year. It made his alcohol business look like amateur, bush-league tinkering.

  Before he could follow that train of thought any further, the door banged open and another man strode into the room.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

  Marcus stood up and extended his hand. “Marcus Truman. I came with a delivery.” He nodded toward the crate in the cage.

  “I see. I’m Anton.” He shook Marcus’ hand. A sudden gleam came to his eye and he glanced at the crate Marcus had been sitting on. “You come from Vastitas?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “How’s that old witch Crade?”

  “I imagine she’s doing just fine,” Marcus said with a thin smile.

  “Listen, I might have a job for you. It’ll pay very well.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Grendal thinks highly of you, or you wouldn’t be here. So I want to extend our relationship. You deliver that crate over there to an address in Olympus Cluster and you’ll make yourself a cool ten thousand credits.”

  “Just like that?” Marcus glanced at the crate. “It must contain something very interesting.”

  “And dangerous,” Anton nodded. “But perfectly safe so long as the crate stays fucking shut. Understand?”

  Marcus hesitated. It was one thing to prove himself to Crade and Dr. Bannister. They had connections that could make or break his life on Mars. But Anton struck him as little more than a thug. A wealthy thug, if he was throwing around ten thousand credits on a whim, but still a thug. He reminded Marcus of the dealers he had met in clubs; men who preyed on the rich and stupid, selling designer drugs too new to be classified as illegal. They seemed glamorous and enviable under the dim lights of the club, but were rundown and unhealthy when seen in the bright light of day.

  “I don’t know, Anton. My business was with Ms. Crade.”

  Anton snapped his fingers. “Not a problem. I’ll give her a call, clear it through her.”

  Before Marcus could protest further, Anton had pulled out his tablet and made a connection. “Hey, Charles. What’s up, my man. Put me through to Grendal. Of course. No, tomorrow. Yes, I’ll fucking hold.” He put his finger over the mic and rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”

  Anton winked at Marcus and his tone became unctuous. “Hello, Ms. Crade. Good afternoon. I have Marcus here… yes, he delivered the crate perfectly. No, there’s nothing wrong. Everything is peachy. I was just wondering if my new friend Marcus here could run another delivery. No, no, nothing like that. Low-risk. Uh huh. Yeah. Okay, I’ll tell him.”

  Marcus sighed.

  “Hey, Marcus,” Anton ended the connection. “Grendal says you’re clear to go. Good to get off the apron strings, eh?”

  “I want half up front,” Marcus said firmly. “And no more sudden jobs. I don’t like having my arm twisted, even if it’s with a smile and a pile of credits.”

  “Sure. Relax, man. Easiest credits you’ve ever made. Vasco! Help Marcus load this crate onto his dolly.”

  Marcus and Vasco wrestled the crate onto the dolly. It was considerably heavier than the girl he had shipped in. Marcus wondered what was inside. The chopped up remains of the previous girls? He decided he didn’t care. He was a delivery man only. He picked up a package from one address and moved it to another. Simple. There was no risk of getting in trouble for what was inside the crate.

  Anton gave him the address and wired the five thousand credits to Marcus’ account. It was a little surreal, how fast and easily the credits had stacked up. In an afternoon, he had already made more credits than his wildest predictions for his alcohol business. It would have taken him months, perhaps even years before he started turning a profit on the vodka. And yet, here he was, already treated with the Womack Process and the next five months of treatments guaranteed. By the end of the day, he’d have twice the credits.

  As Marcus made his way up the escalators toward the tram terminal, he revised his opinion of those drug dealers on Earth. There was something to be said for large amounts of credits being earned for little to no effort.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  The core of the Matriarch Manifesto was based on the length of time that a Helix Rebuild treatment lasted before the serum had to be re-applied. In all cases, the duration seemed consistent to roughly 400 days, with individual withdrawal symptoms starting within twenty days, plus or minus. This meant that the matriarch need only use one egg per year to maintain her Rebuild safely.

  The remaining eleven eggs were available for use upon her male children. Upon passing the tests, qualifying for the treatment and receiving the Rebuild, a new matriarch began incubating her eggs in vitro to bring life to eleven sons. When they came of age, they too received the Rebuild. These first eleven sons, or the ainlif, as they came to be called, were bound inexorably to their matriarch: if ever she were to die, the ainlif would soon follow, dying one at a time as withdrawal destroyed their bodies.

  When the matriarch produced two eggs in a month, the extra egg would be incubated in vitro, with the gender decided by the needs of the people. If a son, he would join the endlaf, the remnants, and would serve the people. If a daughter, she would have a chance to prove herself and become a matriarch herself, or fail and be sterilized. There was no room for uncontrolled breeding. On the Venusian floating cities, space was at a premium, and population was strictly controlled. If something were to happen to one of the ainlif, the eldest male endlaf would receive the Rebuild and join the ranks of the ainlif, elevated into immortality.

  And so the society designed by Dr. Everard would have fanatical loyalty to the matriarchs, with closely knit family ties forming a web of reliance and mutual support that far exceeded any societal dynamic in human history.

  The Manifesto received its share of criticism, but none who lived by its tenants ever questioned it.

&nbs
p; Min’s first awareness was a searing pain that stabbed through his body. It jolted him awake and he broke out into a cold sweat. Every wujin knew the feeling and dreaded its return. It was the first herald of his death. The first onset of the withdrawal that would ultimately destroy him.

  He tried to move and found that while he wasn’t bound, the dark, cramped space had little room for him to adjust his position. Memory returned, then: speaking with Dr. Lenbroke, the fight in the cage room, the despair on the faces of the girls as he had been overwhelmed at last.

  Gloom crept through Min. This is how he would die. Locked in a box until the process that had kept him alive for over two hundred years tore his organs apart. He wasn’t afraid of death. He had lived a good life, for the most part. All of his family was already long dead and there was little to live for beyond his duty in the marshal service.

  He just didn’t want to die like this.

  Of all the ways he had envisioned dying, helplessly locked up in a pitch black box while time dwindled away hadn’t been high on his list. Death by gunshot wounds, suit failure, starvation, being unable to buy the next treatment either due to lack of funds or availability, freezing, carbon dioxide poisoning, and a hundred other ways to die had all been possible, and at times, even likely. Mars was a cruel planet to live on, and life held on by a thread.

  Still, somehow, he had managed to survive this long. He had survived the early starvation riots, the oxygen purges, the settlement years when the Womack serum couldn’t be had for any sum of credits. He had survived countless fights, with guns, knives and fists. He had survived decades of poorly manufactured space suits, unreliable city domes, collapsing tunnels and temperatures so far below freezing that most Earth thermometers didn’t even go that low.

  By all rights, he should have been dead a dozen times over. More than that. And yet, somehow, he was still alive.