Empty Quiver

by Russ Linton

  "Aren't you afraid?" he whispered. "You said you used to be in hiding. Now you've come back for … this. Won't the government find you?"

  The smile returned. "I hid many a year because of that fear. But the Lord showed me the way. They already tried to kill me, Reggie. I got nothing to fear but God's vengeance."

  "I don't understand."

  His grandfather rose and stood in front of him, toe to toe. "Find Him and you will."

  Reggie stepped away.

  "You best be getting on." His grandfather cast a glance at the sky. "Nighttime, things can get dicey around here. The dark gives these thugs a place to hide. They come for me, every now and then."

  Reggie shook his head. "Not tonight. Not now at least." His grandfather raised an eyebrow and Reggie pointed to his gut. "The Augmentation. I can tell."

  "Oh." That was all he said, he understood immediately. "You need to stay for a while? I've got a room upstairs. Most the comforts of a home but ain't got no plumbing."

  He considered the invitation. Eyes, the eyes of his father, waited patiently for an answer. Again, he felt that cloak of familiarity draping across a shoulder, the grip on his knee and a carefree smile not burdened by the streets. Part of him wanted nothing more than to find a way to return there.

  "I can't stay. I've got somewhere to be."

  "Okay. Okay." His grandfather pulled him close and then held him at arm's length. "You ever need anything, you know where to find me."

  "Yeah. Guess so."

  He turned to leave and Gramps stopped him. "And find Him, Reggie. Before it's too late."

  Reggie nodded vacantly and walked further out into the lot. Fear God's vengeance? He stared into the twilight sky and tried to find a source for his danger sense. His chest remained cold and empty like the night.

  "Shit," he muttered, walking away. His grandfather had gone off the deep end. Died and come back. True, the man didn't fear a damn thing on this Earth, but what did he give up to get that way? How was he any different than the thugs killing each other over street corners and blow?

  Reggie knew then that he wanted to live with his fear. It let him know he was alive.

  Let Winston file his report. Let them come. He'd use that fear and stay one step ahead, as long as he could.

  AURORA

  "You're Peyton?" Andre checked the authorization form for the third time. "Peyton Saunders?"

  The woman sat board straight across from him, her hands folded in her lap. Her narrow frame fit loosely between the chrome arms of the office chair. She nodded. "Yes, sir."

  He checked her name patch, also for the third time. His eyes went to the paper again after he noted the slight curve of her breast—an odd thing beneath the camouflage uniform. Not that he'd never seen a woman in uniform. He'd just never seen one here.

  "Is everything okay, sir?"

  Andre stood and headed for his office door. "Just one moment, please."

  She gave a tight nod, her eyes fixed straight ahead. He noted a flush in her cheeks and her hands clenched. Nervous. The smart ones always were.

  "I'll be right back."

  He tugged at a fistful of his hair as he stepped into the antiseptic-white corridors of the facility. Long, loping strides carried him down the hall, his lab coat billowing. He whipped past a soldier with a grunt of apology. This had to be a mistake.

  Of course, coming to work here in the first place had been a mistake. He never figured he'd be another cog in the wheel of the defense industry, let alone have access to their most closely guarded secret. College ideals and the crushing interest rates on his loans didn't go hand in hand.

  At one time, he'd been convinced like everyone else that the Augment program was dead. Five years working his way up from an assistant lab tech and processing unlabeled samples proved otherwise. Even with his current clearance, though, he and his fellow scientists were often the last to know about any changes. He always had the feeling that the guys with guns only tolerated them because someone with bigger guns said to.He paused outside the foyer to the major general's office. The guard at the desk beside the open office door eyed him. Andre took a step, turned on his heel and turned again, tugging at his hair.

  No, this had to be a mistake. As far as he could tell, there was no reason to return to an operational status. Their program audit remained unresolved. The recent incident, a fresh stain. Then there was the female candidate waiting in his office.

  Probably a mindless government employee flying their desk into retirement mixed up any number of the unnecessary forms that made up the maze of paper and good intentions this place was built on. A mistake, that was the only explanation.

  He stepped into the foyer.

  The guard rose and adjusted the submachine gun slung over his shoulder. Lost in thought, Andre ignored him and fixed on the major general's office. He'd been inside once before. He could see a lamp glowing under a green shade on the one visible desk corner. Behind that, a plaque hung above a metal shelf stuffed with red-jacketed files.

  "Can I help you, sir?" The guard sounded annoyed as he moved to block the office door.

  "I need to speak with—"

  "Send him in." Major General Cooper sounded distracted but his voice carried easily into the foyer.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And get the door."

  Andre whisked by the guard. He kept his eyes on the desk lamp and tilted his head in the closest thing he'd ever give to a salute. Behind him, the security door closed with a finality that made him cringe.

  Bent over his work, the major general's coat was slung across his chair and his sleeves rolled up. An archaic oddity sat on his desk, a combination monitor and terminal, the result of an infrastructure slightly older than their current work indicated. More notable was the mostly full decanter of scotch next to it and the half-empty glass.

  Andre didn't want to interrupt, but momentum hadn't completely left him. Pacing back and forth didn't solve the problem as he tried to find the right way to phrase his question. He wanted to sound confident, like he'd come here for a reason; a reason which began to fade the more he paced. In fact, he no longer knew why he'd come here. Didn't understand why he'd marched into the commanding officer's presence as if he and his white coat were anything more than a means to an end.

  He examined the plaque above the metal shelf. Last time he was here, it had been the centerpiece of their conversation. No names, only stars. Dozens of them. He stared at the last one on the list and had an urge to scrawl a name beneath it. He was fighting that urge when the major general finally spoke.

  "Yes, she's the right one."

  The words didn't register but the sound told him he'd been recognized. Andre swatted the hair from his eyes.

  "It's about this Peyton. Peyton Saunders," Andre said, tugging on a lock of hair. "The form doesn't say. I mean, it never says, of course, but I don't know if you knew that maybe she … yes, she, Peyton is actually a woman."

  Cooper planted his hand on the desk and stood.

  "I know a woman when I see one. Any reason you didn't go to Doctor Craft first?"

  That's right. Doctor Craft had been here last time too. A debriefing, they'd called it.

  Cooper pushed an empty tumbler toward Andre's side of the desk and poured a thin layer of scotch. "Go ahead."

  Andre stared at the tumbler. Hard liquor wasn't his thing. He worked with chemicals in the lab that smelled better and he'd never had an urge to drink those. But this felt like a rite of passage or other manly thing which he needed to accept. Cooper's square chin and heavy brow, softened only slightly by what might be a smile, made a silent demand. Andre grabbed the glass and knocked it back.

  The scotch burned and lodged in a fiery knot in his gut. Cooper crossed to the front of the desk and sat on the edge.

  "A new era." Cooper tilted the glass and swallowed with a click of his tongue.

  Andre's throat continued to burn and his eyes watered. He raised his own glass and tried to repeat the toast but only
choked out a muffled "New."

  Cooper took the empty glass and motioned toward the decanter. Andre raised a palm.

  "You're no doubt aware of the changes in the field?"

  Andre cleared his throat. He'd recently been asked to provide a complete accounting of his work. An internal review of the entire Augment program was underway. They never said why, but he knew Augment activities were becoming chaotic.

  "Yes. We're offline, pending the review."

  Cooper grimaced and poured another glass. "I was handed this program fifteen years ago. We've had successes. Crimson Mask. That was a beaut." He sipped the scotch and his lip curled as it went down. "That one's a true soldier. Won't ask questions. Stays on the straight and narrow."

  They didn't always go that well, Andre knew from experience.

  "Why are we returning to operational status?"

  "Uncle Sam isn't about to give up the Augment program just yet. We need to clean up our mess." Cooper set the glass down and stared into the crystal base. "Plans have been set in motion to do that. Throwing away everything we've worked for isn't an option. We need a new approach."

  "With Ms. Saunders?"

  The Major General nodded but didn't look up. "We're working on a source for a more discreet supply of volunteers."

  "You read my reports, right?" Andre felt the heat in his stomach rising. "I know it wasn't a popular opinion, but I don't think there's any clear metric that points to why—"

  "I read your reports. They were passed on to greater minds up in D.C. They decided we should try working with a different physiology."

  Andre thought for a moment. "Women? Why?"

  "I just need Augments I can control. Can you make that happen?"

  Always a simple, brute force answer for them. On the surface, the idea sounded absurd. He desperately wanted to find fault, but the more he considered the science, the more he wondered exactly how the new variable would affect the process.

  "Control? Nobody can guarantee that. Granted, the genetic differences could provide radically different results. We'd need to start tests…"

  Cooper moved away from the desk with the gait of a predator unwinding after a rest in the hot sun. He stood over Andre, much like the last time he'd been in this office. Only then, the major general had been flexing his command presence to encourage and bolster in the face of disaster. This time, when his eyes flashed to the plaque on the wall they were full of warning and not lament.

  "Then start with the candidate in your office. Next time you have a question, remember your chain of command."

  Andre looked at his shoes. Right. Doctor Craft.

  ***

  The lab was an open space built to be observed and recorded. At the center was the operating table, standing like a stainless steel altar. On every side were lights and cabinets, workspaces and machines, all dwarfed by the tall ceiling.

  A single exit led into the decontamination chamber. Guards posted there could keep watch through a six-inch thick transparent sliding door. Up and to the side of the chamber was an observation deck, a crow's nest where the white coats would record observations at their individual stations. Today, science had become embarrassingly popular.

  Overall, the facility wasn't a place for privacy. Secure rooms, like Cooper's office, offered rare places for solace or conspiracy depending on your rank and intent. If necessary, the lab where Andre stood with Peyton could be sealed off by blast doors. This was not done for privacy.

  "You understand, there's no turning back once we start?" Andre avoided eye contact, choosing to focus on the clipboard in his hand.

  "Yes, sir. I read the paperwork. Pretty sure when I boarded the transport was the point of no return."

  She was right.

  "We just need to start with an examination. If you could please remove your uniform."

  Through his tangled hair he saw her glance at the viewing chamber windows and give the same tight nod he'd seen in his office. She started with her hat. Her hair beneath spiraled into a bun and she gave a questioning look as she reached for the pins. Andre imagined the hair cascading down and faces pressing to the glass. He shook his head and turned to survey the gathering behind him.

  Men clustered in both the observation deck and the decontamination chamber. Instead of the single guard required for the examination stage there were half a dozen soldiers. His own colleagues crowded the observation window deep in conversation punctuated by furtive glances. There was no need to have them monitoring their stations today.

  Andre sighed and walked to the intercom.

  "Could all unnecessary personnel please leave the examination room." He had no real rank or say over such things, but he hoped the exasperation in his voice would count for something. Doctor Craft used to be able to get the white coats to jump, but he hadn't been inside the lab since the accident.

  The knot of white coats sheepishly unraveled, most likely headed for the monitor feeds in an adjoining room. In the decon chamber, the camouflaged soldiers kept up their animated vigil.

  "Lieutenant? Lieutenant?" Andre figured he'd keep calling out the ranking officer until something happened. Being an awkward nuisance was his only real defense here. Soon all eyes were on him. "How many men do you need on guard pre-procedure?" Their response was a group of vacant stares.

  "It's okay, sir," she said. Andre turned to her voice.

  Peyton was naked.

  Andre's eyes searched for the clipboard but found it tumbling out of his grasp. He bent to chase it along the smooth concrete as he tried to wedge a fingertip between the board and the floor. Her toes slid into view ahead of his chase. She reached down to pick up the board by the metal clip.

  He let his hair dangle into his eyes, maintaining a focus on the clipboard as she handed it to him. Once in hand, he swept his hair from his face and locked eyes with her.

  "Thank you. Please." He motioned to the operating table and she sat, wincing at the cool metal.

  Behind him the guard post cleared in a flurry of stiff salutes as Major General Cooper stepped into view.

  "I'm sorry. We don't have gowns here. We need gowns." He pulled a rolling work table closer to the bedside.

  "Really, it's fine." She sounded more relaxed and much less flustered than he was. "Just a body, right?"

  Andre half-smiled but focused on the instruments lined up on the rolling table. He didn't need most of them. A routine physical, nothing more. He looked at her face and observed the same physiological signs of nervousness he'd seen in his office.

  "You're a doctor," her voice tightened, "I imagine you've seen plenty of people naked."

  Andre looked away and reached for a stethoscope. "I have a PhD. Doctor Craft asked me to handle the routine work."

  "Oh," she said. When he turned back she was sitting comfortably, her legs sprawled and one elbow on the table.

  "I've seen lots of naked men," he said, trying to fill the silence. "What about you?" All of those words sounded better before he'd said them.

  "I don't know. Quite a few more since I joined." She answered the question with a sincerity that covered his own idiotic babbling.

  Her demeanor felt comfortable and familiar and Andre fell into his routine. When he was done checking her breathing she exhaled and asked. "Is there really that big of a difference? Aside from the obvious. We're all hairless monkeys, right?"

  "I suppose." Andre smiled and grabbed a rubber hammer from the tray. He tapped it in the air next to his temple, glad for the change in topic. "Cross your legs please. In a manner of speaking, there's a broader genetic gap between you and I than between humans and chimpanzees." As he spoke, he began to feel excited again about his work. Maybe this time would be different.

  "What do you mean, genetic gap?"

  Andre tapped her knee. Satisfied with the reaction, he moved on to the next. "One could say there are two genomes for humans, not just one. The differences between male and female go far beyond a single chromosome. Lie down, please."

 
As she reclined, her eyes chased whatever thought she clung to. She was back to her tight little nod. It was, in fact, just a body. He'd seen bodies here before. Andre's compartmentalized thoughts began to slip.

  "Is everything okay?" he asked, not sure who needed to answer the question.

  She gave a tight nod again.

  "Good. Let me know if you feel any pain." He probed her abdomen with his fingertips. She barely reacted to his touch, staying focused on that faraway thought.

  "When do we start?" she asked.

  He stopped with his hand on her belly. She wasn't afraid or nervous - he'd miscalculated. She was anxious. Ready to begin.

  "You're here so most of the paperwork and prep work has been done. We'll start in the morning."

  "Will it hurt?"

  "Honestly? I don't know." He wanted to tell her she'd be okay, but she must've heard about the dangers in the briefings prior to her arrival. The armed guards were there for a reason. The ventilation system rigged in its particular way, for a reason.

  ***

  Red light bathed the room. Klaxons whined and Andre shouted over the noise. He couldn't hear the beep of the cardiogram but the lines spiked in needled peaks. "He's crashing!"

  "Get out of here!" Doctor Craft grabbed his sleeve, dragging him away from the table.

  Andre fought. They'd lost men before, but not in the middle of the procedure. It was usually after, when their broken bodies rejected whatever power had been thrust inside of them. They burned out. Unspooled like a tossed ball of twine. This was condition red territory, where the power had started to manifest and they had not yet regained control. Anything could happen.

  Andre fought for the crash cart. He needed to save this soldier—Steven. He couldn't even remember his last name or rank. Just Steven.

  Steven's body jerked and he screamed. His IV line ripped from his arm. Andre yanked against Doctor Craft's hands and he heard the seam of an environment suit rip.

  Tortured metal rose above the siren wail and the operating table buckled. Soldiers pushed past as Steven tumbled. Where his head crashed into the floor, a divot of concrete leapt out.