Perfection Unleashed

by Jade Kerrion

  Maybe it was safe to move him, though Roland would have been the first to admit that he was completely out of his depth. He had worked at the cutting edges of science for most of his life, but had never witnessed anything like that. He exchanged a worried glance with Michael, and then together, they lifted him off the ground and carried him to the car.

  “Go, go, go!” Roland shouted as Michael slammed his foot on the accelerator. A massive rumble consumed the building, and it came crashing down with a thunderous roar. Just in time, he realized. They left just in time.

  But what now, he wondered, looking back at his sons. He could not let Michael find out that he had used his own dead son, or so he had believed at that time, as the physical template for Galahad. The decision he made had violated the boundaries of acceptable personal distance in science. It had impaired his ability to assess Galahad objectively. If Michael knew, if anyone else knew, it would place doubt on everything he had done with Galahad and call into question his reputation as one of the leading minds in genetic manipulation. They could never know. No one could ever know.

  “Roland!” Michael called sharply. From the faintly irritable tone, he knew that Michael must have been calling his name for a while. Michael took his attention off the road to look at Roland. “Where should we take them?”

  Where? Roland Rakehell suppressed the laughter that bubbled up at the obvious answer. “Why, back to Pioneer Labs, of course.”

  Alex Saunders had been kind, and did not call Miriya any of the names she knew she deserved. Imbecile was probably the mildest term she would have used for herself. She had multiple telepathic links to Danyael’s mind, and then dropped them all. Yes, Lucien had given the order, but she should have known better. She first broke the cardinal rule of leaving Danyael unprotected while he was channeling his healing powers far beyond what he could have endured. The fresh blood spilled on the sidewalk indicated that there had been a fight, and it could not have gone well for Danyael. And then she voluntarily gave up any means of locating him when she severed all the telepathic links.

  “We’ll monitor all the channels,” Alex promised. “Danyael isn’t dead; that much I can tell you. Both his internal and external shields will drop before he dies. It will be very significant and very nasty for everyone in the vicinity, but we haven’t picked up that pulse of energy on any of our monitors. Sooner or later, he’ll exercise his powers, and we’ll be able to get a lock on his location. It won’t be as precise as your telepathic link, but it’ll get you within fifty square miles of him.”

  “Call me as soon as you know anything.”

  “Of course. Now, go get some rest,” Alex said. “You’ve had a long day.”

  Miriya sighed as she hung up her cell phone.

  “You okay?” Lucien asked from behind her.

  “Stop being so kind.” Miriya groaned. She turned to face him. Behind her, the moonlight cast its silver, ethereal glow over the grounds of Lucien’s estate.

  “Someone once told me that self-flagellation is both unattractive and tedious. We screwed up, Miriya. No need for you to take all the blame.”

  “Yeah, with protectors like us, Danyael doesn’t even need any enemies. Aren’t you worried for him?”

  “Yes, but he’s resilient. If there’s any way at all to survive whatever situation he’s in and return home, he’ll find it.”

  “You have faith in him.”

  “He’s proven himself, time and time again. He’ll be all right.”

  Still, Miriya shook her head, disgusted with herself. “You’re human. You’re entitled to be…” She searched for a word that would not be completely offensive. “Clueless, when it comes to managing the nuances of mutant powers. I should have known better, though. Leaving Danyael unprotected was a big no-no. What if the pain had been too much for him? If he died, his shields would have collapsed. I didn’t even consider that.” She managed an ironic half-smile. “Apparently I still have quite a bit of growing up to do.”

  Lucien shook his head. “Will you be joining us for dinner, or would you like a tray in your room?”

  She almost opted for the latter, but paused, asking, “What are you doing?”

  “Dinner with Xin and Zara. Zara wasn’t really in the mood for it, but at times like these, you need to be with others. Come join us.”

  Miriya contemplated the offer, nearly turned it down, but then Lucien held out his hand in invitation, a half-smile curving his lips, and waited.

  She released her breath in a soft sigh. “All right, I’ll come,” she said, extending her hand to him. Smiling up at him, she said, “Thank you.”

  She filed a mental note that Lucien’s charm and warmth, his natural kindness and sincerity were weapons far more potent than all the power and influence his wealth could command.

  Roland looked out at the blackened husk of Pioneer Labs as Michael steered the car into the adjacent parking lot. The building cast a long, ominous shadow over the moonlit lawns. A day earlier, the laboratory had been vibrant and thriving, the heart of the most brilliant and profound work ever done in genetics. Within a mere span of twenty-four hours, Pioneer Labs, the scene of a fire and a massacre, had become a monument to human arrogance and human failure.

  Michael cut the engine and leaned forward on the steering wheel. He stared at the building with an odd sort of melancholy. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Roland.”

  “It’s the safest place,” Roland insisted. “The fire destroyed only the northern and eastern wings. The western wing is still completely self-sufficient and secure, and the backup generators will be able to supply all the power we need. Let me go ahead and see if I can get the generator going in the western wing. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Roland stepped out of the car, his footsteps tapping on the pavement as he jogged the short distance to the front entrance of the lab. Climbing over the yellow police tape, he winced at the sound of the broken glass crunching underfoot. He felt like an intruder, as he walked down smoke-charred corridors. The laboratories where he had spent almost every hour of every day was no longer familiar to him—like a former lover scarred beyond recognition.

  Dismissing the nostalgia with an ironic, self-mocking smirk, he made his way toward the back of the laboratory and used his keys to unlock the utility room, where the backup generator was stored. There was enough fuel in the generator to run the entire laboratory for two weeks; surely it would be able to keep just the western wing going for a lot longer.

  Using a flashlight by the door, he studied the instructions pasted on the wall, and after he flicked a few switches to ensure that power was routed only to the western wing, the generator hummed to life. Done. He made his way over to the western wing, but the heavy steel double doors blocked his way. Damn. He had forgotten to account for the security system, but nevertheless, he swiped his badge across the security console.

  The heavy steel door slid open in response to his security identification card. The central computers were located in the western wing, he recalled belatedly. How fortunate. The western wing was indeed completely self-sufficient, and the fire had not damaged it. They might as well use it.

  Moving quickly through the wing, he turned on the lights and the central heating and checked each suite to be sure it was empty; no abominations or trespassing humans hid anywhere.

  He returned to the car and gave Michael an affirmative nod. “Let’s get them down.” They moved Jason first, awkwardly and slowly, pausing several times to rest, but finally managed to install him in one of the small guest suites adjacent to Galahad’s master suite. The other man was placed, without any previous discussion, in Galahad’s suite.

  As the young man lay on the narrow bed drifting in and out of consciousness, Roland had to remind himself constantly that the young man was the template, and not Galahad. The resemblance was so perfect, so uncanny that it would have been the most natural thing in the world to mix them up.

  “Let’s see out who he is.” Roland searched the young
man’s pockets and pulled out a wallet. He read the name off a New York driver’s license. “Danyael Sabre. Listed address in Brooklyn, New York. There’s not much else in here. Looks like an ATM card. No credit cards. Little cash.” He tossed the leather wallet down on the table. “What now?” he asked, looking up at his partner. “What do we do?” The question was rhetorical; Roland had a tendency to ask questions even when he had already made up his mind as Michael would have known from their long partnership.

  “We wait till he wakes, I guess.”

  “You know he wasn’t outside Purest Humanity by accident,” Roland said. “Coincidences like that don’t just happen. We need to figure out what he knows about Galahad without giving any information about ourselves away.”

  “What exactly are you trying to say, Roland?”

  “He may not know who we are. When he wakes, he probably won’t know where he is, and there’s no need to tell him. We need information out of him, and if he knows we’re the creators of Galahad, he may not be willing to provide that information.”

  Michael nodded, too tired to argue for long. “Fine, Roland. We’ll play it your way and see if he talks. Let’s check on Jason. I’m sure we can get him through one night, but he’ll probably need professional medical care by tomorrow.”

  “Maybe.” Roland shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  14

  Danyael awoke as he almost always did, with a violent start, the layers of sleep ripping away—the result of a damaged childhood. He sat upright in the bed. The sheets pooled around his narrow hips, and he looked around at his surroundings, clamping down on the instinctive panic he always felt when waking in unfamiliar places.

  He sat on a narrow bed, on a mattress so thin he could feel the metal frame beneath him. The largeness of the room was accentuated by the sparseness of the furniture—a small table, a single chair, and shelves stripped bare. White-washed walls were devoid of decoration. In contrast, the rattan chair by the windows seemed out of place—the only element of warmth in a room that would have redefined the word sterile.

  Imprisoned? But why? Where was he? He cursed under his breath, shoved the thin sheets aside, and pushed to his feet. The world spun around him. He reached for the metal rail on the bed, but missed and fell to his hands and knees.

  Not ready yet. He did not know how long he had been asleep, but his body was not anywhere near fully recovered. Weakness dragged at his limbs as he pulled himself up, holding on to the bed for support.

  The door slid open and a gray haired man entered the room. The alarm in Danyael’s dark eyes gave way to confusion when he sensed a genuine concern and curiosity. No psychic shields, no malicious intent. The man’s emotions surprised him because they were so far from the reactions his psychic shields typically elicited.

  The man indicated the monitor on the table. “I heard a sound. Are you all right? Did you fall?”

  “I…where am I? Who are you?”

  “I’m Michael.” The man stepped forward, closing the distance, yet staying far away enough to allow Danyael not to feel threatened. “I work here.”

  “Where is here? How did I get here?” Danyael straightened, fighting a losing battle against the vertigo that assaulted his senses. He needed to sit down, to close his eyes, but he could not afford to display any vulnerability in so uncertain a situation.

  “What do you remember?” the man asked.

  If Danyael had been more alert, he might have caught the obvious omission, but with all of his efforts focused on trying to hold himself together physically, he was in no condition to engage in a battle of wits. “I…remember Jason.” Flashes of images danced through his mind. His brother’s face, angry and hateful, loomed above him. He remembered manipulating his brother’s emotions, deepening his anger, darkening his hatred, betting it all on the off chance that it would impair his brother’s ability to fight long enough for Danyael to win.

  And then pain. Searing. Intense. Unbearable.

  Unending.

  “The young man you were fighting.” It was not exactly a question.

  Danyael nodded. Speaking was difficult, took too much effort. “Is he all right?”

  “Uh, Jason is here too. He’s resting in another room. He was shot, but he’s stable.”

  His brother, still alive. Danyael’s hesitation was barely perceptible. “May I see him please?”

  “This way. Can you walk?”

  Danyael nodded again, once, slowly. Michael swiped his card over the security panel to unlock the door and then ushered Danyael out before him. A man stood in the corridor, apparently on his way to the suite. He paused with a startled jerk as Michael and Danyael walked out, and then he stepped back without introducing himself, allowing them to pass.

  Michael led the way into a suite several feet down the corridor. The suite was far smaller, but decorated with warm earth tones, a large bed, and furnishings that provided both utility and comfort. The room was a world apart from the large, sterile suite he had occupied, but Danyael scarcely noticed the differences in decor as his gaze locked on his brother. He sat on the edge of the bed and touched the edges of the bandage wrapped around Jason’s chest. His empathic powers surged; he assessed the damage, estimating—and wincing at—the energy required to heal Jason.

  Not healing Jason was a perfectly viable option, but he could not wrap his mind around that possibility. This was his brother. If he could not bring himself to heal his own brother, what kind of monster would that make him? “He’s stable, but the bullet is still inside and needs to be removed. Do you have operating tools? Scalpel, tweezers, a place where I can work?”

  The two older men exchanged cautious glances. “There’s a research station down the hall. You can use the table there. We do have some surgical instruments, but there’s no anesthesia or even antiseptic.”

  “It’s fine. I won’t need it.”

  Neither voiced any other objection. Danyael had taken charge with cool, confident competence, and they deferred to him. At his request, the men carried Jason into one of the research stations and laid him on the stainless steel table.

  Jason stirred as they placed him on the operating table. Hastily, they stepped out of sight, and it was only Danyael Jason saw when his eyes fully opened. They narrowed instantly. Jason, his face twisting with the pain of his injury, raised himself off the table with a great deal of effort to spit into Danyael’s face. “I hate you.”

  “I know.” His dark, fathomless eyes—the only feature he shared with his brother—were regretful, but his expression gave nothing else away. “Rest now,” he said quietly. His empathic powers rippled out like a wave, gentle but irresistible, easing past Jason’s barriers of virulent hatred, channeling an intense peace and calm to lure his brother into a sleep so deep that it was almost a coma. Jason’s head fell back onto the table, his eyes fluttered closed, and within moments, his breathing became deep and even.

  Danyael swallowed hard and then got started. The two men watched in silence as he worked with easy, swift expertise. He had done that before, many, many times. He used no anesthesia, no antiseptic. He skipped steps, broke rules, and yet worked with the sureness of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

  Distantly, he was aware of Michael’s growing curiosity, curiosity that bordered on confusion.

  “You’re a doctor,” Michael said quietly, more to himself than to Danyael.

  Danyael nodded in acknowledgement as he used tweezers to extract the bullet. It clattered, a tiny sound when he dropped it on the tray, and then he set his surgical instruments down.

  He did not sew Jason back up, did not use needle or surgical thread to seal the incision he had made in Jason’s chest to extract the bullet. Danyael placed his hand on Jason’s chest and closed his eyes. It took a moment to focus his exhausted powers and brace himself for the additional cost and burden of bearing Jason’s injury, but his mutant powers surged ungrudgingly out of him and into Jason, healing from within, cleansing the wound and repairing the in
jury. The two men watched in slack-jawed amazement as the open incision slowly closed before their disbelieving eyes and new skin sealed over the cut, leaving nothing, not even a scar, to mark its location.

  “What are you?” Michael asked softly.

  Danyael’s eyes opened, pain flashing through the dark depths. He turned his face in Michael’s direction to acknowledge the question, but did not look up. “I’m a mutant,” he whispered, his eyes still downcast. He said nothing else.

  He waited for the inevitable condemnation.

  Don’t brace for it; it makes the blow that much harder to take. Open your heart, let it wash over you, through you.

  Then let it go.

  His breathing was jagged and uneven as he inhaled through spikes of pain. His hands clenched and unclenched through each spasm. Finish this. Just say what you want to say. I can take it. I’ll be all right.

  It was just that….

  He clenched his teeth. It was just that it would be too hard to take on top of the physical pain.

  “You look like you need to rest,” Michael said, his voice quiet.

  A muscle twitched in Danyael’s smooth cheek. His jaw tensed. Slowly, he nodded.

  “Will you let me help you?”

  Surprised, Danyael looked up at Michael, meeting his gaze for the first time. “Yes, thank you,” Danyael whispered. Nausea swirled in the pit of his stomach, blackness at the edge of his vision. He had been petrified at the thought of moving, afraid that he would collapse and pass out and that his psychic shields would fall. With help from Michael, he stumbled toward the door of the research station, flinching from the icy blast of the other man’s disgust and loathing as they moved past him.

  He did not understand Michael’s kindness any more than he understood the other man’s disdain for him, but he did not have the energy or even the desire to alter it. He could not pretend he did not care. He was an empath; he felt intensely—perhaps too intensely—but he had learned to accept that in the grand scheme of things, it did not matter what people felt about him.