The Eldridge Roster

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Jim looked at Lokransky’s remains, then examined the Vektor: there was a large dent on the receiver, just above the trigger. But for the katana, he’d have been dead—along with Schmidla. “Thank you, Tennu,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Schmidla with a slight bow.

  “No. Thank you, Dr. von Kemnitz,” said Rourke as Schmidla turned and waded into the water. “We’d be nothing without you.”

  The boat began backing out of the shallows as Schmidla pulled himself over the side. “You’re one of mine, aren’t you?” he called as the boat turned, prow pointing toward open water.

  “Viel Erfolg, Herr Doktor!” shouted Rourke in the High Tongue as the pilot gunned the throttles, sending the boat knifing through the waves. “It’s a high honor to have served you!”

  He turned back to Dee. She stood enthralled, watching the boat shrink into the distance. “And now you,” he said. Reaching out, he cupped her face between his hands, admiring her delicate features, her green eyes and soft pale skin. “Lovely,” he sighed. “But my dear Eldridge, we can’t have you breeding, spreading your wild riot of genes. You’re dangerous, Eldridge—a threat to what must be.”

  “What are you?” she asked again.

  “Death,” he said.

  Too late, Dee’s sense of self-preservation kicked in. As she turned, trying to pull away, he clasped both hands on her head, forcing it up and around, snapping it with the sound of a dry branch breaking. Her warm soft body slid against his as he lowered her gently to the beach, her limbs spasming in death. He looked at his watch—any second now.

  Dee’s dying mind reached out, her pain and fear giving her the strength to cleft to Kaeko for a despairing instant, then she was gone, sending Kaeko to the floor sobbing, her face buried in her hands.

  “What?” asked Angie as she and O’Malley hurried back, kneeling beside her.

  Kaeko opened her mind, letting them see and feel Dee’s death, though mercifully, not with the same intensity.

  Musashi, Jim and Billy Budd met at the entrance to the smuggler’s cave, beside the door Eddy had opened so expertly what seemed so long ago. “You’re better?” asked Jim, handing him the katana.

  “Better than you, I think,” said the Japanese. “Did you put it to good use?”

  “I did. Thank you.”

  “Not on Schmidla?” asked Billy as Musashi swung the door open.

  “No. Lokransky,” he said as they went down to the stairs.

  They came out of the cave and onto the beach, halting at the sight of Dee’s body and the man standing beside it, watching them as he smoked a cigarette. “And right on time,” said Rourke as Musashi dropped down beside Dee, feeling against hope for a pulse.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asked a very surprised Billy Budd, looking from Rourke to the dead woman then back.

  “Where’s Schmidla, Harry?” demanded Jim, pointing his gun at the CIA Director. He hadn’t seen Rourke in seven years, yet the man seemed hardly to have aged.

  “Gone,” said Rourke, releasing another puff of smoke. “I saw him safely away—one of my two main tasks for today, the other being to obtain the Eldridge roster. Killing her,” he said, nodding toward Dee’s body, where Musashi knelt, gently closing her sightless eyes, “was an unexpected treat. All we knew was that she died about now, but that’s all we knew, wasn’t it Tennu? So much was lost. Where’s the roster, Tennu?” he demanded as the Japanese rose to face him.

  “I should have gone with her,” said Tennu.

  “And jeopardized your precious mission?” mocked Rourke. “You cared about her, didn’t you? But protecting her, you might have destroyed our shared future. Each man kills the thing he loves.”

  “When did you replace Rourke?” Musashi asked, his face a mask.

  The DCI shrugged. “A long time ago—back when he was a CIA province advisor in Vietnam. So many transient relationships in a war—no one ever gets to know you very well, so any small slipups I made assuming his identify passed unnoticed. Over the years, though, I was promoted solely on my own merits. The real Rourke would have been just another mid-level officer, like Mr. Jimbo or maybe a more senior guy like Billy here.”

  “I’m sure your monstrous lack of scruples helped,” said Musashi.

  Rourke shrugged. “There were some fortuitous deaths and disappearances.”

  “Who is he?” asked Jim.

  “One of Schmidla’s spawn,” said the Japanese. “Sent uptime to get the Eldridge roster. As was I.”

  “The SLIF funding came from the CIA’s black budget,” said Budd. “You gave it to Whitsun’s company so you could get the roster.”

  “There was no other way to reassemble that miserable list and quickly find the descendants,” said Rourke, eyes shifting to the cave entrance, then back again. “Much of the SLIF technology came from us, given to GDR. It would’ve been hard to hide such otherworldly technology from the inquisitive in Washington, so it was tucked away down in New Orleans.”

  “George said SLIF was magic,” said Jim. “And he was right.”

  “He was a pesky old coot,” said Rourke. “Working with you, wasn’t he?” he said to Musashi.

  “Mr. Campbell was a very intelligent and perceptive man, with great personal integrity,” said the Japanese.

  “Where’d the money go?” asked Jim.

  “Money?” asked the prime example of Homo Supernus blankly.

  “The half a billion dollars it didn’t take to develop SLIF,” said Jim carefully. “You gave them the technology.”

  “That was funneled into Schmidla’s hands for his genetic research in Europe,” said Rourke. “One gene sequencer alone costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. Schmidla’s colleagues are using hundreds of them. Then there’s all the other equipment, personnel, facilities. The half billion’s just startup money.”

  “Why didn’t you just give him the genetic research equipment?” asked Jim. “Like you did with SLIF?”

  “Creates a closed temporal loop,” said Musashi. “SLIF was a dead end—it produced nothing that didn’t already exist in the future. Schmidla’s genetic research does. Simply put, nature frowns upon attempts to be one’s own grandpa.”

  “Crude but correct,” said Rourke. “We exist in a realty in which Schmidla’s people did their own homework. Now, I’ll take the roster, Jimbo.”

  “Do you have a name?” asked Jim. “Other than the one you stole?”

  Rourke laughed. “Of course! Do you think we spew out of some baby factory, numbers on our foreheads, to be raised by our slaves? I have a name, which I only share with my peers. I have adoptive parents, friends, a hometown. And unlike you beasts, I’m part of a vision that will sweep you all into the compost heap of failed species. Now, give me that roster!”

  “Why?” asked Jim.

  “So he can hunt the Eldridge descendants to extinction, here and now,” said Musashi. “Where we comes from, they lead the fight against his kind. A fight we’re winning.”

  “Hardly,” said Rourke.

  Angie, O’Malley and Kaeko came running out onto the beach. They stopped at the sight of the group gathered around the small crumpled form.

  “Rourke’s not...” began Jim, turning to Angie as she stepped past him, eyes on the Rourke.

  “We know,” said Kaeko as she and O’Malley joined Angie, one on either side of her. They stood silently watching Rourke.

  “None of you are a match for me,” he smirked. “Two of you are so new to your Potential it would be years before you could master it. And you’ve only minutes left to live.” His gaze shifted to Kaeko. “And as for you, freak,” he sneered, “Schmidla conditioned you with drugs and hypnosis since you were five—without them you’re just another mere mortal. Last chance,” he said to Jim.

  “I don’t have it,” said Jim.

  “Not a problem. Two of you read it.”

  A stiletto sliced into Jim’s mind–an unbearable, blinding pain that sent him to his knees, fists clenched to his head
as Rourke roamed carelessly through his mind, pulling out bits of memory here and there, enjoying the rush of Jim’s writhing agony as he gathered name after name, number after number.

  Budd and Musashi both fired, sustained bursts whose bullets flared into incandescence a half meter from Rourke.

  Unmoving, his eyes never leaving Jim, Rourke sent both Tennu and Billy flying backward through the air, smashing hard against the cliff face.

  Do something! Angie’s anguished thought demanded of Kaeko and O’Malley.

  Together! thought Kaeko, a golden nimbus growing around her, spreading to touch Angie and O’Malley as their own Potential shimmered about them.

  They had Rourke’s attention now. “Pathetic,” he said, withdrawing from Jim’s mind. “You don’t even know how to project.”

  A fierce white tendril of energy shot from the center of the nimbus surrounding the trio, snapping through the air toward Rourke’s chest. Laughing, he looked down as it halted, stopped by the thin blue shimmer of energy encasing his body. “A good first attempt.” he said. “Now, let me show you how it’s really done.”

  “You are more deserving of the lesson,” said Musashi, rising. His hand snapped out, sending a thin white shaft of energy knifing through the air to join with those of the three Potentials. The augmented beam, wider, pulsating with raw power, slammed into Rourke, turning the faint shimmer surrounding him into a rippling chrysalis of blue-white energy.

  Lying against the cliff next to Musashi, a half-stunned Billy Budd threw up an arm, protecting his eyes from the cold light devouring a now-screaming Rourke—a light that emitted no heat, but which consumed completely.

  After a moment, the beams winked out of existence, leaving only a blackened patch of beach where Rourke had stood. “Good bye, Telemachus,” said Musashi.

  “So he had a name,” said Angie.

  “He did,” said Tennu. “It means ‘Far Traveler.’ From Homer. His people know the classics.”

  “Wish I could have done that when the SEC guys came around,” said Tim, still eyeing the scorched sand.

  “Don’t even joke about it, Mr. O’Malley,” said Tennu, walking slowly toward him, his face pale and exhausted in the early morning light. “Such power must be used responsibly or not at all.”

  “I didn’t mean to...”

  “I know,” said Musashi, waving his hand as the two men joined Angie and Kaeko where Jim lay, face-down on the hard stone beach. Angie was feeling his throat for a pulse. “Alive,” she said at last, exchanging relieved glances with Kaeko. “Gently,” she added, as they turned him over. His breathing was shallow, his eyes closed.

  “Pray there’s no brain damage,” said Musashi as he and O’Malley joined them. “They delight in destroying as they take.”

  “Papa!” said Kaeko, gently shaking Jim’s shoulder.

  “Come back, Munroe,” whispered Angie. “I need you.”

  “Beauchamp,” said Jim weakly, eyes opening. “Get the name right, Milano.” He looked out on a sepia-hued world of hazy shapes, wherein specks of white light danced before his eyes and everything smelled wrong.

  “Papa. You used to call me that,” he said to Kaeko. He sat up, hugging them both to him as best he could, Kaeko sobbing uncontrollably, her body shaking, Angie crying. Closing his eyes, Jim let the warmth and contentment wash over him, sinking into him. Home he thought—I’m finally home.

  “You always had a way with the girls, Jimbo,” said Fred Kessler, coming over to them, a squad of Rangers and the ever-present Colonel Caddock following.

  Opening his eyes, Jim looked up into Kessler’s large, concerned face. The world looked normal again—no blurs, no odd tinctures. Low tide smelled unmistakably like low tide.

  “What happened?” asked Kessler, looking at Dee’s body.

  “Harry Rourke killed her,” said Jim, as Kessler gave him a hand up. “Then he was killed in turn by these four,” he said, pointing to where the Potentials and Musashi huddled slightly away from the rest.

  “Harry Rourke?” said Kessler, incredulous. “Harry Rourke’s in McLean!”

  “Harry Rourke’s that smudge on the beach over there,” said Jim. “And Freddy, it wasn’t the Harry Rourke we knew back when the world was young, believe me.”

  A frowning Colonel Caddock touched his cellphone and waited impatiently as it chirped out a very long preprogrammed number.

  “And The Good Doctor?” asked Jim.

  “We haven’t found him yet,” said the FBI agent.

  “He’s gone,” said Musashi. “To Europe.”

  “We can still stop him,” said a much-recovered Billy Budd, joining them.

  “You all right?” asked Jim.

  Budd shrugged. “Just some bruises.”

  “Please do not try to stop Dr. Schmidla, Mr. Kessler,” said Musashi as Kessler took out his own cellphone.

  “Why not?” asked Kessler, pausing.

  Everyone watched as the Japanese carefully considered his answer. “Where I’m now from, Schmidla is part of their history. To cut him off here, at this juncture, would have unforeseen consequences. His work contributed greatly to advances in genomics and medicine and enables millions to live better lives, not so long from now.”

  “So he’s Albert Schweitzer,” said Angie.

  “Hardly. But his failing attempt to populate the world with his bioengineered spawn has also brought much-needed caution to genetic engineering.”

  “Caution?” said Jim. “Why is it still going on?”

  “Because it’s a wondrous thing,” said Musashi.

  “You sound a bit like Schmidla,” said Jim.

  “Perhaps,” said the Japanese. “But I’m not.”

  Kaeko spoke as medics carried Dee’s body away, her voice carrying over the soldiers and the sea:

  I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,

  Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meager sheaves

  That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath,

  Summer, so much too beautiful to stay,

  Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,

  And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

  “Who?” asked Angie.

  “Elinor Wylie,” said Kaeko. “Dee’s favorite.”

  “How do you know?” asked Jim.

  “I just do,” said his daughter.

  They watched the stretcher disappear into the cave. “She would have loved Hokkaido,” said Musashi. He suddenly looked very weary and much older. “I don’t know when this war will end, but I am so tired of seeing my friends die. Downtime, when I left, about all that we knew of tonight was that Schmidla escaped and that Dee probably died. And that the government probably killed everyone on this island.” He looked at Caddock, standing off to one side, speaking urgently into his cellphone. “I didn’t know if we’d survive, but I thought tonight Dee would probably die. Certainly Rourke knew Schmidla’s details for the day.”

  “Director Rourke’s whereabouts are unknown,” said Colonel Caddock, clipping his cellphone back onto his belt, his mouth a grim little line.

  “They told you that?” asked Kessler.

  “Hell, no—they just said he was unavailable. Unavailable? Ha! He was requiring updates every twenty minutes, then... poof! He’s unavailable. So, until someone higher up in my chain tells me otherwise, this is your show, Mr. Kessler.”

  “It always was, Colonel,” said Kessler.

  As he spoke, Kaeko was staring at Billy Budd, then back at Kessler, then at Budd. “I remember now,” she said slowly. “Uncle Freddy wore the funny t-shirt at baseball, on those muggy summer days. But you, you wore a green ski mask the day you killed my mother.”

  Budd’s pistol was in his hand. He looked at Kaeko, oblivious to the weapons aimed at him, the shocked looks.

  “Billy?” said Jim, stricken.

  Budd’s face was pale and haggard. “I’m so sorry, Kaeko,” he said earnestly, his eyes imploring her. “Your mother fought fiercely for you—she was a tigress. We
tried to chloroform her, my helpers and me—a couple of yakuza. But she ripped off my mask and started screaming my name, shouting ‘Why, Billy?! Why?!’ You woke up from your nap just in time to see them throw her off the balcony. We used the chloroform on you.” He turned to Jim. “I never meant to hurt Emmy.”

  “No, you were going to let Schmidla do that,” said Kaeko bitterly.

  Jim looked at Billy, but he saw Emmy and Tokyo instead—the brash, noisy, upbeat Tokyo of his early years and the sometimes brash, sometimes uncertain but always brave Emmy, so alive and with so much to live for. He knew that he should hate Billy, should blow him away, but he couldn’t—Billy was just another empty suit. The true murderer was speeding across Boston Harbor toward Logan Airport.

  No, Jim felt only sadness and a sense of loss. Loss of Emmy, loss of Kaeko. His child stolen from him, her mother and her childhood stolen from her.

  “Who were you working for?” asked Kessler.

  “Whitsun,” said Budd. “Grabbing Potentials for Schmidla. And eventually I was rewarded,” he laughed at some secret joke, “and replaced by others. Phil Martin was but the last.”

  “So what now, Billy?” said Jim.

  “He’s going to do the honorable thing,” said O’Malley.

  “Did you hear that?” said Budd, shaking his head in disbelief. “He’s reading my mind. Do you really want them walking around, stealing our humanity? I don’t.”

  “They’re our children, Billy,” said Jim.

  Billy looked into Kaeko’s eyes. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Kaeko,” he repeated. “I hope that someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” He brought the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  “Jesus!” said Kessler, turning away. Kaeko and Jim watched unblinking as Billy Budd’s body fell to the ground, the top of his head gone.

  “Forgive him?” said Kaeko wonderingly, after a moment. “Do you forgive him?” she asked her father.