MJ-12: Endgame

by Michael J. Martinez

  If he ever got there again. A wave of sorrow and regret washed over Cal for a long moment as he thought of his beautiful wife and his son, Winston. He swore that if he ever got home again, he’d find a way to hang it up with MAJESTIC-12 and just go off with Sally and grow old together on Social Security. And they’d watch Winston, now in law school, become a lawyer and follow his dream of seeking justice and equality for his fellow Negroes.

  Yes, Cal wanted to grow old. Theoretically, so long as he kept his life-energy levels up, he could live indefinitely. But how much life would he have to hoard as he got older? Back when he’d first discovered his ability to drain life—well after he found out he could heal people—he could slaughter a horse or a cow and be a hale and healthy twenty-five. Now it took two or three head of cattle to take him from his real age to that peak again. So how much would he need when he turned eighty? Ninety? A hundred? It really didn’t seem fair, after a while, living like a vampire to stay young. Sure, he could keep Sally young, too, but there would come a point when the price tag would be too high. Best to let it go sooner rather than later, before they got too used to the benefits and started justifying the drawbacks.

  At least, that’s where Cal stood now. He wondered if, when he was old and about to die, he might start thinking differently. What a test of faith and morality that would be … and Cal honestly couldn’t say how he’d respond. That was a frightening thing to contemplate.

  Cal’s attention was drawn to the monastery gate, where shouts and movement could be heard on the other side. He didn’t know Korean from Greek, but he could at least tell the ruckus was a positive one—there was no gunfire, for starters. Finally, the gates opened, and Cal saw Hei Feng stride into the courtyard, flanked by a bunch of grinning young soldiers, weapons held in triumph. They hadn’t seen much of the Chinese Variant since they arrived—apparently, the young man was in high demand. Of course, the ability to deflect bullets and send people flying wasn’t something you came across every day. Cal had picked up enough scientific lingo through the years to theorize that, like Miguel Padilla, Hei Feng had the ability to manipulate kinetic energy. Miguel’s Enhancement allowed him to adjust a moving object’s kinetic energy to make sure it went where he wanted, every single time. Hei Feng could do the same, but only away from him, and only if that object was already moving. Neither of them could so much as lift a pebble, but once that pebble was thrown, the two of them could probably have it bounce all over the damn place.

  Cal turned to see that Miguel and Yamato, the latter looking particularly sleepy, had joined him out on the porch, along with their guards. At least three of the guards had weapons trained on them, but the frightening thing was, Cal was getting used to that.

  A young soldier separated himself from Hei Feng’s pack and ran toward the porch, shouting in Korean. Suddenly, there were rifle barrels in their backs and some shouted words Cal had grown to recognize, in a general sense, as “move it.” They were shoved and prodded down the stairs and into the courtyard, and from there toward one of the nicer buildings in the complex, where the monks stayed and ate. It was also where Hei Feng himself was quartered, when he was around.

  A few minutes later, they were seated on the floor around a low table, monks bringing them steaming bowls of soup, rice, pickles, that rotting cabbage crap they called kimchi, and some other less-identifiable stuff. There were four places—and just as many guards. A moment later, Hei Feng came in and bowed to them, followed by Kim, their old translator.

  “Hei Feng welcomes you and apologizes for not having had the time to show you more hospitality,” Kim said after Black Wind spoke a whole bunch of Chinese. “He remains very curious about you and hopes that you and he may speak freely. He would be most eager to keep the soldiers outside, so long as you continue to honor your word regarding the use of your abilities. Of course, an attack now on him, or anyone else, would result in the regrettable end of many of your countrymen. It would only take a single code word on the radio for that to happen. He urges you to join him for this meal in peace and comradeship.”

  Cal looked at Padilla and Yamato, who looked just as puzzled as Cal felt, and finally decided to speak for the group. “You tell him, Kim, that’d be just fine. Happy to sit down for a nice breakfast and a chat. Tell him we’ll behave.”

  Kim related the information, and a moment later, Hei Feng dismissed the soldiers, leaving the four Variants—and one translator—in the room. Cal started to feel a little bad for Kim, frankly; he already knew way too much for any one side to want him around after all was said and done.

  Tea was poured and plates filled, and Cal dug in with relish, his chopstick usage surprisingly deft for having just learned, while Padilla and Yamato still struggled with theirs. “So, can I ask what Hei Feng’s been doing lately? Haven’t seen him around.”

  “He has been away on missions, and also to consult with his superiors in the Red Army,” Kim replied after some back and forth with Hei Feng. “He would like you to know that he has kept your existence secret from all but a few trusted officers and friends, which is why you are here and not with the other prisoners, or sent away. Hei Feng knows you would be of great interest to the government of China—or the Soviet Union.”

  Cal nodded and smiled. “Tell him thanks for that. He’s right. I’m gonna assume, then, that the folks in Beijing and Moscow don’t know about him, either. Otherwise, I figure they’d snap him up and ship him off to Beria or somebody. Does he know of anything like that? A program where they use people like us?”

  Another flurry of translation and discussion followed. “There are rumors, yes, that the Communists gather people with strange abilities, and that some go to Moscow, some go to Beijing. It is Hei Feng’s belief that he can be more effective and useful to his people here, than in such a situation.”

  Oh, boy. There’s a Chinese Variant program too, Cal thought. It made sense, of course, given China’s huge land and population. Enhancements didn’t really seem to hold to a particular geography or race, so it made sense that China might have more than a few Variants around. And if Beria was poaching where he could, well … that’d be interesting too. How long before China would say enough to that?

  “Hei Feng would like to know about the kind of program America has for its special people,” Kim added. “He believes you to be soldiers and wishes to confirm this.”

  “Don’t tell him shit,” Yamato warned quietly. “He could already be working for Moscow. Or someone else.”

  Cal just smiled. “And if he’s working for Beria, he already knows all about us. I mean, Beria himself saw you throwing lightning around pretty good in Kazakhstan, if I’m not mistaken.” Yamato said nothing to that, just scowled into his meal, so Cal turned back to Kim.

  “You can tell him that, yeah, we have a program. We’re not just soldiers, though. We do a lot of different things to help our government and our people. And we’re paid well and treated well.”

  “But you are a black man, Calvin Hooks,” Kim replied after translating. “The Chinese and Koreans know that black people are still treated like slaves in America, and that capitalism will keep them as slaves forever.”

  Well, ain’t that something. “Yeah, black folks aren’t treated too well. We aren’t slaves no more—my grandfather was born a slave, but he was freed after the Civil War. But yeah, especially in the South, we have to sit in the back of the bus, can’t go where we like. It’s called segregation. But that ain’t gonna last forever. Every year goes by, black people like me, we’re getting stronger. We’re fighting back. My boy is studying law in order to try to help with that. And as for me, yeah, there’s still some prejudice. But I live up North now, and for the most part, we’re treated just fine. And my program, for folks with abilities, they really don’t see color. Me and Yamato here, we’re treated just the same as white folk. I mean, they really gonna treat us bad, knowing what we can do?”

  Hei Feng laughed at this once translated, then continued to pepper them with questio
ns. Each of them was asked about their abilities. Yamato remained sullen but Padilla offered a modest demonstration by using a grain of rice to strike a fly on the ceiling in the corner of the room, which delighted Hei Feng and even impressed Cal a bit.

  As they talked, Cal got a sense that Hei Feng was sizing them up, putting rumor to fact and figuring out where his loyalties might truly lie. The Chinese Variant said he was a simple farmer’s son, drafted into Mao’s revolution not because he was a believer, but because his village had been on Mao’s way to Beijing. Then he’d been sent to Korea and, about six months ago, his Enhancement had manifested. Cal was impressed that the boy had been able to keep the secret from so many people for so long, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder if Hei Feng had maybe trusted some people he shouldn’t. It wasn’t likely that a Chinese farmer’s son would have anything more than an instinctual grasp of operational security—and the Devil’s in the details.

  Breakfast stretched onto lunch as they talked, and the monks cleared their plates and brought more food, including some of Cal’s favorite spicy dishes. Cal told stories about his life in the States, and some heavily redacted tales of his work with MAJESTIC-12. Yamato kept shooting him warning glances, but when Hei Feng excused himself for a moment, Cal explained that this was as much a recruitment opportunity as an interrogation. That mollified him for the time being, and by the time Hei Feng returned, lunch was served, and Yamato offered a few reluctant details about his own upbringing. Hei Feng was particularly intrigued to hear about the Japanese internment during World War II, since the Chinese Variant had lost an older brother and an uncle to the Japanese invasion of China back in the late 1930s.

  They finally wrapped things up by mid-afternoon, and Hei Feng thanked them profusely for their time and openness, which Cal was sure to return in kind. Cal figured he maybe needed three or four more sessions like these before Hei Feng would seriously consider defecting, and that outcome wasn’t certain at all. Black Wind might be a xian and have all kinds of admiration and worship from the people around him, but in the end, he was just a kid pressed into service in a war he didn’t really believe in. And like most folks—like Cal himself—he just wanted a better life. And in Cal’s case, MAJESTIC-12 had largely delivered on that.

  Except, of course, for him being a prisoner in Korea. But it wasn’t the first time he was captured by someone. All he could do was hope it might be the last.

  May 29, 1953

  It didn’t take Frank Lodge long to see what everyone in East Berlin was grumbling about in the coffeehouse that morning. The front page of Neues Deutschland spelled it out perfectly. “Economic Reforms Approved by Council of Ministers,” the headlines read. “Workers Will Achieve New Heights Under New Socialist Program.”

  Sounded great, of course, but as the newspapermen liked to say, the story buried the lead—the East German government had just increased work quotas by ten percent in order to help the country dig itself out of an economic slump. Any worker who didn’t meet the quota would see their pay docked. Oh, and they were raising prices, too, which amused no fewer than three economists in Frank’s head.

  Frank closed his eyes and concentrated to silence the voices. He really, really wasn’t interested in hearing from them. Not after what happened last month in Moscow. Instead, Frank used his own know-how, honed by the lessons received through the years from the memories of those who had died, to scan the room. It was a good exercise, using what he had already learned in the past rather than continuing to rely on the real-time expertise of those now-suspect personas in his mind. And he saw plenty of discontent, especially from the men—and a handful of women—dressed as factory workers. The guys in suits were less perturbed, but even they were talking intently, a few making reference to Neues Deutschland or its young persons’ counterpart, Junge Welt.

  They had good reason to be unhappy, even beyond the latest government indignity. The East German plan for postwar recovery was to turn the country into the preeminent industrial powerhouse of the Eastern Bloc. Problem was, however, that they had to import far more raw materials than they had before, since West Germany drew the lion’s share during the post-War divorce. And because they kept busing in all the young men to work in those new factories, the agricultural sector was in sharp decline. So they had to import food, too, and so prices for even the basics were high. And now the government was going to raise prices again, while making the workers meet higher quotas.

  So basically, work more to get less. Even without a PhD in economic theory, most folks could see how that would make zero sense. But then, Frank always felt that Communism was an exercise in hand-waving the details anyway.

  Folding the newspaper, Frank paid his tab and, grabbing his hard hat and lunch pail, headed off to work. For the past two weeks, Frank had been working in construction in East Berlin’s burgeoning building sector—probably the only part of the economy where supply and demand still worked, given the massive amount of reconstruction still necessary eight years after the war, combined with the drive to build all kinds of factories and warehouses. When he’d gone to the job site to ask about work, the foreman had barely scanned his forged work papers, instead eagerly asking him about his qualifications. Having kicked around Europe for a few years after the war while trying to get his voices straight in his head, Frank had plenty of construction experience. By noon, he’d been riveting girders together, and his cohorts seemed happy to have another hand.

  Honestly, the work was a welcome distraction, a little oasis of calm amid all the other crap that had happened. Frank and Danny had spent a week smuggling themselves out of the Soviet Union, at one point walking two entire days just to avoid a popular train station. They’d bugged out near Leningrad, using a pair of Mrs. Stevens’s body suits for the still-cold swim to Finnish territory. Frank had hoped to be welcomed by Cal and Rick Yamato in Helsinki—they’d been out of contact with Washington during their travels, and Frank thought they might have finally put Korea behind them—but there was no sign of them, and it turned out Washington was assuming the two were MIA. Frank had been in favor of heading to Korea to find them, but Danny was adamant that they continue with the approved East German op.

  So, after a luxurious night at Helsinki’s Hotel Seurahuone, they liaised with the CIA station there and wrangled passage aboard a Finnish trawler to Stralsund. Frank was covered as a farmhand seeking better work prospects, while Danny came in as a Russian academic. The Stasi, East Germany’s answer to the MGB, didn’t have much of a presence in Stralsund, so they were able to come ashore outside the town, walk to the train station, and buy tickets to East Berlin without anybody once checking their forged papers. Danny busied himself by hanging out in the beer halls and coffeehouses around Humboldt University, trying to gauge the level of academic resistance to Communist rule. There wasn’t much thus far, as best he’d been able to tell, but Frank had found fertile ground among his fellow construction workers.

  “Come on, Franz,” one of his new colleagues said as he arrived at the work site. “Those quotas won’t fulfill themselves.”

  Frank just smiled. “I heard the quotas may increase.”

  The other worker just grimaced. “The foreman is furious about it, but there’s nothing he can do, so he takes it out on us,” the other man whispered, in case there were unfriendly ears nearby. “Better get moving. I’d like to see my family before they go to bed tonight.”

  Once they climbed the superstructure and began riveting in earnest, the words flowed more freely; the men had known each other a while, and Frank had already let slip some of his own “discontent” with the working conditions. He enjoyed losing himself in the rough-and-tumble community of iron workers, and did his level best to subtly encourage their conversations. Most of them were young men—too young to have fought in the war, but old enough to remember the Nazis and their depredations. Nearly all of them had lost someone during the fighting, and remembered well how the Russians had treated them during the initial occup
ation. The current government was seen as a collection of Soviet stooges, selling out the German people to yet another dictatorship. Some had family in West Berlin or West Germany, and told stories of the largesse enjoyed by their relations on the other side of the Iron Curtain—easy access to food and jobs, good education, the freedom to travel and speak one’s mind.

  Frank felt for them. Sure, he remained under MAJESTIC-12’s thumb, but America was still America, and he’d long ago resigned himself to his own circumstances, knowing that his work was helping his countrymen preserve their freedoms. Here, if anything, the East Germans suffered more than even the Soviet people. The Muscovites could at least enjoy some simple pleasures and, since Stalin’s death, were even beginning to speak a little more freely. The East Berliners saw the shadows of Stasi informants nearly everywhere—except eight stories up, dangling from girders above the city.

  The late spring sun was well on its way down when Frank and his coworkers descended to the ground again, their quotas met and their bodies exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to go back to the crappy flat he shared with Danny, eat some crappy food, and get some sleep on a crappy mattress. But instead, he accepted an invitation to drink beer at the flat of someone named Ernst, one of the older veterans of the iron workers’ cohort. So he threw some money and ration stamps into the pool and went with another young man, Max, for the beer run. It took forty-five minutes, all their ration stamps, most of their money, and two bribes to get enough beer, but soon they were heading back to Max’s flat with enough alcohol to drop a horse.