The Measure of a Man [The Exceptionals Book 1]

by Jerry Kokich, Teel James Glenn

  "Everyone down! Drop your weapons!” Lastshot yelled without a bullhorn and was heard perfectly above the whirl of the helicopter—a relic of his Marine Corps days.

  Some of the gang complied and some didn't.

  Goldstrike expertly shot two gang members’ weapons out of their hands. Temper used throwing stars to drop two more. Skorpion grabbed a small gang member and threw him into another, knocking them both down.

  Two Raiders were holding the arms of a woman in an attempt to use her as a shield. Her business suit was askew and her long red hair disheveled. Despite her terror, she was struggling mightily to get free.

  "Let go of me!” she yelled.

  Firststrike leapt forward. “The woman said ‘let go,'” he said calmly.

  "What're you gonna do about it, One-eye?"

  Like lightning, Firststrike quickly spun open two Balisong knives, one in each hand. “One eye, two knives; no waiting,” he deadpanned.

  The two men registered the challenge and released the woman. They drew their cutlasses and charged. The Exceptional dodged the first horizontal slash by one of them with a quick shift of his hips. As the blade missed him by inches, he darted in and made two quick cuts that left the man unable to hold anything.

  The second man tried a little more tactical approach and attempted to flank him. Firststrike let the man think he had trumped the one-eyed Exceptional and get off to one side of him. The corsair expected to engage Firststrike in a short but vicious fight with the longer reach of the cutlass winning. As he drew back for the first ‘off side’ slash, Firststrike hopped on his left leg and shot his right out in a perfect side thrust kick that snapped the raider's knee painfully in half.

  Firststrike's knives drew blood one more time, making sure the man could not hold the sword, but he was glad he hadn't had to kill either of the two men. As his opponents hit the deck moaning, he spun his knives closed and sheathed them.

  Echo fired two of his trademark ‘air fists’ at two of the Raiders. There was a ‘whump’ sound, a distortion wave and the Raiders were knocked clean off their feet by the invisible force of Echo's energy bursts.

  At a far corner of the roof, Lastshot and Captain Mephisto squared off.

  "Oh, come on, just give up,” Lastshot said.

  "Never!” the Techno Pirate declared. “It's frying time!” He raised his artificial limb with the heat coils and circuits and concentrated. There was a whirring sound, a hum, the arm vibrated and a few sparks emitted from the metal hand. Mephisto stared at the arm and began to wave it about frantically, slapping it with his good hand and cursing.

  "Water, water, you boob!” Lastshot said, working hard not to laugh. “Electricity plus water means short circuits. Geez! When are you going to call an electrician and get that thing insulated?” Mephisto was banging the arm on the ground by this time and crying in frustration.

  "Matthew!” Lastshot called. “Take this loser away."

  Goldstrike jogged over, gun drawn. “Come on, sparky."

  "I hate that name!"

  As Goldstrike lead Mephisto away, Firststrike came up to his twin brother.

  "I liked the ‘no waiting’ line,” Goldstrike said. “It was...” he searched for the word and had a sudden amazed realization “...funny!"

  "Yeah,” Firststrike said, looking over at Lastshot. “I'm not feeling well..."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 34

  The Bodyguard's van and Goldstrike's motorcycle entered the garage beneath the headquarters. The space was accessed through some hidden tunnels from buildings on Nineteenth Street. As they left their vehicles and headed for the elevator, Lastshot led the way.

  "Individual reports on my desk in fifteen,” he called over his shoulder. “Debrief in ready room in twenty-five.” There was an odd expression on everyone's faces then, a déjà vu sense of having done that moment so many times and yet a strangeness—this was a man they had all said their final goodbyes to and yet there he stood—alive and giving commands again.

  It perhaps was strangest of all for Firststrike who just that morning would have been giving those orders.

  When the team went off to change and prepare their reports, Firststrike went to the computer center and sat at the main console.

  "SAM?” he said.

  "Hello, Jason,” the computer voice answered.

  "I need some help: begin private folder code designation Firststrike imperative delta one."

  "Acknowledged."

  "Set me up with a search program."

  "Parameters?” SAM asked.

  "Parameters,” Firststrike began, “all variations of: doubles, zombies, clones, twins, dopplegangers, androids..."

  * * * *

  Everyone but Goldstrike was sitting in the ready room twenty-five minutes later, waiting for Lastshot. When Goldstrike finally entered, everyone looked up at him accusingly.

  "Social plans,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  "Matthew, sit down,” his brother said.

  "What's up, Grasshopper?” Matthew said. His sense of joy that Lastshot was back was palpable. He had not seen the explosion firsthand that ‘killed’ the team leader and so, in a way, it had never been as real for him.

  "This is serious, Matthew. Punjar's going to run standard tests on Conner, and Temper will scan him for any anomalies."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm the cautious member of the family. When Punjar's finished with her tests, we'll meet in the MedLab."

  The door to the ready room opened and Lastshot entered.

  "Good work, today, people,” he said as he took a chair at the head of the briefing table, “Nice to see you haven't lost your edge while I was away.” He leaned in to look Firststrike in the eye directly and smiled. “Jason; you've done a great job as Team Leader. Not that I want to lose you, but, you should talk to Vice President Redstone about heading up your own squad."

  "I'm not finished with my job here; I'll stick around for awhile."

  "Thank God for that,” Skorpion said. “If you leave, Matthew becomes second in command again."

  "Hey!” Goldstrike said. Temper hit him on the arm.

  "Things haven't changed,” Lastshot said, smiling.

  "I'm not so sure,” Firststrike said under his breath. Temper stole a glance at him as the debriefing continued.

  "Now,” Lastshot said. “We have some new intel that The Horsemen have become active in our hemisphere again..."

  * * * *

  The rest of the day at The Bodyguard headquarters was a surreal mix of the old and the new with the team doing usual tasks, including setting up a new training schedule and discussing the strange return of their leader. Each member began his or her own investigations, while Lastshot went about his day as if he were catching up after having been on vacation.

  At one point during the afternoon, Skorpion managed a moment alone with her team leader.

  "Got a second, Conner,” she asked, as she entered the armory where he was taking an inventory of ammunition stores.

  "Always for you, Red.” He smiled. “What can I do for you?"

  She regarded him with a critical eye. He seemed the same as before, albeit more relaxed and if it were possible, healthier as well. He still had the intelligence and humanity in his eyes that marked him as different from so many of the professional soldiers she had known in her life; men who could turn off their emotions and do unspeakable things in the name of duty. There had always been something in him that marked him as a cut above. It was why she had suggested he try for the Exceptional program; ‘muscle with conscience’ she had said. They had both laughed and both separately pursued that road.

  "It's more what I can do for you.” She reached into her bodice and produced the dog-eared letter from the parents of the little boy that had troubled him so much. “I found this on the plane before the Cambodian mission. You must have dropped it."

  He took the letter from her reverently and was obviously moved. “Thanks, Red. I actu
ally worried it was lost for good.” He smiled at her. “I-I'm still fuzzy about a lot from the time before and during the mission. I might never have remembered where I lost it."

  Skorpion smiled back. “No problem, big man, I've got your back."

  He nodded his thanks and went back to his inventory. When she left the room, though, her instincts told her that something was wrong. Very wrong.

  * * * *

  It was not until he was in his quarters that evening, after dinner, that The Bodyguard, minus Lastshot, met as a group in the Medlab.

  Firststrike came in last; Punjar, Temper, Skorpion and Echo sat tensely waiting. Matthew sat in the corner playing cat's cradle with some string.

  "Report?” Firststrike asked.

  "He passed all the scans I could do without him detecting them,” Temper said.

  "All his tests check out,” Punjar said. “Everything is where it should be, and working the way it should."

  Skorpion cocked an eyebrow at her. Punjar smoothed her hair and stared the redheaded Exceptional directly in the eye.

  "I'm a doctor—” Punjar said. “It's my job. I have found no evidence of surgical alteration or scarring that's not supposed to be there. He is Conner Le'Schott."

  Skorpion, Temper, Goldstrike, and Firststrike regarded what she said quietly for a moment.

  "So, there's no way he could be an android,” Echo ventured. “Could he be a twin?"

  "Twins are not that identical,” Punjar said.

  Firststrike and Goldstrike slowly looked at each other.

  "How could you possibly know that?” Echo asked. There was a sudden dead silence in the room.

  "Caesar, you're a complete idiot,” Skorpion said quietly. The African-American looked from Goldstrike to Temper to Firststrike and the realization slowly dawned that she might have done some of her examinations outside the ‘scope’ of being a physician.

  "You're right,” he nodded. “I am."

  Temper looked at Firststrike. “Jason, you are still not convinced about Conner."

  "We saw him literally blown up, and then get covered by tons of earth,” Firststrike said in a grave tone. “You'll forgive me if I'm somewhat skeptical at his return and a little suspicious."

  Skorpion ticked off the choices on her fingers. “Okay, so if he isn't Conner, and he's not a robot, and he's not a twin, then what the hell is he—one of those damn zombies?"

  "Wow, this is like that old TV series the Q-Files, or whatever!” Goldstrike offered. “I mean is he, like, some alien bug hypnotizing us?"

  "Matthew!” they all chimed in.

  Firststrike took a deep breath before he spoke. “Or a clone?"

  "Now, I don't feel so dumb,” Goldstrike said.

  "You're kidding—” Skorpion said.

  "The tech doesn't exist for cloning—” Temper said. “Certainly an exact match of a whole person with memories—"

  "Well, that's not necessarily true,” Echo said. “Animal cloning is quite common; and they do grow organs selectively for transplants. Full human cloning was outlawed by the UN, but that doesn't mean much."

  "So, it is possible.” The redheaded Exceptional slowly nodded her head.

  "Well, theoretically, sure,” Echo observed. “When I was studying at Scotland Yard, the subject came up frequently, usually in reference to fingerprinting and DNA analysis."

  "Punjar, what would you need to clone someone?” Skorpion asked.

  "Well, there are all sorts of procedures and data you would need,” the Med tech said. “Gene mapping, chromosome matching schematics, family history, tissue samples, regular spinal taps for updated—” She stopped dead, her mouth hanging open.

  Silence descended upon the room. No one wanted to look at anyone else, or say anything. Firststrike, at last, broke the silence.

  "Every one of us,” Firststike said slowly. “Every Exceptional undergoes a spinal tap every six months."

  "Oh, dear God...” Temper said.

  "All of us...” Skorpion added.

  "I thought having a twin was freaky,” Goldstrike said with a shiver.

  Firststrike put his hand on Punjar's shoulder. “We have some digging to do."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 35

  The Bodyguard clustered around Skorpion who sat at the main computer terminal. The team arrayed around her expectantly, except for Lastshot, and watched for a half hour as her fingers flew across the keys almost faster than the eye could follow. Even Goldstrike's interest had been held for most of the time. She tapped a key with an air of finality.

  "Well, that's the best I can do right now,” she said.

  "The Dolly Protocols?” Goldstrike asked. “They couldn't come up with a better name?"

  "Honoring the first of the breed,” Temper observed.

  "This is quite disturbing,” Firststrike said. “And more involved than I could have feared."

  "It's kinda cool!” Goldstrike said. “So sci-fi!"

  "As time passes,” Echo added, “science-fiction becomes science fact."

  Skorpion swiveled her chair to face away from the console. “What do we do now?"

  "Good question,” Firststrike said.

  "Do you think he knows?” Echo asked.

  "I doubt they would tell him,” Skorpion suggested. “Oh, by the way, you're a clone. Have a nice day."

  "Do you think he should know?” Temper asked. The rest of the group looked at her with the common thought at her suggestion: How do you tell someone they are not himself and who would do it?

  * * * *

  Firststrike was going through one of the high level holographic training programs. He fought several armed men in black jumpsuits as opponents. Lastshot entered the training room and watched Firststrike for a few moments from the off mat control area with professional interest.

  Firststrike was fighting fiercely, showing a viciousness that seemed un-characteristically personal. The holo-men fell to his savage and accurate attacks quickly. When the simulation was finished and Firststrike was standing amongst the bodies, Lastshot spoke.

  "Nice job, Jason, but, isn't it a little late for a workout?"

  Firststrike looked over at him. The bodies of the fallen men shimmered and vanished. “Why don't you join me for some real world play?"

  Lastshot was surprised at the request then made the decision. “Sure. It's good to knock the rust off the good old way."

  Lastshot pressed a button and the controls turned the training room's automatic protocols off. He shed his body armor, T-shirt, sidearm and glasses. Both men faced off, stripped to the waist.

  They were a study in contrasts; Lastshot, broad shouldered, broad chested and with a layer of muscle that weight lifters called ‘old muscle.’ It was earned the hard way, and a long time ago, kept up with hard workouts with old-fashioned pumping iron and hitting the heavy bag. Firststrike was built like a ballet dancer with not an ounce of ‘extra’ fat or unused muscle on his thin frame. No muscle more developed than the next, flowing into each other like liquid steel.

  It was like an oak tree and a bamboo stalk—two different forms of power that stood equally proud.

  "Which program did you have in mind?"

  "Oh, I thought we'd just play by ourselves."

  "Okay—weapons?"

  "We won't need any toys."

  Lastshot nodded. He removed his boots and socks and donned his leather gloves. Both men, skilled as they were eschewed mouth protectors and padding. They were both trained to the peak of combat efficiency, but relied on each other's restraint in close combat training. They had both learned much from each other in the years they had trained together and sometimes the cost of knowledge had been a split lip. It was a cost both were willing to pay.

  They circled each other.

  "Who are you?” Firststrike asked. He leapt forward and caught Lastshot in the chest with a snap front kick, knocking him back.

  "Whaddaya mean?” Lastshot regained his balance, dove forward into a roll, an
d came up swinging, but Firststrike darted away.

  "I mean, who are you really?” Firststrike threw an outside spinning heel kick that Lastshot stepped in on and grabbed. He spun Firststrike around, threw a roundhouse punch that missed, then lashed out with a low kick of his own that hit Firststrike square in the left thigh, then re-chambered and threw a chop kick to the chest.

  "Come on, Jase,” Lastshot said. “I don't know what you're getting at, but you know my real name is Conner."

  "Well, no, not exactly,” Firststrike said, catching his breath. He moved in with a flurry of short punches that Lastshot just barely blocked. “The Conner I knew was killed right before my eyes. I saw a grenade blow a hole in him, then a few odd tons of rock and earth dropped straight on him to bury him."

  Lastshot hit Firststrike in the sternum with the palm of his right hand. Firststrike rode it and somersaulted backward, landing like a cat.

  "He's dead. I don't know who or what you are.” There was dark venom in his words that startled Lastshot. “Oh, scientifically you are an exact duplicate, you have most of the memories, the outer motions of Conner, who was my friend, but you are not him."

  Lastshot seemed truly puzzled. “Did I hit you too hard?"

  "You're not Conner Le'Schott,” Firststrike said. He stood still. “You are a clone."

  "What?” Lastshot momentarily dropped his guard, and Firststrike knocked him to the ground with an inside spinning heel kick. Lastshot just barely managed, by instinct, to avoid having his head taken off. The tall Exceptional stayed on the ground, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from the hit.

  "You ... you're a clone,” Jason said in a quiet voice. He stood over the prone Lastshot and pointed at him as if accusing him of a major crime. “There's a secret cloning program that has copies of all of us out there somewhere, like a spare parts storage bin at a K-Mart, just waiting for one of us to die."

  "Jason,” Lastshot said, his voice filled with genuine concern. “I think you'd better go see Punjar—"

  "Who do you think got me this information? You ever wonder why we have those God awful spinal taps every six months? They tell us it's for the Regen formulas to be re-calibrated to our biological specifics, but they have to do it to keep our replacements updated with our memory proteins!"