The Measure of a Man [The Exceptionals Book 1]
Page 17
"But I remember the mission to Cambodia!"
"All of it?"
"I'm fuzzed on some of it, but I had some head trauma, and the doctors—"
"The doctors weren't there, so whatever they programmed you with wasn't complete.” Firststrike's voice held the strain of what he said in its tone and he had a hard time saying it. “I wouldn't say something this crazy if I wasn't sure. You are a clone."
Lastshot considered his statement for a moment then launched himself to his feet and at his one-eyed teammate with a series of punches. “Nice try to screw with my head, Jason,” he said. “But I thought that sort of head game was beneath you. I'm me. I'm Conner Le'Schott!” His fury grew and his voice got a hysterical edge. “You're trying to throw my game off, Jason, a real low sneaky trick."
He waded in, throwing punch after punch. Firststrike dodged and danced away. The fight proceeded as Lastshot continued to lecture his teammate, slowly running out of steam: “I'm me! I'm real! I remember my parents! I remember growing up, and going to school—” his punches started to slow, “—and ... and being bigger than everyone else and feeling like an outcast. I remember being in the service, and I remember things I don't want to remember.” He stopped swinging, now trying to convince himself and not Jason, “I remember the faces of men I've killed, and I'll never forget them or how it makes me feel. I still wake up in a cold sweat..."
Firststrike spoke with no mercy in his statement. “But you didn't do any of those things. You were grown in a vat, and programmed with someone else's memories."
Lastshot just stood there looking at him until the air just went out of him. His shoulders slumped.
"I've never known you to lie to me."
"I never lied to Conner and I'm not lying to you."
Lastshot looked at him with a deep horror and realization of what Firststrike had said.
"I gotta go think about this.” He turned and without re-donning his gear, slowly walked out of the room.
Firststrike knelt down in the center of the training room, took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 36
Lastshot used his Exceptional status to get into New Rikers Island to see Abe Retlow. The Mercenary was still being held there because of the endless court proceedings. Retlow didn't even make a comment when the guards woke him and brought him to the secure plasma screen conferencing room.
"Find Eddie's gravesite, Cousin?” Retlow asked. Lastshot laughed bitterly at that.
"I found more than that, Cousin,” he said, “I got myself killed a second time."
As he said it, he thought back ten years before to the first time he'd ‘died'.
Conner Le'Schott, looked like he felt, wet and angry. His untrimmed beard and pony-tailed hair kept him from looking military, but even wearing a rain slicker he stood Marine Corps tall and alert. He was huddled on the afterdeck of the passenger ship, Good Times. Slung over his right shoulder was a civilian Remington m1100 pump shotgun with a load extender and a folding stock. In his right hand, he held a two-way radio.
"Wolf to Doggie, come in, over,” he said quietly.
"Doggie to Wolf. Here,” the radio crackled in a faint whisper. “No sign of trouble here, Abe, but I could use a dry towel. Over.” Retlow and Le'Schott were on a black op, officially just some passengers. There had been a rash of ‘pirate attacks’ off the coast of Somalia, a revival of an industry that went back to early in the century.
"Roger that, Abe. Over,” Le'Schott said.
Both men had been in position since before nightfall and they would stay on guard until well after dawn when the ship was in open waters at full cruising speed again. The danger of piracy would be minimal then. Until then, both men had Benzedrine to keep their reflexes sharp, hot drinks, and loaded guns.
"After we hit safe water,” Le'Schott said. “I think I'll—” Le'Schott stopped abruptly when the red emergency light began to flash on his walkie-talkie. He released the sending key and Retlow's calm whisper came through the speaker.
"—eat: Caution red. We have visitors,” Retlow said. “I can see four, make that five, boarders coming over the rail so far. I'm going to cut in the lights.” A moment later Retlow shouted a command at the pirates. By virtue of the open com-link, Le'Schott could hear their answering gunfire in stereo, followed by the thud-thud-thud of Retlow's silenced Uzi submachine gun.
Conner dropped the radio into the pocket of his slicker and slung the shotgun into ready position. “Good luck to us both,” he whispered under his breath. Then he kicked the trip switch on the floor that he had rigged that morning. Like its twin up forward by Retlow, it worked perfectly, flooding the after deck with a few thousand candle power from powerful HMI lights attached to the super-structure of the ship.
The lights caught four pirates sliding over the rear railing. All held automatic weapons and all opened fire at the blinding lights. The heaving deck and their clumsy positions made accuracy impossible.
"Hell of a place for a Big Wolf, Eddie,” Le'Schott thought grimly as he chambered a round and returned their fire.
* * * *
Lastshot told Retlow of everything that had happened in Cambodia, security be damned. They had fought and killed and almost died beside each other and, enemies or not, they were bound together. For as they had taken life, they had also given it...
* * * *
Le'Schott had blown two of the pirates back over the side, but they had been replaced by four more, all firing in his direction. He fired twice more with fatal results when the first grenade up forward exploded.
He knew it was a pirate grenade, because he and Retlow had decided not to bring any explosives on board for fear of causing too much damage to the civilians. The detonations meant that Retlow was in real trouble.
Le'Schott fired again, hitting another raider, then backed into the corridor and headed straight for the companionway that would lead up to the bridge and wheelhouse. If he could get above and behind the pirates attacking Retlow, the crossfire might be enough to equalize things until the helicopter carrying the full black ops team, which had hit the air the second they had engaged the enemy, could arrive.
"Damn!” he cursed. Distant explosions added to his speed and he bounced along the corridor at near breakneck, careening off the metal walls of the pitching ship like a zero gravity paddle ball game. It was at that speed that he rounded a turn in the corridor and bounded up a ladder, only to collide full force with a descending pirate.
Both men held their weapons at ready and forward, both men made eye contact and registered the shock on each other's faces; and both men fired.
Le'Schott's shotgun blast disintegrated most of the pirate's upper chest and head, spraying gore, feces and brains all over the wall and ceiling behind him. The pellet penetration also killed the pirate directly behind the first.
Le'Schott took the full pointblank impact of the AK 17 burst in his chest. Though he wore ballistic Kevlar armor under his slicker and jacket, the bullet impact fractured two of his ribs and bruised him deep enough to bleed.
Gravity, the shotgun recoil and the bullet force slammed Le'Schott into the steel deck with tremendous velocity. Even so, he was unconscious before he hit. The remains of both pirates followed him down, falling on top of him, hiding most of him from view. Le'Schott looked very dead.
When Retlow found him, Le'Schott was dead; his heart had, in fact, stopped. It was Retlow who had cracked his sternum with compressions and administered CPR until the Corpsmen arrived and brought him back. It was Retlow who had breathed the breath of life into him. It was Retlow who had ‘owned’ his last life, even with Le'Schott having won their combat at the headquarters.
"That life was yours, Abe, this one is my own,” he said in the interview room in New Rikers. “I'll be damned if I know what to do with it though..."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 37
At four in the morning, Jason was still sitting
in the training room; to all intents and purposes, he had not moved since his conversation with Lastshot. He didn't even look up when the door opened and Goldstrike entered.
"How long have you been here?” Matthew asked. He was wearing the remnants of a gold lame tuxedo and had just come in from a night on the town.
"Hours, I think,” Jason murmured.
"Con's disappeared. I went to his room to bring him a welcome home bottle of Jack and he wasn't there. SAM says he's not on base. Do you have—"
"Conner is dead. There's a clone walking around here, but it isn't Conner."
"Sure it is!” Goldstrike insisted. “It's as much Con as he was."
"Matthew, you have no idea what you're talking about. A clone isn't the original. It's just an elaborate photocopy. He has no right being here. He has no soul!” He rose and moved over to the rack he had left his towel on and wrapped it around his shoulders.
"I don't believe it,” Matthew said.
The tone in his brother's voice made Jason respond. “Believe what?"
"You're pissed because you're not running the team anymore!"
"I won't even dignify that with a reply.” Jason started to gather his training gear, suddenly weary beyond words.
"Oh, you can play high and mighty all you want, but,” Matthew's voice held a glee to it, “you're jealous!"
"I never wanted to run this team.” Firststrike's anger began to boil to the surface as his control eroded. “I never even wanted to be an Exceptional. The only reason I became one was because you had to go and reveal your identity to the world!” He walked over to his brother and stood face to face, close enough to smell the alcohol on Matthew's breath. “What did that do for your twin brother, huh? People mistaking me for you, people taking potshots at me, people trying to kill me because I look like you!” He was almost screaming now. “You selfish, conceited moron!” he pointed to his eye patch. “Doing this to me wasn't enough; you had to take away my identity!"
Jason was shaking with anger and exhaustion now, using every ounce of self-control to not hit his brother. He turned abruptly way from him and stormed out of the training room.
Goldstrike stood for a full minute unable to speak. When he finally did, all he could say was “Jase ... I'm sorry,” but by then there was no one else in the room to hear it.
The Exceptionals hangout, The Trench was about half filled at four in the morning. Lastshot, dressed in old combat fatigues, was at a table in the corner. There was no pretension of being incognito anymore, but the regulars knew enough not to bother any of the team when they were in search of some down time. There was an almost empty pitcher of beer in front of him, but no glasses. Politely put, he was plowed. By choice. He had punched in his favorite song, an old ‘new folk’ song from the Siege of Mexico campaign, “The Mercenary's Creed":
When all talking is finished
And Diplomacy's done,
When no thought is left
But fighting—
That's when we can have our fun.
Throwbacks to another era,
Or survivals of the same,
We who fight to make a living,
Have the least of all to gain.
Three squares if we
Are lucky and a quick death
If we are not,
Just to draw a workman's wages
From some third world failed
Despot.
But though we clean
The whole world's garbage,
And we make it safe to breed,
We've no claim but truth
And honor and
A warrior's right to bleed.
He sang along softly to himself and reached forward, to pick up the pitcher, draining it in one gulp.
At the bar, a longhaired, leather clad biker was laughing with two equally disreputable looking friends and holding onto a beautiful—in a trailer park sort of way—girl. She was flirting with the other two men, but clearly Long Hair was her date for the night. He was about six foot-two and close to two hundred and fifty pounds. His huge arms were covered with prison and gang tattoos.
Lastshot watched them for a time. Every once in a while, the girl would look over his way and give the Exceptional ‘the eye'. He finally stood up shakily, and walked up to the bar. He made no attempt to clear the alcohol from his system; in fact, if he could have, he would have found a way to increase the intoxicating effects of what he had been drinking.
When he got to the bar he reached out and turned the Biker around. Close up, the man was twenty years younger than Lastshot and it was a good bet he had had professional ring experience by the soft tissue around the eyes, broken nose and one ear that was slightly cauliflowered. There was beer fat on the man, but very little compared to the muscle beneath.
"Hey, boy, do you know that you are ugly!” Lastshot said.
The Biker hauled off and punched Lastshot in the face. The Exceptional rolled with it—he had certainly expected it—so the punch had a negligible effect. Lastshot moved his jaw back and forth to test that it was working. He nodded.
"That felt real,” he said. “But you're still ugly."
The Biker hit him again, this time it staggered the Exceptional a step and ‘rang his bells.’ He made a point of not using his implants to speed his reflexes or cut the pain.
"That sure felt real,” he said aloud, but to himself.
The Biker, seeing Lastshot still on his feet, tried to hit him again. This time Lastshot blocked the punch and decked the man with a quick short punch to the man's breadbasket. When the man's friends objected physically, the Exceptional took great delight in wading in old style, using far less force than was necessary so he could prolong the fight at least three punches beyond what it should have been. Finally, he stood above the three unconscious men.
"That felt good."
Lastshot walked up to the Biker's date. “Honey, how'd you like to participate in a scientific experiment on the nature of being?"
She looked up at him and smiled. “My name is Jasmine,’ she said, “and I love science."
* * * *
It was two hours past dawn when Lastshot walked along the Brooklyn Promenade overlooking the East River. He had spent a relentlessly passionate and unsatisfying night with Jasmine, sending her home in a limo from his Red Hook apartment. From the Promenade, he could hear the sounds of children playing in the preschool park around the corner. Lastshot watched a group of children playing along the cobbles of the Promenade chasing each other with water guns and squealing.
A woman, six months pregnant, was sitting on the next bench talking to some friends. A mother and stroller stopped just opposite the Exceptional and she bent down, picking up her little boy to cuddle him.
"Whose little who are you?” she said happily. She nuzzled the laughing boy before placing him in the stroller again and moving on.
Lastshot took a photo out of his pocket and stared at it. It was himself as a small boy of eight, taken outside of one of the Army base homes with his parents. His father was a tall man wearing glasses, dressed in full dress uniform and Little Conner was seated on the man's shoulders looking triumphant. His mother looked on with concern lest her little hero fall off daddy's ‘high up’ shoulders.
"Whose little who am I?” he said aloud to no one in particular. He didn't even realize he was crying until the picture blurred beyond viewing....
* * * *
Skorpion, Echo, and Temper entered the ready room to find Lastshot slumped at a table. There were several empty coffee cups, a bottle of Bloody Mary mix, and a bottle of aspirin in front of him. He looked up at them.
"Is that Lastshot or Blood Shot?” Skorpion quipped.
"I barf, therefore I am,” he whispered with a weak attempt at a smile.
"Why don't you just use your implants?” Echo asked.
"I'm going for that reality thing,” Lastshot said, holding his head. “And if you don't stop shouting, I'll have to kill you.” He lowered the volume of his own
voice. “Is Punjar in, yet?"
She was, and the group found Punjar in the Medlab, sitting at a computer monitor when Lastshot entered followed by Temper and Echo.
"Punjar, where do you send the information?” Lastshot asked.
"What do you mean?” she asked.
"The spinal taps, the tissue samples, the DNA; you know, the owner's manual for this model.” He slapped his own chest with a little bit of anger in his voice.
She shook her head. “I send them to a central data collection point; as for tracing them, I don't have that kind of skill. That's all I know."
He turned to Skorpion “Can you tr—"
Skorpion took a disk from her pocket “—Trace it to the source? Yes."
At that moment, Goldstrike burst in. “Hey, everybody! I've got it! Skorpion can trace where Punjar sends the spinal taps and DNA information and we can find out where the clones are created!"
There was dead silence as everyone stared at him.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 38
Syracuse, New York, near the Canadian border, is a cold place in winter, and the joke going around at the university was that you had to find your girlfriend or boyfriend by October because the snow was so heavy and the air so cold you had no idea what anyone looked like until spring thaw.
Jason Stryker had gone to Syracuse University, been a track and field champion there, and in fact and had always considered it as much home as anywhere. One place in particular, the Church of St. Thomas, was the place he went to when he needed to find peace.
Jason walked down the aisle of the beautiful old church towards the altar. He genuflected and crossed himself. He approached the kindly looking white-haired priest in his sixties and turned to bow his head.
Jason walked up to him un-seen. “Hello, Father Duggins."
The cleric nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Well, now, that's not good for this old man's—Jason! Jason Stryker!” He embraced Jason like the prodigal.
"Let me look at you, son!"