Prince tapped his fork against the glass. “Thousands.”
“Over ten thousand,” Merrick said. “More expected this weekend. Protests in New York and LA. that are just as large.”
“I know.” Prince sighed. “All from a few videos.”
“Secretary of Defense called a few minutes ago. He’s questioning our motivation to label One Nation a terrorist organization. Says we were a little trigger happy on that call.”
Prince turned from the window. The glint of one of their sniper’s scopes flashed on an adjacent rooftop. “What do you mean, questioning?”
“Meaning we need as much information from the boy as possible. What they’re planning to do with the cure. Who they’re working with. Everything you can get.”
Prince scoffed. “He’s a bargaining chip.” Took a sip of coffee. “Not an intelligence source.”
“Still, get what you can,” Merrick said.
Prince slid the window shut. “I intend to.”
Through the glass, he could see people grouped in front of the shuttered conservatory. A woman with a megaphone pointed and yelled. Thousands of heads under the old pendant streetlights.
“Don’t underestimate this kid,” Merrick said. “He’ll lie. Manipulate. They’ve trained him to get to you.”
“He’s just a fucking kid,” Prince said, leaving the room.
Merrick followed. “You came way too close to killing the father and son.”
Hurrying, Prince held in a burp. “He’ll live. Plus, it proves we’re merciful.” He arced a hand over his head as if addressing a crowd. “For the millions of sympathizers who are watching.”
“A smart play, no doubt,” Merrick said.
At the elevator, Prince pushed the up button and stepped inside. He held out a hand to stop his commander from entering. “I’m doing this alone.”
Merrick held the elevator door from closing. “Your father’s already called. There’ll be penalties if I’m not in there with you, questioning the boy.”
Prince felt like chopping Merrick’s hand off at the wrist. He leaned into his commander’s face. “Penalties? Like what?”
Merrick shrugged. “Travel restrictions for starters. For both of us. We won’t be able to leave the states without clearance. And we’ll have to deal directly with federal investigators.”
“Cute,” Prince said. “Remove your hand.”
Whatever reason why Merrick didn’t want him alone with Mason Bourgeois, it was becoming far more important as the old man wouldn’t let it go. Was he afraid that I might kill him, Prince thought, making it that much harder to win back the public’s trust?
“This is an order,” Merrick warned.
“Yeah,” Prince said, swatting his hand. The door closed as Merrick yelled something about insubordination and loss of privileges. These threats were real, he knew, but the company had never restricted anything of substance from him. A few months of travel restrictions wouldn’t be painful. And even the most stalwart federal investigators trembled in his presence.
The elevator rose.
He set his empty coffee cup on the floor.
Prince looked down at his hands like he had in the gunship, turning them over to study the faint scars from domestic accidents. A slice from a broken pint glass during his years at West Point. Another from a kitchen knife, hurrying to prepare a meal for a woman he once loved. Smiling, he laughed off the thought that Gray Altar would go through all the trouble of mimicking decades-old scars to fool him into believing he wasn’t cloned. Would geneticists have had to slice each healed laceration individually? Compare the scars on his dead-old body with the new one they had rendered in their labs? It would be the most elaborate joke ever told.
A ding made him look up. The doors parted.
Prince walked the gray corridors to his room where two soldiers stood. They tensed at his presence. Gripped their rifles tight with fingers hovering straight above their triggers.
Prince nodded. “Dismissed.”
They nodded back and marched away.
Opening the door, two more soldiers stood with rifles lowered. Mason sat in a steel chair, head down. One hand cuffed to the chair. Uneaten food laid at his feet—a wet omelet and wetter salsa surrounding it.
“You can leave us,” Prince said.
“Sir,” the two soldiers walked out of the room, one of them asking, “Door closed?”
“Please.”
Sealed inside with the boy, the silence began to boil what tension was already white hot. Prince cleared his throat and swallowed and backed against the wall, sliding down to sit. Wearing his cowboy boots and jeans, he looked a lot like the young man—a boy that could have been his childhood friend in another world. It was a shame he was a rebel fighter. A crack shot who had somehow killed multiple Gray Altar operatives on the night of the first attack.
A drop of blood fell from Mason’s nose and flattened into his lap.
Keeping his eyes on the boy, Prince reached for his bottle of Pappy Van Winkle. Slowly brought the bottle to his lap. “You didn’t touch your breakfast.”
Mason inhaled blood through his nose. A thick and labored suck. A simple sound that summed up the hate he had for the man before him.
Prince uncapped the bottle. “It’s not poisoned. I promise.”
Head still down, Mason raised his free hand and wiped his nose. “Fuck you.”
Prince nodded and sipped. Bourbon burning. Lips and throat. “You a whiskey man? You look like one.”
Mason snickered.
“When I say you look like one, that’s a compliment.”
Mason stayed motionless.
“Here,” Prince said, grabbing a coffee mug from a table. He poured a little water from a nearby bottle into the mug and swished it around, dumping the dark water out. “This’ll be the most expensive thing you’ll ever drink.” He poured a couple ounces and slid the mug over to Mason’s feet. “Try it.”
Mason snorted blood and held it back. He leaned over and let the bloody snot drop into the mug. Bourbon splashed his leg.
“Alright,” Prince chuckled. “That’ll be the most expensive thing you’ve ever spit blood into.”
Mason sniffed. Something of a nod too.
Prince took another swig. “Good stuff. Rare. You’re missing out.”
The boy said nothing. Tough little bastard.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” Prince said. “You answer, you can go free. I’m not screwing with you. We’ll let you go.”
No sound from the boy.
Prince breathed in deep and released “Who’s One Nation giving the cure to?”
The boy shook his head, still silent.
“Some liberal group? Foreigners? You must know.” Prince clacked his boot heel against the floor.
Still nothing.
“We want the same thing as you. We want everyone to have access to it. We’re just the best people to get it done. Understand?”
Mason’s head bobbed, but not in agreement.
“No one’s gaining anything from giving such an important thing away,” Prince explained. “Why hand out the most important discovery of the century?”
Mason spat again. Watery blood on the old office carpet.
The boy had balls, he’d give him that. Prince was glad the boy didn’t see him smile. “You’ve got some grit for a Set. How are you so brave all alone? I thought Sets broke down when they’re separated.”
Mason shifted his weight. Looked to the piles of Sam and Penny’s personal items. “I thought clones…,” he coughed a chuckle, “couldn’t… get it up.”
Prince shot up, bottle clenched at the neck. “There you go again!” Bourbon tingling his lips. “There you go!”
Mason raised his head. “Yeah. There I go.”
“One Nation tell you to say that?” Prince yelled with his face inches from the boy’s oily forehead.
Mason grimaced. “Huh?”
“For their little video?”
Mason
stared at him for the first time—a stabbing glare that froze Prince in place. “You really have no idea, do you?”
Prince felt his hand starting to shake. He pressed the bourbon bottle against his leg to stop it.
Mason grinned. “You died.”
Prince’s grip on the bottle tightened so hard that he thought it might shatter. Any other person in front of him, saying these words, would find that bottle shattered and hammered into their neck. “What…?”
“We saw you. Your fucking head came clean off,” Mason said.
Prince leaned over into his face. “You lie.”
“Don’t believe me?” Mason said. “Take me back to my people. We can show you. I’d be happy to.”
Prince straightened and turned away. Both hands on the bottle now, both hands trembling. “The video.”
Mason laughed quietly. “You haven’t seen it.”
The self-control Prince prided himself on vanished. And the thrusts of joy he typically felt during interrogations were gone. The only reason why the boy had taken control so quickly was that Prince suspected this information—found it oddly delicious as it began to not only deform the way he thought about Gray Altar, but himself. The fucking video. He looked to the door, wondering if Merrick stood behind it, worrying that the old bastard had the room bugged. To the boy now, the lying terrorist, he hissed, “Show me.”
Mason’s smug sideways glare was meant to taunt. “How’m I supposed to do that? Here?”
Prince grabbed the boy’s jaw and cranked it. “You’ll have them send it. Here. Now.”
Mason jerked his jaw out of Prince’s grip. Rattled in his chair. “…fucker. You’ll see it. You’ll see it.”
Prince clamped the bottle under his arm and pulled a datasheet out of his back pocket. It flattened stiff with a snap. “Have them send the footage to this server.”
Head down, Mason laughed. “You don’t get it, clone. How do you not get it?”
The word made Prince feel filthy, as if every cell in his body were corrupted and the only rational thing to do was to claw himself to death, peel off his cloned face like a rubber mask. “Enlighten me.”
“They’re going to release the video,” Mason coughed, “in the next episode. Everytwo’s going to see your head go boom.” The glossy dome of bloody bubble capped his lips before Mason made a pop sound with his mouth.
Prince stomped and tomahawked the bottle across the room. Glass and bourbon burst behind Mason as he cowered. Prince pointed at the boy. “You tell them to send me the original and destroy any copies. Now!”
Mason shook his head. “You’re crazy. You think they’re going to give up that card? For me? They like me and all, but… yeah. Not gonna happen.”
Walking behind the boy, Prince stared at the tiled drop ceiling. A tiny black dot for every potential viewer of that video. He was so enraged, his teeth chattered. What was worse, the idea that Gray Altar—his father and the company he was born to own—had lied to him, had resurrected him against his will or the fact that One Nation could broadcast his death to millions of people and prove he was a clone? Death should not be undone. Eyes on his hands again then eyes on the door. Death, an individual’s death, cannot be robbed from him. Eyes on his thin scars again and eyes on the door. A man should have the right to define himself in death as much as he did in life.
“They’ll let me die first,” Mason added.
The boy was right. One Nation wasn’t stupid. And trading Mason for the mother and child wasn’t equitable. If only he had grabbed one of the girls, but One Nation would have spun that into a media nightmare. How, Prince thought, were these peasants winning?
Prince rocked backward. Stepped away as if the boy was poisonous. Every time Prince’s boot crushed the shattered glass, Mason cringed. Prince said, “They haven’t released it yet?”
Mason shook his head no.
Hard knocks hammered the door. Merrick, Prince thought. He lunged down to Mason’s ear and hissed, “How do I know you’re not lying?”
Flinching, Mason whispered. “You know I’m not.”
More hammering, shaking the door. Merrick’s voice. “Prince?”
Prince squeezed his eyes closed and bowed his head. If this is true, if this is true, he thought, also thinking back to the times in battle where he had sustained life-threatening injuries—the first was maybe four years ago, an exploded grenade that supposedly knocked him unconscious for days—the second was only last year when his gunship had been shot down. Again, unconscious. Again, woken up in a medical bay, Merrick there to welcome him back. Always the same way. If this is true, he thought, is this the first time or not…
“Prince?” Merrick said through the door. “We heard glass break.”
Eyes tight, fist clenched, Prince whispered, “If you’re lying to me, I’ll have you locked in a black box for the rest of your life. Understand? You will want to kill yourself.”
Mason turned his head. His matted hair smelled like dirt and sweat. “Now don’t we have that in common.”
Prince huffed. Yes, trained or not, the boy was good. One fucking Nation under two fucking gods. Prince straightened and marched to the door. He opened it a crack and peeked out.
“What’s going on in there?” Merrick said.
Prince looked the old bastard in the eyes. “They’re willing to negotiate,” he lied.
Merrick skepticism wasn’t a shock. “What? Already?”
“I’m surprised too. I’ve been messaging the father. They want to talk, probably trade the boy for the mother.” Prince found that lying to this lying bastard wasn’t just easy, it was thrilling.
“You’ve been talking to them?” Merrick asked.
“I was on the way here too. I’m way ahead on this. I’m the lead,” Prince assured. “We’re going to get the cure tonight.”
“They’re playing you,” Merrick laughed, trying to look into the room.
“No,” Prince said. “They know they can’t win. It’s the boy,” Prince looked back at Mason. “He and one of the girls, they’re a couple.” Prince grinned at Merrick. “Looks like I snagged the right… two.”
Merrick squinted at the boy, disgusted. “A couple? Don’t they have some special Set name for that?”
Prince grinned. “Imagine how we’ll look when we reunite them. And then we get access to the genetics. The cure. Everything.”
“One Nation will have caveats,” Merrick said. He wasn’t alone. Prince sensed there were at least a dozen people standing close by.
“Of course. We’ll negotiate with them, but we’ll have control. There’s nothing they can do. They’re giving up.” Prince smiled.
Merrick looked back at a group of analysts in the hallway. Murmuring and typing and talking into radios. He turned back to Prince. “How’s this gonna work?”
“I’ll deliver the boy myself,” Prince said.
“Just you?”
“That’s the way they want it. And I’ll return with the mother, not the child.” Prince knew to hold back most of the prize. “The mother is enough for now. And they know we’ve got their base surrounded. They’re in a kill box.”
The base was sizzling with excitement. Prince could hear typing and hushed, frantic voices.
Merrick nodded. “You’re right.” He turned to the group in the hallway again and explained the plan. Many of the analysts protested, but he argued back. Time was of the essence. Who knew when One Nation would release another video, strengthening their public support. Prince glanced behind him to Mason, the low-slumped boy, if he was listening and playing along. The boy tapped the mug of bourbon with his boot.
“If you can get her back tonight…” Merrick said.
“I will,” Prince assured.
Merrick was slow to nod. He glared at the boy again. “Okay. Take a team and gunship. Exchange the boy for the mother.”
“They only want to deal with me,” Prince said.
“Understandable,” Merrick agreed and turned back to the group. There w
ere words that Prince couldn’t hear. After almost a minute, Merrick nodded back to him. “Okay. Prepare.”
Prince shut the door as slowly as he could without seeming weird.
Mason, head still down, said, “You haven’t been talking to my people, huh?”
He walked to the boy. Leaned down and picked up the mug and chucked it on the bed. Blood and bourbon on the sheets he had slept in the night before.
Prince pressed his thumb to Mason’s handcuff, releasing it with a fingerprint scan. “No,” Prince said, tapping into his forearm display. “But you’re going to right now.”
Mason held his wrist. “Why? What’re you doing?”
Prince’s display linked with the datasheet, opening a secure line to text One Nation with. He handed Mason the datasheet and whispered. “Quick. Take a pic of yourself and send it. Tell them you’re coming back in exchange for the video.”
“What?” Mason took the sheet. “They won’t believe that.”
Prince glanced back at the door. “They will when we get there.”
CHAPTER 12
For almost an hour, Penny had been watching the tears collect in tiny puddles between her boots. People had left her to sob, initially, but now they were coming back, Jill and Clint first. Sam behind them. She tried to keep her eyes off the blood streaks on the concrete. One for every man and woman dragged into the base. Some of them without legs or arms. Some of them newly dead. Many of them defecated—one last indignity gift by from Gray Altar. Each person had every right to blame her.
Mud smeared in with the piss and blood. A bullet casing clotted like a tiny spilled can. Penny cried so hard she thought she might gag. Wanted to. Maybe she could choke herself to death with tears.
Clint was the first to approach her. He said nothing at first, just sat next to her a few feet away. Shirt off, wound glued and bandaged, he slumped and sipped a can of beer, inhaling hard with each taste.
Jill walked away and came back with the baby.
Sam stood by her, one arm hugging her mom’s shoulder.
Penny hadn’t noticed at first, but Clint had half a six pack sitting next to him. Condensation beaded and dripped onto the pocked floor. He snapped another beer from the plastic rings and extended it to her, stretching as far as he could, and set it within her reach. Still, he said nothing.
Two Girls Book 2: One Nation Page 16
