by G T Almasi
“Skunk project, yes.” Falcon finishes my sentence for me.
I let go of his throat but keep my gun aimed at his jabber hole. I fish around his left side and remove a pistol from his holster. His stomach and chest heave up and down under me while he gulps in a few big breaths.. He’s dressed in blue jeans, short black boots, and a black leather jacket over a dark gray hooded sweatshirt.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” he says.
“How do I know you’re not a German plant?”
“This morning I shot five Purity Leaguers for you.”
“So what?”
“Can I get up?”
I have no idea what to do with this person. Normally I’d ice him, but he has helped me—twice in one day. This kid had two golden opportunities to shoot me dead, and he didn’t.
If he’d been speed-grown in Carbon’s Gen-2, he’d look a little older and act a lot younger. So let’s say he really is seventeen years old. I suppose Carbon could have acquired cell samples from my bad-ass father seventeen or more years ago and produced Falcon in Gen-1. But the Germans have plenty of their own bad-asses for that sort of thing.
My dad is in Carbon’s Gen-3 for what he can offer them mentally, not physically. If Falcon were—through an incredible fucking miracle—a Gen-3 clone of my dad, the kid wouldn’t merely look and sound like my dad, he’d be my dad. And trust me, he’s not. There’s no way a personality that can remain so calm while being strangled was originally brought into existence by my ear-splittingly histrionic Greek grandparents.
I stand up and back away. I keep Li’l Bertha aimed at him, but in a less menacing way. “Okay, Falcon, what’s your deal? What do you want?”
He stands up slowly. “Maybe I should tell you on the way.”
“Way where?”
“Anywhere but here. We can take my motorcycle.” He looks over to the checkpoint. A police car has arrived, and a couple of the guards are back on their feet.
Yeah, we’d better get out of here.
“Fine.” I jam Li’l Bertha back in her holster. “But you ride bitch.”
We saddle up and I steer us onto the highway. I crank the throttle over and his bike whisks us into the night. I keep our speed reasonable so I can ask Falcon again what he’s up to, who he is, and where he came from. His story chills me even more than the winter air we’re riding through.
Falcon is a product of the supposedly defunct Asexual Reproduction Initiative. Congress shut this program down because its methods for acquiring specimens were so unscrupulous. I already know how the Patricks’ genes came from an off-limits minor. What’s news to me is the cell sample that grew Falcon was stolen from ExOps’s medical offices—two years after ARI was canceled.
This explains where ARI’s old equipment went. All that crap was going to be transferred to the new American cloning program, Reproduction Using Asexual Cloning Heuristics, to continue cloning research. However, the moral and legal realities of cloned humans were so convoluted Congress simply gave up and limited RUACH’s charter to shepherding ARI’s offspring through their childhoods. The Asexual Reproduction Initiative was boxed up—lock, stock, and barrel—and stuffed in a government warehouse under the desert outside of Phoenix.
All this gear turned up missing during the probe of ExOps’s notorious three moles. That was eight years ago and twelve years after ARI’s demise. Plenty of time for an ambitious and corrupt government official to establish his own personal cloning program.
Fredericks, as the Front Desk of ExOps’s German Section, had full access to his agents’ medical profiles, including my dad’s. What on earth Fredericks thought he was doing is beyond me. For now it’s all I can do to wrap my head around a universe that includes this young version of my father.
I turn off the A10 and onto the A18. I accelerate up to 200 kph to see what Falcon does. His arm around my waist tightens, but he keeps his cool and doesn’t say anything. The wind freezes my lips and makes my eyes water, so I slow down again. When I ask Falcon about Jakob Fredericks, he lets out a sharp breath.
“He’s totally insane, but he threatens everybody in Washington with some incriminating mystery file, and nobody has the guts to bring him down.”
“What turned him into a nut job?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. I’ve known him all my life. He’s always been a bastard, but he goes further off the deep end every year. He raves about you a lot.”
Great.
Talking on a motorcycle is a bit of a chore, so we stay quiet until I get close to Calais. Avoiding the checkpoints requires a series of creative shortcuts. We cut down dark alleys, zigzag across parking lots, and sneak through people’s backyards. Once we even glide through the lobby of a block-long office building.
I can’t figure out where to bring this kid. I still don’t know if he’s telling the truth or if he’s playing me. It’s probably best to keep him away from Marie’s house. Unless, of course, he already knows about it.
“How much do you know about where I’m staying?” I ask.
“You and Darwin have been crashing at Marie Van Daan’s place in Calais while you heal from wounds you suffered in London.”
Fuck, he knows everything. The only way Falcon could know all this stuff is Fredericks knows it and has fed it to him. “Was that you watching Marie’s house the other night?”
“No, but I know who you’re talking about. He was an amateur. That was his own personal car. The dope left his real plates on it.” Clearly, Falcon takes surveillance seriously. He even spies on the people who spy on the people he’s spying on.
I turn onto Marie’s street and switch off the motorcycle’s headlight. I goose the engine and then switch that off, too. We silently coast down the street and into Marie’s driveway. I drag my feet to stop the motorcycle so the brake light doesn’t come on. We hop off the bike. I walk it into the garage and leave the big door open since that’s how Marie left it. I unclip Falcon’s rifle case from the bike’s front forks and tuck it under my arm. Then I lead Falcon into the unlit kitchen.
Nobody’s home. Marie is still in Brussels, and her husband, who was away on business, got stuck at the Berlin airport when all the flights got canceled by the Germans’ martial response to our bombings.
We leave the house lights off. I can see fine with my starlight vision, and Falcon doesn’t bump into anything, so I assume he has the same vision Mods as me. I get us each a bottle of beer from the fridge while I try to figure out what to do with him.
Falcon is about to take a swig when he freezes with the bottle halfway to his mouth. He slowly puts the bottle down on Marie’s kitchen table with one hand while he reaches toward his empty holster with the other. I whip out Li’l Bertha and point her at Falcon’s face.
The young sniper stops moving and holds his hands out in front of his body with his fingers splayed to say, Okay, don’t shoot. Then he very pointedly looks into the living room.
Dammit, did this punk set me up?
My system has absorbed a heavy dose of Madrenaline, so it’ll be nothing to ventilate him if he tries anything.
But then, why would he tell me where they are?
I wave my pistol toward the other room. Move it. You first.
Falcon slowly walks through the doorway and into the living room. I layer my infrared vision over my night vision and follow him. He points across the room.
A hot red blob is hiding behind the sofa. A long blue shape overlaps the red thing and clearly outlines an automatic weapon. I stay in the doorway and shout, “Hey, peek-a-boo! You’ve got one fucking second to drop it or I’ll light you up like a goddamned Christmas tree.”
“Scarlet? Don’t shoot, it’s Victor.” The red person lays his blue weapon on the floor. “My gun’s down. I’m coming out.” He slowly stands up, but remains behind the sofa with his arms spread. I shut off my vision Mods and flip a wall switch to turn the lights on. We all squint in the glaring brightness.
“Vic, it
is you! Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story.” Victor shuffles out from behind the sofa.
“Why didn’t you comm that you were here?” I go to shake his hand, and only then do I realize I’m still holding my fucking beer.
Victor says, “The batteries in my comm set died,” as he smoothly lifts the bottle out of my grasp, winks at me, and takes a big chug. “Ah-h-h, thanks.” He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “You wouldn’t believe what my last few weeks have been like.” He extends his hand toward Falcon. “Hello. I’m Victor Eisenberg.”
The kid, who clearly recognizes the infamous underground leader, recovers his wits enough to shake his hand. “Hi. Uhh, I’m Falcon.”
“Hmm,” Victor says quietly, “another American. Very interesting.” He turns to me, “You look much better, Scarlet. How are your injuries?” While I answer him, he retrieves his weapon, an MP-52-S with a very nice scope, from behind the couch.
We settle into the kitchen and catch Victor up on what’s been happening around Calais. He almost dies laughing when I tell him how I knocked Kruppe out with a wine bottle. But he regains his composure long enough to make me repeat the message about the meeting at Thiepval, which Patrick already told me is a French town with a gigundous war memorial. When I tell Victor about the bombs we set off last night, he says he saw the wrecked department store on his way into town earlier today. I finish with our rescue mission to Belgium.
“So Falcon,” Victor asks, “you’re new to the team?”
I say, “Falcon was there, Vic, but he isn’t ExOps.”
Victor’s mouth opens to ask the next obvious question, but before he can a car’s headlights swing through the kitchen windows. The vehicle pulls into the driveway. I draw my sidearm, and all three of us crouch below the window.
Now what? Did Fredericks send these people, too?
I hand signal to Falcon: You wait here.
He shakes his head and holds his fingers out like a gun.
“No way,” I hiss, then I whisper to Victor, “Cover me from here in case I need to fall back.”
Victor nods and gently cocks his weapon.
The car’s engine turns off. I wait by the door to the garage. When the headlights go out, I dive through the door, roll across the floor, and take cover in front of the vehicle’s hood. My pistol sights on the passenger’s face as he steps out of the car. It’s Brando. Marie opens her door to get out of the driver’s seat. Only now do I observe that the car’s hood is bright orange.
“Darwin, what are you doing here?”
Both Brando and Marie nearly jump out of their skins. Marie exclaims something in that weird language she speaks. Brando’s training allows him to resist saying anything, but he still instinctively crouches behind the car door before he recognizes my voice.
“Scarlet? Cripes! You scared the crap out of me! What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to be here, dummy.”
“I mean, why are you lurking in the—” My partner spots Falcon in the doorway and switches in midsentence. “Who in blazes are you?”
Falcon taps his ear and shakes his head. I wave at Brando to get his attention and sign to him, Turn off your commphone. Comm code cracked.
Brando’s eyes open wide. Compromised comm codes mean we’re in big trouble, but his more immediate concern is to find out who this new kid is.
“Okay, it’s off,” Brando declares. “What the hell is going on?”
34
Same evening, 8:49 P.M. CET
Calais, Province of France, GG
I make the introductions and give my partner a super-brief version of my evening that sounds almost like a child telling her parent about a stray cat. I’m tempted to say, “This sniper followed me home, can we keep him?” but I’m still wigged about our new acquaintance.
Anything to do with Fredericks is suspect. Falcon seems like he genuinely wants to escape the man’s clutches, but for all we know Falcon has been secretly equipped with remote-controlled surveillance gear or a tracker or a bomb or something.
Hmm, tracker.
“Falcon,” I ask, “do you have a No-Jack installed?”
“Of course, but I disabled it.”
My starlight vision shows how Brando glares at Falcon’s shadowy shape. Marie has been listening to us talk. When we stop, she says, “Why don’t I go inside and let you people sort this out.” She switches on the garage’s overhead light, walks into her house, and gently closes the kitchen door. Then she screams.
I run inside. Victor points his weapon down at the ground and says to Marie, “Garbo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first.”
Marie leans on the sink with her hand over her chest and breathlessly says, “I’m all right, Victor. You surprised me is all.”
Jeez, what a night.
Falcon and Brando follow me in from the garage. My partner exclaims, “Hey, Victor’s back.” He turns to me. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah,” I say. “There’s a big rabbit stuck in the chimney who says he’s late for tea.”
“Wiseass.” Brando crosses the room and gives Victor one of those manly half-hug handshakes. “How are ya, Victor?”
“I’m good, Darwin.” Victor puts a brotherly arm around Marie. “Have you been taking good care of my friend Garbo?”
Brando sits at the kitchen table and grabs Falcon’s beer. “More like the other way around. She’s been awesome.”
We all look at Marie. After a moment, she blushes and says, “Oh, for goodness sakes, stop staring.” She bustles over to one of the cabinets. “It’s been quite an evening. How about I make us something to eat? Victor, can you reach that big pan for me?”
While the very important asset and the charismatic rebel leader set to cooking a late dinner, I sit next to my partner, who swigs his beer and studies Falcon.
“Wow, Scarlet, I can’t believe how much this kid looks like your dad.”
I hit Brando’s arm with my watch. “No shit, brainiac.”
He winces and rubs his arm. Then he asks Falcon, “Hey, can you hack our commphones so we can use them locally without Fredericks tracking us?”
Falcon presses his lips together and looks at the ceiling. Then he says, “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Okay, great.” Brando mulls this over for a few moments. “Falcon, would you excuse us for a minute? I need to talk to Scarlet.”
“Sure thing,” He tosses his head toward the street. “I’ll go take a look around outside.” Falcon flips his dark hood up over his head and goes back out to the garage. His silhouetted figure strolls down the driveway.
Marie and Victor chat at the sink while they rinse vegetables. The water splishes and gurgles noisily down the drain.
Patrick takes my hand and leads me into the living room. He pulls me close and leans his mouth right up against my ear as he whispers, “Falcon could be from anywhere. I don’t like this at all.”
I turn my head so my mouth is next to Patrick’s ear, “Me neither, but he did help us out. And he sincerely seems to wanna get away from Fredericks and his skunko version of ARI. I can’t say I blame the kid. What should we do?”
“Normally I’d check in with ExOps for direction, but if our comms are being intercepted, we have to stay offline and figure this out ourselves. I have no idea what the kid will do if we tell him to beat it. If he’s telling the truth, he’ll be on his own and really vulnerable. If he’s lying, then he’ll keep following us.”
“Or,” I whisper, “I could punch his ticket and bury him in a bog.”
My partner considers this, then whispers, “Whoever sent Falcon will send someone else if we kill him.” He thinks for a few moments, then says, “I’m sure we can find something to do with a top-shelf sniper.” He taps his foot on the floor a couple of times. “Let’s keep him with us, but don’t tell him anything we don’t have to.” Patrick inhales deeply. “Now that we’ve met Falcon, I’d say it was Fredericks who betrayed us in London. Which me
ans we’ve got to get out of Calais tonight.”
I lean back so he can see me nod my agreement. His mouth is set in a tight line. I whisper, “Why did you risk coming back from Brussels so soon?”
“You didn’t answer my comms and I was worried sick.” He takes one of my hands into his. “I thought something had happened to you.”
I put my other hand on the side of Patrick’s head and turn his face toward me. I press my body against him and plant my open lips on his mouth. His tongue flicks against mine and fires twin jolts of electricity down the length of my spine. The lightning bolts ricochet off the carpet and shimmy up my legs until they meet at the tops of my thighs. I moan and have to push away before I commit international perversion right there in Marie’s parlor.
I take a second to recover while I stare into my partner’s eyes. Then I squeeze his hand. “We’d better get going. Let’s bring Falcon inside and tell Marie and Victor we’re leaving.”
Half an hour later we’ve packed up the food, batteries, and other supplies Marie gave us. We can comm with each other now that Falcon has reprogrammed our comm gear to operate on a private network.
I’ve had my commphone for years. There’s always been someone to call for help if I got into trouble. It makes me feel naked to be off the grid like this, but it’s the only way to make sure hostiles can’t monitor our comms.
It wasn’t until Falcon reset my commphone that I asked Brando what made him think Falcon could do this for us. My partner shrugged and gave me a two-word answer: “Your dad.” He meant Falcon has inherited Dad’s technical aptitude and probably other things too. I hope the poor kid didn’t pick up my father’s love of drinking himself insensible.
While we get ourselves ready to bug out, Marie goes into cooking overdrive. She won’t hear of us leaving empty-handed, and her experience with the Circle has taught her how to make very portable food that will keep without being refrigerated.
The three of us gather in her kitchen and pile our backpacks and gear on the table. Victor walks in from the garage and adds his field pack and ammo satchel to our luggage heap.
