“What’s worse—” Jiri began.
“Way to open your big mouth,” Cherry said to Rene.
“What’s worse,” Jiri continued, “is that recent intelligence suggests Temujin’s forces are in possession of several weapons of both Replodian and Federation design. I believe that the traitor has defected to the Golden Horde and is supplying them with technology intended for the TDC.”
“Merde,” Rene breathed. “How could this happen?”
“Amaadoss and I have discussed all possible scenarios, and have come up with only one plausible explanation,” said Jiri. “Sabotage.”
“Who could have possibly sabotaged the project?” asked Robert.
Jiri’s brow furrowed. “I have my suspicions. Unfortunately I lack proof. After the transmission from Amaadoss, I checked the records at Dreknor from my office, and our suspicions are correct. Someone changed three lines of code and drastically altered Unit 003’s primary programming, ordering him to destroy all materials and personnel related to both the TDC and Project Alexander.”
“What can we do?” said Robert.
“In their current state, the TDC have only a thirty-two percent chance of survival. I ask that you three return to Earth and offer support. I know that’s asking a lot of you, but we don’t have a choice.”
“Return… to Earth?” said Cherry.
“But,” said Rene, “doesn’t that violate the parameters of the experiment?”
“Damn the experiment, Boudreaux!” Jiri pounded his walking stick on the floor. “We’re talking about people’s lives. Not just the TDC, but billions of human lives. Not to mention the lives lost when the Seignso’s plans are—”
“Okay. Okay,” said Rene defensively. “What can we do for them besides double their numbers?”
“You’re a mechanic,” said Jiri. “Surely you can help them repair sixteen-year-old obsolete Phaedojian hardware can’t you?”
“No need to get pissy,” Rene muttered.
Jiri turned to the others. “Can I depend on you, my friends?”
Robert nodded. “When do we leave?”
“In six hours,” said Jiri. “That doesn’t give you much time to prepare, I know, but time is of the utmost importance. We cannot afford to dawdle. I have procured a class three interceptor for your journey. You’ll make your hyperspace jump at the Arqo jump gate.”
The hunters all nodded and stood to leave the room.
Jiri turned. “Oh, there is one more thing. It would be best if you didn’t mention any of this to Quintin. He’s such an impulsive boy, bless him. I’m afraid if he were to learn about his brother on Earth that he might fly off again and try to join the war.”
“Impulsive. Gee,” said Cherry. “I wonder where he learned that kind of behavior.”
Rene threw up his hands in exasperation. “There you go again! Always busting my balls!”
“You can’t break what’s already broken,” Cherry jeered. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was a neighboring organ, wasn’t it?”
“All right, woman, now you’ve gone too far!”
*****
In the hall, Quintin stared into space, ignoring the rest of the argument. Was he hallucinating, or had Jiri actually just said he had spoken with his father? But that was impossible. Amaadoss had been dead for years. And his brother?
“I have a brother?” he whispered. “On Earth?”
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Quintin ripped the disc off the door and ran down the hall toward his and Jiri’s quarters. He had some packing to do.
Chapter Fourteen
Air Force Flight Test Center, Detachment 3
Codename: Area 51 AKA “Dreamland”
Groom Lake, Nevada
September 25th
Moe ducked, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets from the M4 carbine fired by an MP at the end of the hall. The weapon’s report barely penetrated the alarm echoing through the corridor. The Replodian slipped around a corner as bullets chewed the wall apart, peppering his hair with concrete chunks and dust.
He tucked the inch-thick accordion file he was carrying into the waistband of his jeans and traded it for the small stun pistol concealed beneath his jacket. He ejected the magazine and saw three glowing blue rounds nestled within the transparent alloy.
He banged the back of his head against the wall. “Wonderful.”
The Replodian waited for his opening and smiled when he heard the squawk of a walkie-talkie coming from the end of the hall.
“This is Hawkins,” the MP shouted into her radio. “I have the intruder pinned down in the east Level Five corridor. Send backup.”
“Correction,” said Moe. “You had the intruder pinned down.”
Moe jumped out from behind the wall and slid into the hallway on his side with the stun pistol in his right hand. The startled MP dropped the radio and fumbled for her rifle, but the Replodian was faster. Moe aimed for center mass and squeezed the trigger. A blue capsule ruptured on the woman’s chest, and she shuddered as a small burst of blue electricity enveloped her body. The MP’s eyes rolled back as her knees buckled and she slumped onto the concrete floor.
“At ease, soldier,” Moe whispered as he rose to his feet.
He cautiously approached the MP and nudged her with his shoe. No response. The stun rounds were potent, but only lasted about thirty minutes before the victim woke up with a killer headache.
Moe knelt beside Hawkins and removed her ID badge. He gazed intently at the sleeping woman’s features for a moment and closed his eyes. When he opened them, desert fatigues covered his body, and his skin had taken on the MP’s pallor. He reached up and felt his hair, long, but bundled into a tight bun beneath a cap. He was no longer Moe.
“This is Hawkins,” he said in the MP’s voice as he clipped the badge to his jacket.
Moe stowed the stun pistol inside his phony uniform, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it too many times, because the only other weapon he brought along didn’t tickle.
A disembodied voice filled the hall, fed by hidden speakers, “Attention all units! The intruder is moving east on level five. Lethal force has been authorized. I repeat. Lethal force has been authorized.”
“Lucky me,” Moe muttered.
Moe picked up Hawkins’ rifle and strolled down the corridor toward the elevator. When he rounded the corner, he came face to face with a squad of airmen in full combat gear. They trained their weapons on him momentarily before the lieutenant raised his hand for the men to lower them.
“Hawkins,” the lieutenant barked. “Has the intruder been neutralized?”
“Negative,” Moe replied, still using Hawkins’s voice. “I lost him. He must have doubled back into one of the branching hallways.”
“You heard her, men,” the lieutenant shouted. “This way. Hawkins, get on the radio and tell Security to lock down this entire level.”
“Yes, sir!” Moe said as he moved toward the elevator.
As he passed the squad, one of the men near the rear glanced up and stared, visibly alarmed, at the Replodian. “Your ear,” the man said.
Moe reached up and felt the back of his ear. When he examined his fingers, they were covered in a thin coat of luminous yellow blood, along with a small, but sharp, piece of concrete. He felt a warm trickle run down the curve of his ear as fresh blood oozed from the small wound. The real Hawkins had drawn first blood after all.
The passing airman brought his rifle up. “Lieutenant! She’s—”
Moe struck the airman across the jaw with the butt of his stolen rifle before discarding the weapon. He drew the stun pistol and fired a single round into the man’s chest at point-blank range. The human fell to the ground in a blue, electrical flash. Moe spun low to avoid the barrage of gunfire from the troops, snatched a smoke bomb from the stunned airman’s vest, and pulled the pin in one fluid motion. He rolled the bomb into the squad’s scrambling feet and waited while they frantically tried to kick it away.
The canister expelled thick red smoke a
nd the corridor quickly became filled with it, along with the coughs of a dozen airmen. Unseen, Moe leapt into the air and grabbed an overhead water pipe. He clung to the pipe, moving safely down the corridor above the frantic gunfire. When he reached another T-intersection, Moe dropped to the floor in front of the elevator and pressed the call button twice, but the elevator did not respond.
“Lockdown,” he breathed.
Moe forced his fingertips into the gap between the doors and pried them apart. He stepped into the stalled car, threw open the maintenance hatch, and climbed on top of the car. He looked around the shaft, but only saw bare, sheer concrete walls.
“This place is a damn firetrap,” he said. “Twenty thousand dollars for a hammer — what the hell did they spend it on? No room in the budget for a freakin’ ladder?”
His eyes fell on the elevator’s cable, and he sighed. He stuffed the stun weapon into his waistband, traded it for a plasma pistol, and grabbed the cable connected to the top of the car. Taking a deep breath, he aimed the pistol at the cable coupling at his feet, trying to push the utter stupidity of what he was about to do out of his mind.
The Replodian closed his eyes and whispered, “I am James Bond. I am James Bond. I am James Bond.”
The pistol spat searing plasma, and the coupling broke apart. The counterweight plummeted, sending him rocketing toward the ground floor. He looked up and gritted his teeth as the top of the shaft came dangerously close.
Down below he heard a resounding crash and he reached up to grab a steel support beam above the pulley system. He let go of the cable just before it slipped through the pulley and watched the cable snake down the shaft. He clutched the beam with both hands and swung his legs, building momentum. He kicked his feet against the doors once, twice, each time bowing the steel panels out more and more. Finally the doors gave, and Moe swung out into the ground level lobby.
He came to rest on the floor just short of the security station, where the lone sentry stared at him with his sidearm drawn. Moe stood and smoothed his fatigues, his hands pausing over his chest as he felt Hawkins’ stolen form under his clothes. He grinned sheepishly at the sentry.
“Might want to call maintenance,” he said. “I think the elevator’s out of order.”
The bewildered sentry took aim with his sidearm, but Moe was quicker. He ripped the cap from his head and flung it into the man’s face. The sentry squeezed off a single shot, but Moe ducked the bullet and brought his boot up and around in a powerful wheel kick that struck the side of the man’s head and sent him sprawling to the floor, unconscious before he fell.
“Nighty night,” said Moe with a wave.
He felt behind his back, breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers found the file still safely tucked away in his waistband. The idea of having to go back down the shaft to face an entire squad of pissed off and half-blind airmen to retrieve it made him cringe. He took a step toward the glass front doors, and a steel barrier slammed down in front of him, sealing him off from escape.
“Do not move,” said the disembodied voice on the loudspeaker. “The building has been locked down. You cannot escape. Throw down your weapon.”
Moe looked up at a security camera mounted above the door. “You mean this weapon?”
He aimed the plasma pistol at the camera and fired, destroying it in a shower of sparks. He crossed the room to the card reader next to the door and tried Hawkins’s key card. The reader buzzed and blinked red. Moe reached out to rip off the cover panel to expose the wiring beneath, but was interrupted by a door opening beside the elevator.
Moe shook his head wearily as fifteen airmen armed with M4s poured through the door, each one barking a variation of the order to drop his weapons. A gray-haired man wearing the uniform of a four-star Air Force general stepped briskly through the doorway and gave the Replodian a confident smirk.
“It’s over, young lady,” said the general. “Give it up.”
Moe looked from the general’s face to the ID badge clipped to his left breast pocket, then looked over his shoulder at the card reader set into the wall next to the barricaded door and returned the smirk.
“I don’t think so,” said Moe. “And you know what, General? You’re going to let me out.”
The general scoffed, “And just how do you imagine that will happen?”
Moe smirked. “You’re going to give me your ID card.”
“Drop your weapons now!” shouted one of the airmen standing at the front.
Moe looked at the man. “Sure thing. Catch!”
He tossed the plasma pistol into the air and, as the airmen looked up to follow its arc, delivered a sidekick to the man’s chest, knocking him back into the throng. With his leg still in the air, he twisted and swatted the airman to his left in the head with a hook kick, sending him sprawling to the ground. The Replodian turned and drove his left elbow into another airman’s solar plexus, doubling him over as the wind was forced from his lungs. The man wheezed as Moe’s knee struck him in the face and he was thrown headfirst into a nearby wall, leaving a deep dent in the drywall.
Moe turned to look at the others, who stared at the intruder’s incredible speed. “Three,” Moe said.
“Fire!” the general bellowed.
The deafening report of automatic weapons filled the air, and Moe sidestepped a hail of bullets from a nearby airman. He swept his left hand out to block the rifle and struck the man’s nose with the backside of his fist, loosening the man’s grip on the rifle. His left hand gripped the rifle’s barrel while his right took hold of the man’s fatigues, and with a twist of the hips, he threw the airman onto his back. With the rifle in hand, Moe covered the distance between him and the next closest airman with a long, low stride and sidekicked the man in the chest, sending him crashing back into the first airman, who was now attempting to stand.
“Five,” Moe said as he turned to strike another airman across the side of the head with the rifle butt. “Six.”
A young, green-looking airman ran forward for a better shot, and Moe threw his rifle at the man’s legs, tripping him. The boy slid across the tile at Moe’s feet and immediately tried to stand, but Moe stopped him with an axe kick between the shoulder blades. “Stay down!” he said.
Bullets whizzed past the Replodian’s head, and Moe jerked his head out of the way. He ducked another barrage, spun, and launched himself into the air, bringing the heel of his boot into the back of the assailant’s skull. As he landed, he deflected the nearest airman’s rifle and swept his arm into the man’s throat, clotheslining him and throwing him off his feet.
“Nine,” he said.
The searing barrel of an M4 pressed against the back of his skull. “Freeze,” the weapon’s owner commanded.
Moe raised his hands slowly, then kicked blindly behind him, driving his boot into the man’s gut. The rifle discharged harmlessly into the floor. “Ten,” Moe said, correcting himself.
His hands still raised, the Replodian cartwheeled out of the path of a stream of bullets and swung his leg around in a devastating wheel kick that sent his target spinning to the floor. The airman who’d fired ejected his magazine, and felt his bandolier for a fresh one. Moe stalked forward and kicked the man in the stomach, interrupting his task and doubling him over. The man sank to one knee, clutching his aching gut, revealing two more airmen behind him leveling their weapons at Moe.
The Replodian leapfrogged over the moaning man and launched himself into the air. He kicked out with both legs, striking both men in the faces. Their weapons discharged as they fell back, striking the ceiling and raining plaster dust onto Moe’s hair and shoulders.
“Fifteen,” Moe said. “Wait… or was that—”
A single shot rang out, and a searing pain tore through the Replodian’s right shoulder. He looked down at the smoking hole in his fatigues, and the stream of glowing blood flowed onto the fabric. He turned and locked eyes with a trembling young airman. The boy stared at the yellow substance dribbling from the wound in h
is shoulder while an altogether different yellow substance dribbled down his leg.
“Fourteen,” Moe growled.
The airman squeezed the trigger. The weapon clicked in response, and he flinched.
Moe glowered at the sweating human. “Reload, boy.”
The airman ejected the spent magazine and fumbled to slam the fresh one home as the alien terror wearing Hawkins’s face stalked toward him. Finally the magazine locked in place, and he cocked the weapon.
“Ready?” said Moe, still coming.
The airman raised the M4 to fire again, but was far too slow. Moe slapped the weapon aside and punched him twice in the ribs, then reached up to grab the back of his head and drove his knee into his opponent’s face.
“Fifteen,” Moe said as the airman collapsed to the ground.
He turned and saw the general huddled in a corner, whimpering. His eyes grew wide as the bullet wound in Moe’s shoulder closed and healed; the flesh and uniform material mended seamlessly, leaving no trace of the wound. Moe held out his hand and smiled as the gibbering general obediently dropped the ID card into his waiting palm.
“I knew you’d see things my way.” Moe paused to read the name on the badge. “Have a nice day, General Brinkmann.”
Moe bent to collect his plasma pistol as he strode toward the door. He slid the badge through the reader and the door slid open, the barrier receding into the ceiling. He pushed the glass door open, and then paused to look back at Brinkmann.
“On second thought…” Moe smirked as his features and clothing morphed into those of the quaking general. “There is one more thing you can do for me.”
Brinkmann pressed his back against the wall, his eyes wide and nostrils flared as the pretty young woman before him transformed into his own mirror image. Moe fired his last stun ball at the general’s forehead, knocking him unconscious in a wave of blue lightning. Brinkmann slumped to the floor, his hat askew.
Moe knelt beside the general and plucked the hat from his balding head. He put it on, adjusting it until he had a snug fit, then patted the sleeping man on the cheek and smiled. “Thanks, Chief.”
Birthright: Book I of the Temujin Saga Page 11
