by T. C. Edge
“You did good today, buddy,” she whispered, struggling not to cry. “Sleep tight now. You deserve it.”
She dropped her head back onto the cushioned rest behind her, gazing up and forward blankly and at nothing in particular. Her life had changed immeasurably over the last week or so. So much had happened, and things would, could, never be the same again.
But though she had friends now, a familiar feeling flourished inside her. A feeling she knew all too well. Now, with Ragan gone, it came stomping back into her heart, a cold, empty feeling.
Of being alone.
83
Mikel stood beside his jet-car, parked off in a lay-by beside a quiet freeway. Behind him, far towards the south, storm clouds drifted off on the distant winds, drenching the lands below as they passed. The storm had first aided him in his hunt, then scuppered him at the last. The arrival of the NDSA soldiers had sounded the klaxon for his retreat, their approach hidden by the tempest and forcing Mikel into a swift decision.
Mikel’s hunt had ended prematurely. His fangs were still extended, despite the city now being almost a hundred miles south. Sometimes it would take them time to fully withdraw, depending upon the depths of his hunger, and the tantalising nature of his prey. Right now, his desire was profound, the tease of Hunt and the Phantom so agonising. He shook his head to himself in rebuke. It was his own fault, he knew, for trying to take them down. He could easily have left and spared himself this final pain.
Final…
Yes, he thought, a smile burgeoning. This will be the last time. A final hunger, unquenched, unsatisfied. And soon, gone forever.
Perhaps it was all a good thing. Had he fed on Chloe or Hunt, he might have had second thoughts. Such was the pure ecstasy of feeding, in such contrast to the agony of his endless craving, that he may have thought differently right now. He knew himself too well. He’d have been on cloud nine, in a state of euphoria. And in such a state, why would you desire any change at all?
No, this was a good thing, he thought again, reinforcing, convincing himself. He wanted to banish this feeling for good, purge the curse from inside him. One final feeding didn’t matter one bit, no matter how long he’d desired it. Soon enough, such base cravings would be dispelled. He’d be free of their torment, their suffocating grip…forever.
He smiled brighter, turning his eyes up towards the now blue sky. He stood under the shade of some trees, the air swirling across him on a breeze, damp with condensation following the storm. The ground tingled with moisture, drops of stormwater tapping as they dripped through leaves. A peaceful sound, and a peaceful place. A nice place to wait.
Mikel pulled out his communicator, linked directly to one in Martha Mitchell’s possession. He used it a final time not so long ago, updating the woman on what had happened in Cincinnati. She’d seemed awkward on the line, as if surprised to hear from him. She really shouldn’t have been. Mikel had all the confidence that he was going to escape the city unscathed. Mrs Mitchell clearly didn’t quite know the true depths of his talents.
The conversation had been brief, both getting right down to business. Mikel had updated Martha on his current location, and she’d promised to send a transport to fetch him. Now he was waiting, relaxing in the shade, listening to sprinkling rainwater showering through the trees, and chirping birds singing their song, his thoughts turning forwards, and not back.
Forwards, into the unknown. Into a future that Mikel couldn’t wait to discover.
A light sound, artificial and unlike the natural tones and tinkling notes around him, began to hum in the distance. He turned his eyes north, up along the freeway that stretched towards the MSA border. In the sky, a blur was approaching, grey-silver in colour, sun glinting off its polished surface.
Its form grew in detail as it drew near, the sound of its engines chasing off the tapping of water droplets and the mirthful tweeting of the birds. The jet was sleek, narrow, and very unlike the one Mikel had been using. It came right towards him, before slowing in a sharp motion, its thrusters rotating down as the jet hovered and stopped in midair, before gently descending towards the tarmac, billowing mist pouring from its underside.
Mikel stepped away from his own little transport - it wouldn’t be needed any longer - and stood in the open as the jet’s engines mellowed and quietened down. A door on its closest flank slid open, then a short ramp extended. A powerfully built man in a black suit stamped on down, narrow dark eyes regarding Mikel cautiously.
A familiar smell flooded Mikel’s nose, a final tease that he could do without. He recognised the man - he was one of Martha Mitchell’s bodyguards, a nano-enhanced Raven. Mikel glanced to the cockpit and saw the other of the towering duo, glaring at him through the glass. He shook his head, and snorted as the first man stepped towards him.
“Mikel,” he said, voice deep and gruff. “We have been ordered to transport you to our mistress.”
“Yes, I’m fully aware of that, Raven,” said Mikel, his senses tingling, hunger growing. Ravens weren’t his favourite by any means, but they still made good feeding.
“Hmmmm,” grunted the Raven, drawing out a syringe from his pocket. He brandished it so Mikel could see. “We have instructions to put you out,” he said. “You are not to know the location of our…facility.”
Mikel’s gaze narrowed on the man, a wariness pinching at him. He’d made the decision to trust Martha Mitchell, however, and so had to follow that through. Still, the idea of willingly giving himself up to be put under was against his programming. Particularly when his escort were an enemy he was genetically designed to hate.
He hesitated a moment, studying the man’s expression, though didn’t get much from the exercise. He was greeted by a stern glare, clenched jaw, and rigidly tense body posture. That, ironically, helped assuage his concerns. Were this to be a trap, surely the Raven would try to adopt a fairer, more inviting expression as a lure?
Mikel nodded and stepped towards the man. He was tall, a fair few inches above Mikel, and almost twice as broad, not that that was saying much given Mikel’s slightness of frame. The man stepped to the side and allowed Mikel to pass into the jet. Then he followed him inside; the ramp retracted, door closing.
Guided by the Raven’s grunts and nods of the head, Mikel took a seat at the back. The interior was plush, all cream leather and polished wood. He eyed the Raven carefully as the brute approached, syringe in hand, tentatively reaching forward to administer the drug. He seemed nervous to be this close to Mikel, a fact that drew a simmering smile onto the nano-vamp’s face.
Fear. Unmistakable fear.
“Could you…roll up your arm?” He glanced into Mikel’s cold eyes, then turned them right down again.
Mikel obliged, drawing up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing cold, white skin, flesh that was almost translucent. He stared right at the Raven’s face as he stooped down, tip of the needle inching for Mikel’s flesh.
Mikel drew in a final breath. The air was thick with the smell of sweet nanites, mingled with that scent of fear. The needle crept in, and the Raven pressed down, sending the drug into Mikel’s dark blood. He smiled, feeling the drug take quick effect, his fangs finally drawing back.
His last moments as Mikel, the nano-vamp, came upon him. When he next woke up, he knew - he hoped - he’d do so a very different man.
84
Martha Mitchell paced down the corridor in the depths of the Lake Michigan facility, passing through a door and stepping into the central laboratory down on the lowest subaquatic level. Scientists and technicians hurried about at work, the place humming with excitement. These last days and hours had been thrilling for them. Whether here of their own accord, or under the President’s coercion, they remained innovators and creators, one and all. Each worked with relish, their long journey down here beneath the waves bearing the fruit they’d longed to harvest.
Martha stepped in, feeling conflicted. To one side, at a large bank of monitors, President Pamela Chase stood in conference with
Doctor Harold Lang, chief decoder, and several of his subordinates. They were nodding hurriedly, smiling broadly, a swarm of fawning sycophants, desperate for their ruler’s approval.
How things change, Martha thought, watching on as she approached the group. Pamela was once the shy young thing, just trying to fit in. Now, all bowed to her. It was her world they wanted to fit into.
Martha continued on, and Pamela noted her arrival. She shooed the scientists away with a wave of her hand, and they bowed and stepped back as Pamela moved towards Martha.
“And?” Pamela asked.
Martha drew a steadying breath.
“I’ve just had word from Kurt,” she said. “Mikel has been picked up and is currently on his way here.”
Pamela nodded.
“They put him out, I assume?”
“Yes,” said Martha. “He’s also been restrained for good measure.”
“Excellent,” beamed Pamela, running a hand through her shoulder length black hair. Martha had already updated her a little earlier on Mikel’s recent experience in Cincinnati, which had been greeted with a mixed reception. Pamela had, of course, hoped for Mikel to wipe out Ragan’s entire crew, and perhaps perish himself in the process. It seemed none of that had happened, though Mikel felt sure that Ragan’s team would no longer be a problem.
According to his testimony, he’d maimed Clifton Tanner, whatever that meant - Martha didn’t care to hear the details - and had departed with the group under attack by a unit of Crimson Corps soldiers. Martha suspected that would be Captain Quinn, Colonel Slattery’s favoured operative in the field. In addition, a large force of NDSA soldiers, Panthers included, had been bearing down on them.
It seemed unlikely, then, that Ragan or any of his team will have made it out alive.
The thought set a dull tone to Martha’s heart. She felt increasingly hollow, the facilitator of such death, and was struggling to lift up the smile that Pamela always demanded to see.
The President perused her now, as she always did, studying that sour expression. She tutted and shook her head.
“Now, we’re certain Mikel will comply?” she questioned, frowning. “Perhaps it would be better to just put the wretch down while he’s sleeping.”
Martha felt a ping of disapproval at the idea. She still didn’t know quite why she felt this loyalty to Mikel. It wasn’t him, per se, but what he represented. Martha had lied and deceived, betrayed people she cared about. Somehow, keeping up her end of the bargain with Mikel was a thread she didn’t want to sever. She didn’t want to lose her grasp on her humanity entirely.
“We should honour the agreement,” Martha said flatly. “He deserves that much for what he’s done for us.”
Deserves, Martha thought, finding her own wording so odd. This man had killed so many, been the harbinger of such grief and pain. If anything, he deserved to die more than most. But no more than me…she thought.
“Well then,” said Pamela, shrugging, lips pursing. She raised a thin, black eyebrow, as she often did when thinking. “I…suppose we can make him suit our needs. Embed a little bit of new programming into that warped consciousness of his. Yes,” she nodded to herself, “that might work. If he could be made to comply, he could be an asset.”
“I did promise that he wouldn’t have to serve, Pamela,” said Martha wearily. “It may backfire on us.”
“Backfire,” balked Pamela, turning up her nose. “Nonsense. I’m not comfortable letting that madman loose from this facility without some safeguards in place…”
Martha opened her mouth to disagree further, but Pamela waved her words away before they came with a typically dismissive and impatient flick. She turned back to the scientists, waiting patiently nearby, and drew Doctor Lang back over.
Pamela smiled as he came, puffing her chest out with a breath, then turned to Martha.
“We have some good news, my dear,” she said, eyes beginning to twinkle. “Harold, go ahead. You deserve to tell her.”
Harold Lang, eyes bordered by dark shadow, wizened face looking frail and exhausted, drew a breath. Despite his obvious fatigue, he looked excited by what he was about to say.
“Mrs Mitchell,” he croaked, voice gruff, “I’m delighted to say we have completed our work on Professor Phantom’s research. It is…a work of art, I have to say. Brilliant, quite brilliant…”
“And so are you, Harold,” smiled Pamela. “Don’t ignore your part in this. You have outdone yourself, truly.”
Harold Lang bowed respectfully, looking almost close to tears.
“Madam President, you honour me.”
“You honour us, Harold.” She laid a hand on the old scientist’s shoulder, and smiled pleasantly. Then she turned to Martha once more, whose heart had begun to pace. “We’re ready, Martha,” she said softly. “Come, follow me.”
Pamela began moving off, drawing Martha along with her, Doctor Lang falling into step behind. The other scientists, half a dozen of them, followed. They moved towards the rear of the large, bustling laboratory, past the cylindrical pod where Martha had first been introduced to Sarah’s perfect clone. The tube was open, the mattress empty.
Martha’s breathing grew stunted as they moved on, heading for a thick metal door. They reached it, and Pamela knocked lightly. A moment later, the door opened up, clanking loudly as if protecting something precious beyond. They were greeted by the pensive eyes of Doctor Nathan Cavendish, who’d headed up the creation of Sarah’s clone, as well as other synthetics down here in the hidden depths.
Martha peered past him and into a dark, circular room. A light flourished at its centre, illuminating two further coffin-like pods, positioned end to end and linked by an assortment of wires and leads.
“Everything set, Nathan?” asked Pamela.
“Yes, Madam President. We’re all ready.” His eyes lit excitedly, and he turned to Martha with a smile.
Pamela did the same, and then opened up her arm for Martha to pass through. She hesitated, her breathing shallow, pulse racing.
“It’s OK,” whispered Pamela. “Go ahead.”
Martha glanced at her, and saw the keen eyes of her old friend. They gave her strength, and she stepped over the threshold on wobbling knees, legs turning to jelly, eyes beginning to blur. The room was dim around the edges, several technicians and scientists inside, their usually bright white coats dulled within this setting. They worked at stations around the walls, several of them placed at intervals across the room. The small procession followed Martha in, fanning out to the left and right, eyes on the illuminated pods at the centre of the strange, spherical chamber.
Martha inched forwards ahead of the others, eyes stuck fast on the two pods. She approached, and looked through the glass windows set to their flanks. Inside the one on the left, she saw the brand new clone, her daughter’s face vibrant and full of colour, eyes shut tight, chest rising and falling silently, gently. She looked to the other, and saw her true daughter, her Sarah. The contrast was stark, her skin pallid and blotched, her frame sunken and depleted of muscle and fat, her chest rising and falling more sharply. Both were connected to wires, mesh domed-shaped helmets on their heads. Martha stared, eyes turning from one to the other, body starting to tremble…
She felt a hand touch her arm, and a short gasp escaped her. She turned to look at Pamela, who smiled supportively, and gently drew her back. They withdrew a few paces, the two women standing side by side.
“Are you ready, Martha?” Pamela whispered.
Martha stared forward, hesitating. She nodded gently.
“Good. Then let’s bring beautiful Sarah back.” She heard Pamela shift, looking to one side, where Doctor Lang and Doctor Cavendish had taken position. “Go ahead,” Pamela said.
The room began to hum gently a moment later. The edges, which were already dim, faded into further shadow, and the pods in the centre, already lit, began to glow brighter. Martha’s body shivered as she stood, watching, barely feeling her touch as Pamela reached down and grip
ped her hand. The humming grew louder, a buzz spreading from the room’s centre. Lights began flashing across the ceiling, the walls, the floor, sparks of illumination drawn to the pods. Those glowed, bright lights spreading out from within, the wires and cables connecting the two radiating brilliantly.
Martha could hardly breathe as she watched, Pamela’s fingers holding on tight. Soon the entire room was bordered in total darkness, all light seeming to be drawn to the core. She stared, breathless, as the humming built to a crescendo, before gradually, slowly, fading once again. The lights followed, the glow diminishing. The edges of the room returned from the darkness, lightly illuminated as they were before. Within a minute, the room had returned to normal, and a deep silence fell upon all within it.
No one dared speak, or move. Pamela gently drew her fingers from Martha’s hand, and Martha found herself coaxed back forward. She stepped on shaking legs, heading between the two pods. She filled her lungs, shut her eyes, and then approached.
Her eyes opened, and she looked within. They went right first, through the glass at Sarah, real Sarah. She looked just as she did before - pallid, emaciated, stricken by her illness. Nothing had changed. She turned her gaze right, to the clone of her dear daughter. Her skin seemed to glow a little brighter, her chest rising a little faster.
Suddenly, from nowhere, the pod opened up, its lid lifting with a hiss of air. Martha gasped, and took half a step back. She stopped, and glanced to the right. The other pod remained locked, its interior falling into darkness, the face of her sick daughter fading away.
She looked again at the clone, stepping forward gently towards it, a swell of hope beginning to rise up inside her. She saw movement, subtle movement; fingers started to twitch, toes doing the same. Eyes flickered, lips creaking open, a breath gently drawn into brand new lungs. Martha stood, paralysed, watching. The beautiful face before her was waking. Her daughter…
