by T. C. Edge
Couldn’t she just have a conversation without resorting to the threat of violence? She could already feel her fingers beginning to warm and spark up, and Remus looked set to peck Rashmore’s eyes out if given the mental command.
She steeled herself, looking away, and made a simple promise to herself to calm down. No matter what he said, she’d keep her cool from now on.
And why, exactly, was she so defensive? Why wouldn’t she hear him out?
Really, her knowledge of that time was, well, limited. Was she truly so foolish as to think her father perfect? Had she forgotten all the times she’d hated him too, questioned what he’d done, cursed him for putting her on this path? Maybe he had done it to protect her. Maybe he’d merely been protecting his research instead.
Did she really, truly know?
Did she?
She looked up at Rashmore, who sat a little back, studying her. He took a moment, as if determining whether to go on, before speaking again.
“Your father was a genius, Chloe,” he said quietly. “Sometimes…that comes at a cost.” He shook his head, running his fingers through his neat mop of hair, dark but flecked grey throughout. “He became paranoid, hard to handle,” he went on, voice careful, eyes glancing at Chloe, watching for her reaction. “Yes, I admit, I wished for him to complete his work, but I never intended to hurt him, or you. He got that into his head somehow, and became…unreliable.”
“Unreliable…and so you…killed him,” Chloe said, feeling her eyes dampen. “Or…at least forced him to…kill himself.”
“No…no,” said Rashmore, his voice softening. He leaned forward, eyes cast beneath lowering brows. “I never expected anything of that sort to happen, Chloe. Never. I considered your father a dear friend. I don’t know what changed, but he grew distrustful of me.” He sighed again, looking down. “You have to understand, I was running a nation at war. I was looking for any way of protecting my people. Maybe I put extra pressure on your father. Maybe that manifested itself in his mind as me becoming a threat. But, I never intended that. I just…” He trailed off, breathing heavily, running a hand down his face.
Chloe looked at him, shocked by his earnestness, his suppressed grief. Was it all for show? Was this just for her?
No…why would he do that? Why would he even care to explain this to her? He was the President of the NDSA, responsible for millions - tens of millions - of lives. Why should he care about Chloe, or making her see the truth, his truth?
This wasn’t the man she’d expected. He wasn’t the man she’d wanted. She wished only to hate him, to blame him for what he’d done. But now, everything was becoming so muddled. This wasn’t giving her absolution. It was only making things more confused.
A short silence fell between them, and she turned again to look into Rashmore’s strained eyes. She found no real lie there, no reason to deceive her. It looked, more, as though he’d wanted this chance to explain himself, to explain to the daughter of his old friend. Chloe lived by her instincts, she trusted them completely. And seeing him now, hearing these words…she felt her hatred fade away.
An odd sense of calm took hold, a cooling wind blowing through her soul.
“You must see what this data has done, Mr President,” she said. “It’s ruined lives. So many lives.”
He nodded slowly, meeting her gaze.
“I wish it had gone another way,” he said. “These last three years must have been hell on you. I hope you believe that I’d never have hurt you if Agent Hunt hadn’t freed you from the CID. Once the truth had come out, made public, I’d have explained everything to the people. You’d have been given a full pardon…”
“A pardon?” Chloe huffed, looking up at him.
“Sorry, that’s perhaps the wrong word,” Rashmore said. “It’s just…your father’s research was top secret, and so few people knew why you were being sought out. The truth of it, at least. I would have had to issue an official pardon, and explanation, to disclose that truth, and to declare you a free citizen of the NDSA once more.”
The words hardly had an impact on her. A free citizen again? She’s lost hope of that long ago.
“And Ragan?” Chloe asked, looking up. “You imprisoned him. Perhaps you even plan to execute him. Is that…fair?”
Rashmore’s expression levelled out a little, and he leaned back in his chair.
“Agent Hunt is a traitor to this nation, Chloe. You’re not. You were merely acting out of self-preservation, and you don’t deserve to be punished for that. But…Agent Hunt.” He shook his head. “At first I was led to believe he only sought to save you. I…could understand that, perhaps. But now I know otherwise. I know of this secret organisation to which all these people belong,” he said, glancing to the door. “I know of Ragan’s betrayal of the CID, his acts of espionage, his illegal selling of secrets and intelligence. They are all crimes worthy of capital punishment. Because of him, we are now facing this threat from the MSA.”
“And if you’d have gotten your hands on the data, as you wanted? Then we’d be the threat.”
“We’re allowed to be the threat,” Rashmore said, words stiffening. “Don’t be so naive as to think that any national leader wouldn’t seek to gain advantage over his or her enemies. I intended to utilise your father’s research to end the conflict, and restore peace. That is the very reason why I funded his work. And now…where do we stand?”
Chloe found it difficult to argue with that reasoning. Doing so would only make her sound ignorant and immature. Who was she to talk of such things with the President of a nation? Who was she to argue if he wished to seek retribution against a man like Ragan who’d actively worked against his interests, and those of his people?
She couldn’t, and she knew it. And, she knew, too, was that she was falling for Ragan, that she couldn’t bear to lose him now. He was doing all he could to atone, to deal with the threat from the MSA. Surely that was enough?
But no, of course it wouldn’t be. Not to this man who blamed him for so much. Dealing with the threat was no reason to grant him clemency. After all, as far as President Rashmore saw it, Ragan had helped create this threat. He was helping to clear up a mess he’d made himself. That wasn’t worthy of praise or mercy.
The thoughts tumbled through Chloe’s head, raging like falling water from a cliff. She felt her insides constrict, her eyes glisten.
Maybe Ragan would run, but maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d face up to it, stand tall and stoic, and take his punishment like the man he was. That thought terrified Chloe more than any other.
Better they run and hide together, creep away into the shadows and beyond Rashmore’s grasp. That, at least, was something Chloe knew she could do. And do well.
She turned her eyes down, grief-stricken by the prospect that faced her. For long moments she just looked away, blinking hard, trying to stop the tears from falling. She felt Remus nuzzle her, rubbing at her neck, but that only served to make it worse.
How could thoughts do this? How could a future that hadn’t even come bring her such sorrow and pain?
“Chloe.”
The voice, deep though soft, drew up her gaze. She found the President still there - she’d hoped, almost, that he’d left her alone - looking at her with a frame of sadness to his eyes.
“I can see how much you care for him,” he said. “And…” he let out a breath, “…I know he’s doing everything he can to atone for his actions.” He lifted his chin, looking up, as though finding it hard to speak the words. “I may have died tonight if he hadn’t been there. Perhaps I owe him mercy.”
Chloe frowned, blinking away a growing tear.
“You’ll…forgive him?” she asked, tentatively.
Rashmore blew out a breath, though actually drew up a smile, several craggy lines crinkling his visage. He seemed to release his own anger in that moment, his own rage. As Chloe had been purged of hers, so Rashmore had been of his. He took a long swig of cool evening air, and began to nod.
“I�
��ve been consumed by dark thoughts recently,” he said, taking on a strange, thoughtful air. “Perhaps I’d be better served just…letting go.” He smiled again, a small, hopeful smile, and fixed Chloe with an almost…affectionate look. “I’m doing this for you, Chloe,” he said. “For you, and your father. I know it may not make you ever trust me, or even believe what I’ve told you. But…at least my mind can rest now.”
He took a final look at her, smiled again, and then strode back out into the night.
Leaving Chloe alone, tears now dripping from her eyes.
109
Mikel stood amidst the heaving crowd, the island of Manhattan a distant blur.
He wasn’t wearing his black mesh combat suit any longer - he’d stripped that off, discarded it. Yes, it was useful, but it didn’t exactly help him blend in. And, well, it made things too easy. He’d never worn armour like that as a nano-vamp, and he wasn’t going to pick up the habit now.
The clothes he was now wearing had instead been stolen, peeled from a corpse he’d deposited into a dark alley. During the confusion following the attack on the CID, he’d managed to quickly affect this new look.
Grubby jeans, a simple hooded sweater, sneakers that were probably once white, but had turned a greyish-brownish-black through excessive use. Yes, he might have picked someone better dressed to plunder, but this man had been about the right size and proportions. And, well, he was also drunk. That had made heaving him off and out of sight a little easier.
He’d taken to escaping Manhattan during the consequent rush, the authorities still trying to catch up and piece together exactly what was going on. They seemed to have initiated some sort of crisis mode, asking for anyone on the island to either get ‘somewhere safe’ or else evacuate across the bridge and into New Jersey.
Mikel had done the latter - he was intending on going that way anyway - and hadn’t been given so much as a second look by anyone as he went.
That was an odd sensation, for certain. In his previous, nano-vamp form, he was beset by nervous looks, suspicious eyes, fearful expressions. True, he didn’t spend too much time in public areas if he could avoid it, but whenever he did, the result was the same. Whether people realised he was a nano-vamp of not, he had a sinister aura that put people on edge.
Well, that wasn’t the case any longer. No, these people looked at him as they did any other. Just a young man, fleeing the chaos, frightened of being caught up in all this mayhem and murder.
It helped, of course, that the other synthetics had kept their masks and helmets on, thus concealing their faces, providing Mikel with this anonymity. He’d abandoned his own helmet in the command centre of the CID, tossing it to the floor before his confrontation with Commander Wexley. He had no intention of letting the staff back at the facility watch that particular interaction, seeing as there was a camera fitted into the headgear.
From here on out, he certainly didn’t want them knowing just what he was up to.
He continued to move through the crowd, heading west and seeking quieter pastures. Many of the people around him had been evacuated from the city, though many others looked to have willingly evacuated their homes instead, drawn out by all the excitement.
They watched in shock, hands to mouths, muttering in gasps and whispers as they gazed across to the city. There, the black trails of smoke were clear enough, toxic fumes swirling from the CID.
The authorities, of course, were calling for them to disperse and go home, warning that they may not be safe here. That didn’t seem to deter too many. From this distance, few seemed concerned about the threat coming their way.
It seemed unlikely that these assailants, after all, would target the CID and Black House, and then choose to venture out here to these irrelevant suburbs to continue their assault.
Mikel smiled at the notion as it popped into his head. They had no idea that one of the attackers was walking among them, a devil in their midsts.
He continued on, getting a nod of approval from one local peacekeeper, who likely thought he was obeying the man’s instructions. He nodded back, seeing no reason to make him think otherwise, and ventured on, winding down quieter lanes as he progressed through suburbia.
As he went, he drew a small device from his pocket, stopping down a quiet street. He looked at the screen on the front, a map of the surrounding area glowing on its surface, spreading into a three dimensional hologram at his touch. He entered in a unique code he’s memorised, and a small red dot appeared, blinking out towards the west.
Yes, Mikel thought, he’s still there…
He slipped the device away again, a parting gift given by Commander Wexley. Well, not exactly given. More looted from his corpse, after Mikel had executed him beside his command module. Just before the other synthetics had noticed, he’d rifled through his pockets, located this device, and stowed it safely away before anyone could see.
He knew what he was looking for, and he knew what it was. Any agency commander would always have a way of keeping tabs on his men, and this little device was it.
Mikel smiled, mind creeping forward towards his new purpose.
Oh, it felt good to be free again, away from that ghastly facility. Away from all those clones, those servile soldiers who’d be slaves forever. He’d see them all dead now. He’d see that facility gone.
He laughed at that, feeling oddly euphoric at having figured out his path. These last few days had been so very…unfamiliar to him.
Being planted into this new body had its merits, certainly, but a part of him felt lost. For so long he’d battled his cravings, hating and loving them in equal measure. Now, he’d lost both. He had nothing to long for, nothing to fight for. He had no desperate pain, no constant suffering to contend with.
He was just…normal, as odd as that was to imagine. His thoughts were the same as before, yes, but they were driven by something else. The powerful need to hunt and feed was gone, leaving behind this hollow sense of…pointlessness, and powerlessness.
He hadn’t anticipated that. He thought being free of it all would be a great blessing, that he’d revel in a life unbound by that curse.
But no. He’d lost his identity, traded it in for a younger, stronger form, one driven by nothing at all. Yet now there was a light blooming in the darkness, a way to retrieve something, some semblance of a purpose, a reason for being.
He would see the MSA facility destroyed. He would hunt those synthetics who remained. He would become one of a kind once more.
That was his purpose.
And in order to fulfil it, he was going to need some help…
“I’m telling you, attacking from the air is a long shot at best,” said Jason, asserting his opinion with a growing authority. “You’ve got Chicago to the west and plenty of ant-air outposts to the east. It may only be the MSA, but their air defence system there is excellent.”
Chloe watched the discussion play out from one side, Remus sitting lazily on her shoulder. She stood there, relaxing against the wall, with a strange smile on her face. Despite the intensity and importance of the debate, she felt calm, almost light, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Ragan and me…we can both be free, she thought.
She shook her head, half disbelieving, and glanced over to President Rashmore. He, along with all of the others - well, except Ragan, who’d gone outside to speak with Dax again - was engaged in the conversation, each chipping in here and there, discussing their options. Chloe lent it all only half an ear.
Her mind was, perhaps selfishly, wandering away, imagining her own future. One that, with a few mere words from the President, suddenly seemed so real.
“So, you’re suggesting a direct attack? An infiltration?” said Slattery, looking to the young lieutenant.
“I’m not suggesting anything, sir,” Jason said. “I’m just relaying to you what I know about their defence capabilities.”
“And here was me thinking we’d just blow the entire thing from the air,” grunt
ed Tanner, pacing. “Are their defences that good?”
“Good enough to repel a fairly significant bombing raid, or missile strike, yes.” Jason said it matter-of-factly, because really it wasn’t that uncommon. Chloe was fully aware of just how ineffective most long range attacks were these days against national border and city defences. It seemed that defence had outpaced offence in that regard.
“An infiltration would be just as difficult, surely?” suggested Nadia. “How would we even get there to make it happen? We’d have to fly, obviously, and would be at risk of getting shot down.”
“The jets would be quicker,” said Jason. “And more manoeuvrable. With the right pilots, they’d be able to counter any incoming anti-air ballistics.” He glanced at Tanner. “You were able to escape Captain Quinn’s advances,” he finished, shrugging.
“Not entirely the same,” Tanner said, “but I get your point.”
“And in any case,” added Slattery, “ant-aircraft and ant-missile defences behave differently. The latter will react immediately upon spotting a missile or ballistic signal, launching without human direction in order to destroy the missile or explosive ordnance before it hits its target. Shooting down planes is different, and that will give us time, especially with quicker infiltration jets, to get in close.”
“And what about actually getting inside?” It was President Rashmore, his voice generally a rarity thus far. He’d seemed reflective since his talk with Chloe an hour or so ago, lost to quiet thought. She recognised the look on his face, as she held a similar one herself. Deep thought, yet a…relief, almost, to have cleared the air.
“Now…that’s more of a problem, Mr President,” Jason said. “And there’s another quite serious one.”
“One at a time, Jason,” commanded Slattery.
“The top floor needs to be extended to allow for entry,” Tanner said, realising, breathing out. He shook his head, stopped pacing, and looked at the holographic map of the facility laid out before them. “Unless it’s above the surface, how would we get in?”
