by T. C. Edge
The footage was grainy and difficult to make out in that dim, dreary setting, but entirely compelling nonetheless. A long corridor, six guards trying to hold the one soldier back, a manic firefight in that enclosed space. The synthetic had made steady progress towards them, only halted by a sudden volley of grenades, the explosives giving them just enough time to get away.
The escape of Rashmore had, of course, become a topic of discussion since. Many of his senior advisors and staff members at the Black House had been killed, but the President himself had escaped. And, to Martha’s great surprise, it had been Ragan Hunt who’d aided him in the evacuation.
Yes, the footage wasn’t particularly clear, but she was certain she’d spotted Ragan defending that corridor. When the escape pod launched, and the synthetic moved in to investigate, he found four dead bodies - two personal guards of the President, two Panthers - but no Rashmore, and no Ragan Hunt.
It was a moment, a rare moment, that actually made Martha smile down there in the control room. Ragan was so tenacious, such a thorn in their side. At every single turn, she’d hoped for him to make it out alive, and the man had continued to surprise and delight her. The others, of course, were rather more frustrated by Rashmore’s escape. Martha, though she didn’t show it on her face, was positively buoyed by it.
Good for you, Ragan, she’d thought. Good for you…
It was a failure for Pamela and her fawning sycophants, but a minor victory for Martha. As the others grumbled and began their attempts to track Rashmore’s pod, and seek out means of finding him for termination, Martha suppressed a smile, and clenched a fist.
A small triumph, but most certainly the highlight of her day.
Until now, of course, as she watched her daughter sleeping. She’d been spending as much time as she could with Sarah these last few days, splitting her time between her room, and staying close to Pamela in order to keep watch.
The moments with Pamela were depressing, bleak, and quite often daunting - she remained frightened that her true thoughts would leak out, that Pamela might guess her mind. That terrified her. If Pamela got a sense that Martha was trying to subvert her at all, then that might put Sarah in danger. The President had made it clear enough already, through subtle references, hidden behind soft smiles, that complete loyalty was expected.
And that Sarah was collateral.
But those moments with Sarah…they were blissful, wonderful, and yet completely undeserved. Sarah was growing more used to her new body, becoming more like her old self each day. That feeling of ‘tightness’ that she’d described had faded, she’d said, and her eager sense of curiosity was returning in full force.
Unfortunately, that keen mind of hers held a particular focus above others - namely the desire to return home, and a demand to know when that might be. Martha had no answer for that, and was forced to work around it each time, swerving with the skill of a slalom skier.
“Soon, honey,” she’d taken to saying, reverting to the simplest of answers before distracting Sarah by changing the subject, or surprising her with a new book. Anything, really, to steer her head elsewhere, to which a new adventure novel was a fairly firm bet.
By now, however, there was a stack of literature on Sarah’s bedside table, enough to keep her busy for several weeks. Or, days at least. Unfortunately, the girl read at a pace Martha could never understand, seeming able to assimilate information at a glance. Her eyes would barely scan the page before flicking to the next, and she’d even ask Martha to ‘test’ her knowledge to make sure she was truly taking it in.
It was staggering and…she seemed better than before.
Yes, she’d always been a speed reader, but this was something else. It was as if her new, cloned body, her perfected body, had somehow managed to enhance her mental acuity as well. Was that intended, or merely an unexpected side-effect of her ‘procedure’?
Martha made a mental note to query Doctor Lang and Doctor Cavendish on the matter.
She stood from Sarah’s bed, pacing a little around the room, feeling weary to her bones. Sleep had been a rare commodity for her recently; it wasn’t that she didn’t have time, or was being forced to go without. No, she just couldn’t sleep when she rested her head and closed her eyes.
They say a guilty souls struggles to slumber. Well, in that case, Martha would have to get used to this insomnia.
It was late now, the night at its darkest, the upper floors of the facility holding an eerie quiet. It wouldn’t be the same below, the control room still heaving, the madness that had enveloped that day far from over. It was only the beginning, really. Pamela’s plans were to grip her enemies’ throats and not let go, to crush the life out of them and smile while doing it.
Martha drew a long breath, eyes heavy, body drained. She moved to the corner of the room and took a seat in a soft-cushioned chair, turning her gaze back to the little bundle on the bed, blankets gently going up and down, a sound of light breathing accompanying the motion.
The sight drew away some of Martha’s stress once more. She sighed, smiled softly, and shut her eyes.
She fell away into an uncomfortable doze; not a full sleep, but a light one, accosted by dark thoughts. Insomniacs didn’t not sleep at all. They slept - if they didn’t, they’d die - but their sleep was fractured, broken, coming in fits and starts. So Martha’s had become, eyes opening regularly, head feeling heavy, trails of nightmares still lingering in her mind.
For an hour or so, she drifted in and out, often waking with a jump. And each time, she found Sarah still sleeping peacefully, her innocent mind unstained and untainted. Not like her mother’s. Martha’s had grown rotten by what she’d seen, and done.
She knew, no matter what she did, her life would be a battle from here on out. She’d snatch joy with her daughter, only bits and pieces of it. And like her stunted sleep, so her happiness would be restricted too.
It was her curse, her punishment, for her part in all this. And she deserved every last bit of it.
A light buzz broke her from her troubled sleep, humming softly, intermittently, in her jacket pocket. She was drawn again to consciousness, the world still silent but for Sarah’s soft breathing and…and the faint hum beside her breast.
She blinked away her drowsiness, coming to, and reached to her pocket. She drew out the small earpiece, a spike of alertness now working through her.
Mikel, she thought. He’s calling me…now?
She glanced at her watch and noted the time. Still late, dawn a few hours off.
She’d expected to hear from Mikel earlier, not long after the raid on the CID. She’d made sure he had his comms unit, linking directly with this one, in order to confirm to them that he was going to sever his connection with her, and the MSA, following the assault.
Pamela had voiced her desire to see Mikel ‘unleashed’ in New York, hoping that he’d go on some sort of rampage, raining down terror and destruction and, ideally, eventually being killed himself.
As far as the President saw it, that would kill two birds with one stone - it would keep New York busy, and tie up the loose end that was Mikel.
His own footage had, however, been rather interesting in the CID. He’d moved through the building like a whirling dervish, chaos and death personified. Pamela had positively beamed at watching him go, despatching CID staff with an efficiency that the other synthetics couldn’t quite match. Yet, when he reached the command centre, he’d removed his helmet, tossing it to the floor, the camera blocked by a fallen body.
Since then, they were only going off of the reports of the other soldiers, namely Major Olson, who informed them that Mikel had decided to leave. That was the plan, so Olson didn’t object. Pamela, however, appeared disappointed to not be able to watch his continued rampage first-hand.
A rampage that, oddly, had never materialised.
And now…now he was calling?
Martha hastened the earpiece into position, stuffing it into her right ear, and clicking to activate it.
Her voice spilled into the room a whisper, low enough to stop Sarah from waking.
“Mikel,” she said, voice hasty. “I expected to hear from you earlier.”
The voice on the other end was different from their previous interactions over this comms line. It was the new, pleasant tone his synthetic form held, though inflected with Mikel’s own brand of hiss. It hardly made him sound as he used to, though. In fact, Martha had almost taken to liking this new version of the man, as odd as that sounded.
“I’ve been busy, Martha,” the youthful voice said. “Are you alone?”
Martha frowned, and glanced around by instinct, as if she might find someone watching her from the shadows. She leaned in, closing herself up, tightening her voice further.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Mikel said. “I have something to discuss with you, but need to know I can trust you fully first of all. What I tell you will not go beyond us, do you understand?”
“I…I can’t promise that, Mikel, until I know what we’re talking about.”
She heard the man take a breath, considering his next words. She could almost hear…a whisper behind him. Hushed tones, as if he wasn’t alone.
“Where are you right now?” Mikel asked her. “Are you with…Sarah?”
Martha stiffened. Hearing a man like Mikel even mention her daughter’s name was cause for concern. Had she even spoken to Mikel about her before? Maybe he’d overheard something?
“I…am,” Martha whispered, hesitant. “How did you know?”
Once more, her eyes turned around the room, as if Mikel might somehow be watching her. There were no cameras here, no means of surveillance. That she knew of, at least.
“Just…instinct,” Mikel said. “I hear you spend your nights with her. You love her dearly, don’t you?”
Again, Martha’s breath hastened at that. What was this, some subtle threat? Why was he talking about her?
“Of course I do,” Martha said. “I’d die for her.”
The line went silent a second. More breathing filtered down the line, seeming to come from more than one source. Then, in the background, the lightest cough. Mikel wasn’t alone. He was with someone else…
“Good, that’s good, Martha,” Mikel said. “You did all of this for her, didn’t you?”
Martha sensed a trap. What was this? She needed to be careful.
“Yes,” she admitted. “That is no secret.”
“No, it’s admirable, and understandable,” Mikel said. “I hear the love for one’s offspring makes them do just about anything, whatever it may mean for others. Humans can be selfish in that way; a product of their primal instincts to nurture and protect their own. Not that I know about that personally, or ever will. But, I am aware of it, Martha. You wished me to retrieve the data in order to restore Sarah’s health. That was your only motivation, was it not?”
Martha went quiet a second, thinking. There was something very odd going on here. Had Pamela somehow put Mikel up to this? Was she trying to get Martha to admit something she didn’t want to reveal?
No, that didn’t make any sense at all. Why use Mikel for that purpose?
Then a thought struck, flashing in her mind, hot like lightning. Any lingering drowsiness she had was blown away like leaves in a stiff breeze. She sat up a little, glancing to Sarah. Her daughter continued to sleep peacefully.
Was it actually Mikel? she thought. She’d been tricked before, when Ragan imitated Mikel’s previous, nano-vamp voice, that raspy hiss he used to affect. But now…now his voice was no different from all the other synthetics. Might Pamela have commissioned one for this role, to try to catch her out?
But…this comms unit was linked specifically to the one she’d given Mikel, right? If this wasn’t Mikel, then she’d have to assume that another of the synthetics had taken it off him. That seemed unlikely.
“Martha, are you still there,” came the voice again.
“I…yes, I’m here,” said Martha, considering cutting off the call.
“You’ve gone very quiet. I…I’m not trying to spook you, Martha. I’m merely trying to confirm something.”
“What?” she breathed.
“That you do, in fact, wish for all this terror to end? That you’d love for nothing more than to escape that facility with Sarah, and be free of the President’s grip.”
The words punched her in the gut, and left her reeling. Had she been that transparent? That obvious. Mikel - if it was Mikel - had described exactly how she felt. He was intuitive, and extremely keen of mind. Had he managed to determine that on his own?
Either way, she couldn’t answer. She couldn’t admit such a thing. She looked again at Sarah. I will never put you in danger…
More muffled sounds hustled down the line. Martha felt an urgency there, as if Mikel was conferring with another.
Then his voice came again.
“You’re not answering, because you’re worried about your daughter’s safety,” he said. “That is the purpose of my call. You think this is a trap, don’t you? You’re even doubting if it’s me. Understandable. Let me pass you onto someone who you will trust.”
Martha’s breath caught in her lungs, throat tightening up. A short silence followed, before a sigh fell down the line, followed by a voice. A different voice.
Ragan’s voice.
“Martha,” he said. “I understand how worried you must be. I know why you did what you did. I know you did it for Sarah, as Mikel describes. And I know you’re not committed to what your nation, your President, is doing.”
Martha’s lungs thawed suddenly, rallying and drawing a sharp breath as he spoke, the words rattling quickly off his tongue.
“Ragan…” she breathed. “I…it’s really you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“You’re…with Mikel? How?”
“It’s a long story. A very long story,” Ragan said. “There’s no time to go into it all now, but suffice to say, we need your help.”
“My…help? I don’t understand.”
Again, more conferring sounded, Ragan’s voice, and Mikel’s new one, now growing more prominent. Had they somehow met up in New York, after Ragan helped the President escape? It made no sense for them to be together, after everything that had happened…
“OK, I’m just going to spell it out, loud and clear,” Ragan said, hauling in a breath. He hesitated, then spoke again. “The facility you’re in will be attacked very soon. We have the location, and are planning an assault as we speak. President Rashmore is with us, alive and well, and Colonel Slattery too. They are liaising with forces from the NDSA and WSA in a joint assault to destroy the facility, and Professor Phantom’s research along with it…”
His voice stopped, suddenly, leaving an echoing silence in the room, his words thumping around in Martha’s head. Her breathing sped, her pulse quickening. She found herself standing to her feet, as if anticipating an attack right now. She looked down at Sarah, who rolled over, smacking her lips quietly in her sleep, a small smile on her face.
She was dreaming, Martha knew.
“Why…why are you telling me this, Ragan?” she asked, staring at her daughter. “After what I did. After everything….you’d still trust me?”
“We don’t have a choice, Martha,” Ragan said. “You can help us destroy that facility, and save those inside. I know there are families there, women and children who don’t deserve to die. With your help, we can save them, and you and Sarah too. What you did you did for her, Martha. You can set things right, if that’s what you truly want.”
Again, silence. A depth of silence Martha had never known. Her thoughts rose up from the darkness, swelling within. And as they came, she found herself nodding.
I can atone, she thought. I can right these wrongs…
She drew a calming breath, straightened out her jacket, and stiffened her resolve.
“OK, Ragan,” she said. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”
113
Chloe watch
ed from the doorway of the falcon as Ragan and the synthetic wandered back towards them. There was something suspicious about this ‘Cal’ - something beyond him just being a synthetic - that Chloe didn’t like.
Something almost…familiar about the way he spoke that got under her skin.
The two had gone off to contact Martha Mitchell alone, heading out towards the plains. That was odd, Chloe thought. Apparently, they thought it better with fewer voices murmuring in the background, fewer possible people chiming in. The last thing they wanted to do was ‘spook’ Martha, they’d suggested.
But…if she was working with this Cal, and he’d been commissioned by her to get help…then what exactly was the problem?
The others didn’t seem so concerned. They’d all gathered in the falcon now, planning the assault on the facility. They had it’s location - Dax had discovered it, proving his value once more - and President Rashmore and Colonel Slattery had been busily conferring down secure lines with the military leaders in Cincinnati, gathering the support of the Panthers and Spectres there.
To that end, Colonel Slattery had followed through with his promise to speak with General Linklater, the WSA’s senior military figure in that war zone. He’d appeared noticeably nervous before, during, and after the conversation, sweating bullets despite the cool temperature, shuffling about outside the jet, continually wiping his brow and prodding at his craggy old face.
Chloe watched, imagining that there was some history between the two. She didn’t know much about Colonel Slattery, but had heard he’d been discharged from the WSA military due to the loss of his right hand, and the subsequent depression he fell into. He’d gone on to abandon the WSA, join Project Dawn, and help found the Crimson Corps. Of course, conveying that to General Linklater, who probably thought he was dead, in a short conversation wasn’t easy.
And…was it the General himself who’d seen to Slattery’s discharge? Chloe found herself intrigued by the notion.
Still, the end result was that Linklater would speak with his superiors in LA - what was left of them, at least - and gain approval for the plan. It was clear enough, however, that Colonel Slattery’s word on the matter wouldn’t be sufficient to force Linklater to action.
