The Disillusionment of Hal LK2154

Jon Wesick

Acknowledgements

I wish to thank my writing teachers Sam Hamod and Glory Foster as well as my editors and publishers, Jim Babwe, Gerardeen Santiago, and Dan Primbs.

Prologue

The trauma of that night visited Hal in his dreams again and again. It always started with street lights and wind-blown branches making eerie shadow puppets of snarling dogs on the ground. He had to catch up with Jane. If he could get there in time, he could save Jane but no matter how hard he willed them, his legs carried him no faster than a walk.

Too late! He always arrived too late. The murderer was already plunging the chef’s knife into Jane’s belly. It was long as a forearm and each thrust buried it deep into the soft, woman flesh that Hal had rested his cheek against only moments before. This couldn’t be happening. Dr. Pak had perfected the human genome; violence was a thing of the past. The hoodie slipped off the killer’s head allowing Hal to see his face. It was his own.

1

The week of the murder had begun full of promise. Surrounded by nine hundred ninety-eight members of his graduating crèche in the Lansdale Uniform School’s auditorium, Hal LK2154 adjusted the mortarboard on his head. Like Hal, the four hundred ninety-eight wide-shouldered males who sat on the left of the aisle, stood six foot two inches tall, weighed one hundred seventy-five pounds, and had bronze skin. As upperclassmen, they had the privilege of growing their dark hair to medium length but still had to remain clean-shaven, though no one would want to stand out anyway. All the men were physically identical except for identifying barcodes on their forearms.

Hal searched the cloned females for Jane LK2154’s trademark ruby earrings. Identifying yourself was a common problem in a society where all women were identical twins. Like the men, all women had bronze skin and brown eyes. The graduating class had chosen to adopt the latest style and get pixie cuts so their dark hair fell to just below their jawlines. Since everyone looked alike, clones came up with practical ways to identify themselves to others by wearing a characteristic fashion, such as a bowtie or purple scarf.

He couldn’t spot her. No matter. Five hundred identical females, genetically designed to be his perfect mate, sat on the other side of the aisle. Hal thought of Jane’s shapely athletic body and suppressed a shudder of delight. Two years ago, Hal and Jane had lost their virginity together. Of course, they suffered no serious consequences since doctors routinely sterilized everyone to prevent accidental reproduction. Even if the vocational counselors moved them to different cities, someone just like Jane would love him. It was a perfectly ordered society with no unwanted pregnancies and no adultery. After all, why would anyone cheat with someone identical to their spouse? Like the ubiquitous billboards said, everyone was a member of One Family.

Hal was marveling at Dr. Pak’s genius when Principal George RW3278 ascended the stage and leaned on the lectern, allowing his ornate purple robe’s sleeves to flow down the side. Even though he was in his sixties, Principal George’s superior genes had kept him trim and fit. His chiseled features expressed a raw masculinity. All of today’s graduating males would one day look like him once maturity added a few lines around their eyes and the graying hair at their temples.

“Congratulations.” Principal George’s eyes swept the room. “You’ve all studied diligently and achieved grade point averages within a tight tolerance around the norm. Now it’s time to move onto the next stage of your lives.

“At Lansdale we tried to give you a fair start. You were born with the same genome, took the same classes, and received the same treatment. No one gave you any more or any less than your peers.

“I remember when I came to this institution almost fifty years ago . . .” Principal George went on about the school’s history and his rise through its bureaucracy.

Hal squirmed, causing his metal folding chair to scrape the wooden floorboards.

Eventually Principal George wrapped up the story. “Now as you embark on your separate careers, that’s about to change. Some of you will study to become doctors or scientists. Others will become bankers, bakers, or store clerks. Whatever path you take in life, I hope you’ll remember what you learned here-to treat others as you’d like to be treated because at heart we’re all the same.”

Hal tapped his feet in impatience. What did this have to do with him? Let the others follow lesser careers. He was going to be a reproductive engineer.

“May you always look back at your years here with fondness. It’s been a privilege to shepherd you from birth to adulthood. Bless you and good luck!” Principal George concluded.

The auditorium erupted in cheers. Hal threw his hat into the air with the others. Tomorrow he would see the vocational counselor and take the first step toward his dream.

Next morning, after putting on his khaki slacks and blue dress shirt, Hal left for his appointment with the traveling vocational counselor at the gym teacher’s office. Hal did not have the patience to wait for the elevator so he took the stairs from his third-floor dorm room and exited the lobby with such speed that the flyers on the bulletin board waved in the wind of his passing. Hal dashed down Watson Boulevard toward campus. Like all business and government buildings, Lansdale’s classrooms and dormitories were built in the architectural style known by the unfortunate name of Brutalism. Of course, the term “architectural style” went out of fashion centuries earlier when the builders of the new world standardized designs to take maximum advantage of economies of scale. Hal didn’t know the blocky, concrete structures with beams, duct work, and elevators as Brutalist buildings. He just thought of them as buildings.

The gym teacher’s office was identical with the others at Lansdale with interior walls painted high-gloss yellow and a steel desk with a framed photo of a wife who looked like an older version of Jane.

“Ah so you’re Hal. I’m your vocational guidance counselor, Seymour ZA1811.” Seymour looked comfortable behind the gym teacher’s desk, his face identical to but his body less muscular than the chair’s usual occupant. “Let me just scan you to verify your ID.”

Hal presented his forearm for Seymour to scan with the barcode reader attached to the desktop computer.

“Excellent!” Seymour looked up from the monitor. “Everything’s in order. Although community needs have the highest priority, I always ask my clients what careers they have in mind for themselves.”

“I’d,” Hal gulped and recited the speech he’d rehearsed. “I’d like to be a reproduction engineer. Ever since I was little, the story of how, in spite of his own genetic illness, Dr. Pak rescued humanity from hatred and jealousy after the twenty-first century Race Wars has inspired me. I know our Great Father completed most of the work when he designed our perfect genome. Still I can think of no higher calling than to safeguard his legacy.”

“An admirable sentiment.” Seymour smiled. “You know, I too wanted to be a reproductive engineer when I was your age. In fact, over ninety-eight percent of graduates respond with reproductive engineering as their preference.

“Let me tell you what’s involved.” Seymour rested his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “Candidates for reproductive engineering have to work a minimum of three years at unpopular, pay-grade-one jobs such as garbage collector or hydrogen fuel attendant before even qualifying for the training program. After that, fewer than two percent are accepted.”

“I see,” Hal said.

“What I’m trying to say,” Seymour said, “is that you’ll be of more use to the community elsewhere.” He began typing on the keyboard. “We have several good opportunities: mathematics instructor, pay grade five; electronics technician, pay grade five; exotic dancer, pay grade four.”

“I don’t care!” Hal blurted. “I’ll pick up garbage for a decade if I have to!” He suddenly felt embarrassed by his outburst. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I want to do something meaningful with my life. If not, what’s the point?”

“Let me get this straight,” Seymour said. “The only way for you to do something meaningful is to further Dr. Pak’s dream. Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“And what is that dream, exactly?”

“That we’re all brothers and sisters. That we’re all the same.”

“So you’re telling me that in order for us all to be the same, you have to have a career that’s more special than anybody else’s?” Seymour grinned.

Hal blushed. “That’s egotistical thinking. Isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Happens with a lot of my clients.” Seymour typed on the keyboard. “Hmm, what’s this?” He stroked his chin. “Insurance actuary, pay grade six. It jumps to seven, once you complete the training and pass the test. Right here in Fayetteville, too. Good thing you got here early. An opportunity like this won’t stay free for long.”

Hal looked at Seymour’s smiling face. Even though the vocational counselor wasn’t a reproductive engineer, he showed a lot of wisdom. “I guess I’ll take it.”

“Good choice. I know it seems disappointing but I think you’ll find satisfaction comes from giving your all to whatever you do. I never thought I’d end up counseling but I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. It’s been rewarding helping young people like you chart their futures.

“You have two weeks before you have to report. Why don’t you take some time off and enjoy your well-deserved reward?” Seymour shook Hal’s hand. “Good luck, Hal LK2154. It’s been a pleasure serving you.”

The smell of the felt-tipped marker bit the air in the dorm room as Hal took part in a Lansdale tradition. The students had been modifying their forearm barcodes to get into nightclubs for years. While Hal employed a steel ruler, marker, and steady hand to pass for twenty-one, he thought back to a lesson from a civics class. Since all boys (and all girls) were identical, crèche workers tattooed identifying barcodes on everyone’s forearm at birth with serial numbers replacing the surnames that went out of fashion when cloning replaced families. Letters indicated the crèche while the number was the batch of clones the individual came from. Given names were assigned at random. With a few quick modifications, Hal changed the 2154 barcode on his arm to 2111 and walked to the nightclub.

Once the trendy shops downtown surrounded him, Hal’s mood brightened. All buildings weren’t concrete. Homes, apartments, and shops that needed to present a cheery façade, were built in a style formerly known as Art Deco. They had flat roofs and metal-frame designs on their pastel exteriors of stucco, concrete, smooth-faced stone, or terracotta. Pink, turquoise, and mustard yellow were common. If Hal had gone into construction, he would have learned builders used these designs to break up the monotony of the twenty basic floorplans these buildings conformed to. Up ahead a neon light shaped like the famous, bearded biologist announced the location of Darwin’s Garden.

Hal slipped past the attendant at the door and entered the nightclub. He’d left his nametag and trademark suspenders behind in the dorm. Jane LK2154 had wanted to finish practicing piano and had promised to meet him around nine that evening. Hal ordered a beer at the bar, paid with a few credits, and turned to watch the dancers moving to the amplified beat of the latest synchro-thrash hits. Unlike at other clubs, everyone on Darwin’s dance floor had mastered moving in lockstep to the flashing lights and thump of bass. Nobody was even a fraction of a beat out of step. That’s what made it so trendy. Several of the men wore colorful shirts that Hal had almost bought. They looked great with their threads glowing under the black light. Hal drained his beer and bought another. He was on his third when he glimpsed a red earring on the woman entering and waved to get her attention.

“Jane?”

“There you are.” Jane maneuvered her shapely bottom onto the bar stool next to Hal and ordered a whiskey sour. Like Hal and many others out for an anonymous good time, she wore no nametag.

Although Hal liked every song the DJ’s played, the loud music made it almost impossible to converse. He leaned close to Jane’s ear. “Wanna dance?”

Jane nodded and set down the glass, she’d smudged with red lipstick. They hustled through the throbbing bodies and found a free space on the dance floor. Hal had never considered himself a good dancer, certainly not of the caliber of Darwin’s patrons, but he mimicked the others’ steps. After a few minutes, he fitted in well enough. At least he didn’t look like an egotist.

Jane was much better. She caught on almost immediately. Hal’s heart swelled with pride at how the sensuous roll of Jane’s hips and the stretch of her lithe arm matched the other women’s motions. They danced vigorously for over an hour, pausing only for more drinks. Sweat darkened her white blouse at the hollow between her breasts, making the fabric almost transparent. During the slow dance, she melded her moist body to his and stuck her tongue in his ear. Hal touched his lips to her damp hairline and tasted salt.

“Wanna get out of here?” she whispered. “I know a place we can save a few credits on a motel.” Jane took his hand and led him away.

If Hal were less aroused or hadn’t drunk so much, he might have wondered how she knew this. As it was, he followed her out the door like a staggering, one-hundred-seventy-five-pound puppy. They passed one of the ubiquitous One Family billboards. Illuminated by lights swirling with bugs, it depicted Dr. Pak pointing toward a golden sunrise. Clone followers, whose dress indicated the professions they pursued, surrounded him. One held a beaker. A stethoscope hung from another’s neck. A third wore a business suit. The caption in bold black letters read simply, “One Family–Keep the Dream Alive.”

They turned down a darkened street and walked past warehouses and factories that looked like they hadn’t been used since the Race Wars. Eventually they came to an abandoned house with several broken windows and spray-painted graffiti on the walls. The waist-high, chain-link fence’s gate groaned when Jane opened it. They walked the cracked cement path that led through the overgrown grass to the front step. The door hung crookedly on its hinges. Hal held it open for Jane.

“This way.” She took his hand. As she climbed the stairs, her hips swayed like a metronome.

Hal followed up the creaking staircase and down a hallway to a bedroom where Jane struck a match to a small candle. The dim yellow light illuminated a stained mattress with stuffing showing through rips in its fabric. The room smelled of dust and mildew. Two-by-fours and fiberglass insulation showed through a hole in the sheetrock wall.

Jane wrapped her arms around Hal’s shoulders, pressed her mouth to his, and parted her lips. He reached under her blouse and stoked her sides, his hands stopping at the edge of her breasts. Strange, she usually wore a bra.

Jane steered Hal like an unbalanced wheelbarrow until his heels caught the mattress’ edge and he toppled backwards. She peeled her blouse over her head to expose her shapely golden-skinned breasts. Hal closed his eyes and pressed his face to her soft flat belly. She stroked his hair while he inhaled her musky woman scent. Jane wasn’t usually this aggressive. Must be the alcohol he’d tasted on her breath and her joy at finally graduating.

She pushed him backwards, landed atop Hal with a giggle, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Delicate fingers undid the buttons on his shirt. She kissed his nipples and belly and undid his belt buckle. Hal reached into Jane’s jeans and rested his hand on her pubic bone. She smiled and wiggled out of her pants.

Hal tried to sit up but Jane pushed him back, straddled him, and guided him inside her. He reached for her breasts. Jane arched her back while rocking her hips. Hal tried to hang on but let go after a few minutes. Jane continued to move. It began to hurt. Hal had to hold her hips to restrain her.

As they lay beside each other, Hal admired Jane’s dark eyes and golden skin in the flickering yellow candlelight. He felt drugged with pleasure and dozed off for a few minutes. His cell phone’s ring roused him.

“Hello.”

“Hal, it’s Jane. Sorry I couldn’t meet you at Darwin’s. I messed up the barcode, and they wouldn’t let me in. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No,” Hal sat up and turned his back on the naked woman beside him.

“Where are you, now?” Jane LK2154 asked over the phone.

“Oh, uh, back at the dorm. I think I’ll go to bed early. Why don’t we do something tomorrow?”

“Okay, Sweetie. Bye.”

Hal hung up, set the cell phone atop the pile of clothes on the floor, and turned to face his blunder. “You did say your name was Jane, right?”

“Yes.”

“Jane LK2154?”

“Oh my God!” The woman put her hand over her mouth and laughed. “We’ve identity-fucked. I thought you seemed a little inexperienced. I’m Jane QG3119.”

“Hal LK2154.”

“Don’t worry, Honey.” Jane QG3119 kissed Hal on the cheek. “Happens all the time. You weren’t cheating on your girl. I mean, you were attracted to the part of her you saw in me. Of course, you’ll have to be treated for herpes.”

Hal’s mouth dropped open.

“Just kidding! God! You’re so gullible.” Jane put her legs into her panties, stood, and pulled up her jeans. “I gotta get back to the club. I hope Roger hasn’t already left with someone else.”

Hal let her leave first. Her joke and the bit about him being inexperienced still stung and he didn’t feel like talking to her. As he pulled on his underwear, he spotted something red glittering on the floor by the mattress. Hal picked up the earring, Jane had forgotten, and examined it in the candlelight. He’d better return it. Hal sighed and stepped into his pants.

He blew out the candle, dashed out the front door, and looked back and forth. A strong wind had started while he was inside. Branches swayed. The wind blew dark clouds across the moon’s face and shadows slithered over the grass. Hal crossed his arms over his chest to keep warm. With her head start, Jane QG3119 would be hard to catch. Hal picked up his pace and retraced his steps. The other side of the billboard was the powder blue of the ruling Unity Party proclaiming its motto, “Order.” As a new graduate, Hal would be eligible to vote in the upcoming election. He didn’t follow politics but leaned toward Unity even though Jane tried to get him to vote for the Rapid Development Party.

A series of desperate screams came from up ahead. Hal ran toward the sounds. The cries turned to whimpers, and the whimpering grew quiet. At the site of an abandoned factory Hal froze. A man plunged something shiny into Jane QG3119’s abdomen again and again until she collapsed to the ground. The man knelt by her body and began carving the skin of her forearm. Things like this were not supposed to happen in the modern world.

“No” Hal’s voice cut through the gusting wind, his voice breaking in stunned disbelief, shock, then overwhelming fear.

The murderer looked up from his grisly deed and the two men locked eyes. Hal could have been looking in a mirror. After a fraction of a second, the killer turned and ran with his bloody token. Overcoming his paralysis, Hal gave chase but soon abandoned the reckless heroics that would only get him stabbed. He returned to the gruesome scene. Blood had soaked Jane’s blouse and her blank, unblinking eyes stared, like those of a fish in a display case. A jagged hole remained where the killer had carved the barcode ID from Jane’s forearm. A sickly-sweet taste gathered at the back of Hal’s throat. He turned and vomited. Knees shaking Hal unclipped his cell phone from his belt and dialed the Public Safety Bureau.

At first, the operator thought Hal’s call was a prank. He had to argue for what seemed like forever before she agreed to send help. Even then, it didn’t seem like a priority. Hal waited by the road away from the body. Twenty minutes later a white Chrysler Chromosome marked with orange and blue pulled to the curb. A female public safety officer got out and put on a uniform cap, circled with a checkered band.

“What seems to be the problem here?”

Hal pointed toward Jane’s body. The officer set off. Her flashlight’s beam played on the ground in front of her. Soon after she reached the murder scene, another vehicle arrived. A male officer jumped from the car and ran to join his colleague. He returned to Hal a few minutes later.

“You want to tell me what happened here?” said Officer Jerry KH1326.

“My, uh, date, we were taking a walk and, uh . . .”

“Let me get your ID.” Jerry scanned Hal’s arm. “Says here you’re Hal LK2111, and you live in New Orleans. What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I’m really Hal LK2154.” Hal shifted his weight back and forth. “I modified my barcode with a pen to get into Darwin’s.”

“Wait here.” Jerry went off to confer with the female officer and returned with an alcohol wipe, which he used to clean Hal’s arm and get an accurate scan. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.” Jerry opened the back door of his car for Hal to get in.

“Jerry,” the woman said, “I’m worried about you driving alone with him. I mean he might be dangerous.”

“What do you think I should do, Ruth?”

“How about immobilizing him with narcospray?”

“Hmm,” Jerry patted his pockets. “Must have left it back at the office.”

They decided Ruth would drive while Jerry sat in back with Hal where he could wrestle Hal to the floor if necessary. When they arrived at the public safety building, they rode an elevator to the fourth floor. Ruth confiscated Hal’s cell phone and told him to wait in an unoccupied office. Hal sat behind the gray steel desk. With nothing else to do, he opened the drawers and cleaned his fingernails with a letter opener he found.

The man with the tired eyes didn’t introduce himself. He arrived around four a.m., set his overcoat on a chair back, and began asking questions.

“This dead woman, what kind of accident did she have?”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Hal said. “A man stabbed her.”

“But how could that be? We’re all brothers and sisters. Who would harm their own sister, let alone kill her? What really happened?”

“Like I said, a man stabbed her.”

“Do you know the penalty for lying to public safety?”

“Why?” Blood rushed to Hal’s face. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Have you been drinking tonight, son?”

Hal nodded. The man with the tired eyes collected his overcoat and left. Unable to get back to sleep, Hal paced back and forth. What if he’d imagined the whole thing? After all, violence didn’t exist in the modern world. Dr. Pak had seen to that. But Hal knew what he saw. Dammit! He knew what he saw!

They kept him for three days. When he needed to use the bathroom, Hal was supposed to knock on the door to get an officer’s attention. Often no one was in the hallway so Hal went by himself. During questioning Hal learned that the murdered woman had given him a false name. There was no QG crèche. Hal subsisted on drinks from the water fountain and food from vending machines. There were no showers.

The morning he was released, Hal returned to Lansdale and learned Principal George had requested to see him. After showering and changing clothes in the dorm, Hal walked across the quad to the principal’s office. The secretary told him to go right in.

“I don’t know how you did it, but congratulations!” Principal George stood from behind his desk and shook Hal’s hand. “The Department of Genome Assurance has chosen you to join them. You’re our first graduate in several years to have such an honor.” He handed Hal an envelope. “You leave for Mendel City this afternoon.”

Hal removed the plane ticket from the envelope. His flight was at 1:00. That gave him about an hour before he had to leave for the airport.

“Thank you, sir.” He shook Principal George’s hand and left the administration building.

Hal had little need to pack. The Department of Genome Assurance had found him quarters in Mendel City. No doubt, the previous tenant had left his clothing behind, and of course, the garments would fit. Similarly, Hal would leave his pants and shirts for some underclassman.

He had barely enough time to say goodbye to Jane so he rushed across campus toward her dorm. He jogged across Crick Meadow where the bronze statue of Dr. Pak pointed the way forward. He sprinted up the hill, and crossed under the pedestrian overpass. Across the street, a group of third graders were doing calisthenics in Adenine Field. Hal paused to watch the boys in their navy shorts and gray shirts. Even though he was leaving, he felt a sense of comfort knowing Lansdale would carry on.

Overland Hall, nicknamed Ovary Hall, was the largest female dormitory on campus. Floors one through six were reserved for young women in their teens. The rules forbid unauthorized males access to the uppers floors that housed girls twelve and under. Hal took an elevator to the fourth floor, walked down the hall, and knocked on Jane’s door. The girl who answered had the bangs of someone in the eighth grade and couldn’t have been much older than thirteen. Her bony limbs and budding pubescent breasts barely filled her Lansdale sweatshirt.

“Is Jane here?” Hal asked.

“Oh,” The girl dropped her hand from the doorknob. “You must mean the former occupant. No, my roommate and I just moved in the other day. I’m so glad to get off the little girls’ floor. They can be so annoying. Your Jane’s moved on, I guess, but you can stay. I was just going to the cafeteria. Wanna come?”

Hal suppressed the impulse to flee. “That’s okay. I’ve got to go. Did Jane leave a note?”

“There wasn’t one when I got here. Sorry.” The girl hung on the open door and made mooneyes as Hal retreated.

He still had Jane’s cell phone number. He was about to call when he realized public safety had never returned his cell phone. It didn’t matter. He’d call her, once he got situated in Mendel City.

2

Hal took the number fifty-eight bus downtown and transferred to the shuttle. At the airport, he found his gate and took a seat on a twin-engine 737. This was Hal’s first plane ride. He didn’t know where the plane’s number came from but this most reliable model had been in service for over a century. When something works, why change it?

Once they taxied to the runway, the engines roared and the plane tilted nose up at an impossible angle. Hal gripped the armrests and looked at the other passengers who seemed calm enough. Soon the plane leveled off. Hal swallowed and felt a satisfying pop as the pressure equalized in his ears. Fortunately, he sat next to the window so he could stare at the vision of the receding city below. From up high, it looked like one of the dioramas from an art class project but with much more detail. Freeways flowed with cars, and the trains looked more realistic than anything from a model kit. Once past the suburbs, they flew over rectangular fields of crops and green irrigation circles. Three hours later the plane touched down in Mendel City. Once he disembarked, he felt right at home. The buildings looked just like those in Fayetteville.

Hal spent most of his expense money on a taxi to his new quarters. The Lakeshore Apartments were a cluster of two-story, pastel buildings with faux Egyptian decorations. They had been misnamed. As far as Hal could tell from the tourist map, Lake Manawa was five miles west, across the Missouri River. Hal found the office, presented his barcode to the landlord, and got a key.

Number 15 was a ground-floor, studio apartment with furnishings that had seen better days. The living room held a stained foldout couch. A faded poster of a wolf with snow dusting its fur covered a hole in the plasterboard wall. In the kitchen Hal found an old box of baking soda and a half-empty milk carton in the refrigerator. He poured the sour milk down the drain. The fluorescent bulb in the bathroom flickered without much light, but the toilet flushed and warm water came out of the faucets. Hal checked the closet and sorted through the half dozen pairs of khaki slacks and blue dress shirts. Although the shirts smelled of the previous tenant’s sweat, they would do after a wash.

Hal’s information packet didn’t contain the Department of Genome Assurance’s telephone number and there was no phone book. He spread his map on the rickety card table in the kitchen and tried to locate the address. The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Hal LK2154?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me at Tomahawk Pizza in an hour. It’s on the corner of 38th Street and Center Road about a mile north of your place. I’ll be sitting in back under the buffalo.” The caller hung up.

Hal put on a blue windbreaker and hiked to the bus stop on Watson Street where he stood with his hands in his pockets. Above him, a One Family billboard read, “We’re all brothers and sisters.” After twenty minutes, he decided to walk. The late spring day was too hot for a jacket and too cold for shirtsleeves. By the time he made it to Tomahawk Pizza, he’d worked up a sweat and had begun to smell faintly of vegetable soup.

The bell, tied to the glass door with a string, rang when Hal stepped inside. He nodded to a teenager, tossing and spinning dough in the air, and studied the mural of American Indian scenes painted on the wall. He located the buffalo-hunting scene in the back. A large bull with several arrows in his back had collapsed. The animal’s big brown eye held a look of pain and resignation. A man with bleached shoulder-length hair sat in the booth underneath.

“Sit down, Hal.”

“Sorry I’m late.” Hal slid into the booth. “It took a little longer to get here than I expected. I was waiting for the twenty-four bus. . . .”

“Ever taken the Michigan Cognitive Diagnostic Test?” Even without his odd hair, the man’s steely gaze set him apart from everyone else.

“No, sir.”

The man removed a pamphlet and a yellow pencil from his backpack and slid them across the table. “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes.” He put on a tan snakeskin jacket and walked out the door.

Hal hunched over the table to look at the exam. He was in trouble on the first question. It asked him to count the number of triangles in a figure. The multiple-choice answers were 9, 15, 23, and 47. Hal could only come up with seven. He skipped to the next question but it was no easier. If only he knew where to start. A thousand leeches seemed to crawl on his skin. Teenagers in red-and-gold crèche uniforms giggled at the next table. Hal shot them a glance that could have killed. He felt the itch in his armpits as he began to sweat for real. Would somebody turn that damn radio off? He turned pages and stared at an impenetrable geometric puzzle. The muscles in his back and neck tensed until he was paralyzed with frustration. He filled in the bubbles on the blue-and-white answer sheet with his best guesses.

“Done yet?” The blonde man took Hal’s exam and compared it with the answer sheet.

Hal looked down at his hands and saw the scar on his palm that he’d gotten from a broken glass at age six. All this way for nothing! At least most of his classmates would be gone when they sent him back to Lansdale—fewer to laugh at his failure. Hal looked up, but the man’s expression remained impenetrable.

“What do you know about mutants?” He folded Hal’s test and put it in his bag.

“Well,” Hal said, “they used to be quite a problem before Dr. Pak perfected the Omega Process.”

“It’s not so simple.” The man leaned forward putting his elbows on the table. “Cloning is a tricky business. There’s always a risk of mistakes. It’s an open secret that even with the Omega Process about one in a thousand clones goes bad. There are theoretical reasons, having to do with entropy and signal to noise ratios, to believe we’ll never achieve better. Often mutated fetuses spontaneously abort. We catch others before they come to term. On rare occasions, a mutation slips by, and the clone matures to adulthood.

“Most mutants fit into society and live productive lives. Unfortunately, a rare mutation of the ras 154 gene causes severe behavioral disorders. These mutants are prone to violence. Their abnormality also enhances intelligence and creativity. None of these mutants would have had any trouble with the test you just took.”

“So I was supposed to fail?” Hal asked.

The man nodded. “Violent crime although extremely rare, has been growing lately. We believe this mutation is responsible. The woman, you saw murdered for example, was most likely killed by a ras 154 mutant. Our job in Tertiary Control is to apprehend them before they can harm others.”

If he wasn’t under such scrutiny, Hal would have sighed with relief. It finally made sense. Public safety had taken the Jane’s murder seriously. Thank goodness!

“One thing I don’t understand,” Hal said, “is why the killer sliced off the victim’s ID barcode.”

“Probably something to do with a false ID ring.” The man fished in his jacket pocket, withdrew a business card, and handed it to Hal. “You’ll need to change your appearance so you can infiltrate deviant groups more easily. Go there tomorrow morning and ask for Michelle. I’ll be in touch.” He stood.

“What’s your name?” asked Hal.

“Faber.”

That was odd. Hal had never heard of anyone named Faber before. He must have come from one of the gigantic crèches in New York or California.

“Faber what?” Hal asked.

“Just Faber will do.”

Hal phoned Jane that evening, hoping her sympathetic voice would serve as a comforting embrace for the overwhelmed boy inside him.

“Hello.”

“Jane, it’s Hal. I’m in Mendel City.”

“Hold on,” Jane said. The music in the background quieted. “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling after the way you ran out on me.”

“Jane, I . . .”

“I went to your room the next day and Tom said you hadn’t been back. If that’s how little you value our relationship, don’t bother!”

“Jane, a woman got killed. By the time public safety released me, you’d already left.”

“Was that the woman you were with when you lied and told me you were in your dorm room?”

The words hardened like quick-drying concrete in Hal’s throat.

“I thought so. Next time save your stories for someone more gullible.” The line went dead.

Hal replaced the phone in its cradle.

3

Hal phoned Michelle the next morning. When he mentioned Faber, she agreed to take him at 10:30. Hal had better luck with the buses and arrived at the Leading Trendz Boutique fifteen minutes early. At first glance, Hal wanted to turn back. The mannequins in the display window wore the ugliest clothes he’d ever seen: bulky thick-soled shoes, green suits with wide lapels, and women’s jackets with padded shoulders. He opened the front door.

“May I help you, sir?” asked a clerk in plaid Capri pants.

“I’m here to see Michelle at 10:30.”

“She’s with a client right now. Look around. She’ll be with you shortly.”

Hal wandered to his right and fingered a pair of leather pants hanging from a circular rack. There was nothing covering the seat and the price was an astronomical three hundred credits. When he noticed a display of lingerie, Hal blushed and crossed to the other side of the store while hoping no one had seen him in the women’s section.

“Ah, you must be Hal. I’m Michelle.” A woman wearing a black shirtdress extended her hand. Her hair piled Audrey Hepburn style on top of her head. “Let’s start with your hair. Come on back.”

She led Hal to a beautician’s chair. He sat facing the mirror while Michelle stood behind and ran her fingers through his hair.

“The trick,” she said, “is to change things so they’re only a little bit off.” She misted Hal’s head with a spray bottle before picking up her comb and scissors. “That way people will sense something subtly special without knowing what it is.”

Michelle snipped away for about fifteen minutes. When she finished, she fluffed Hal’s hair with a blow dryer.

“What do you think?” she asked.

She’d cut the hair on the sides high and tight and tied the rest in a top knot.

“Makes my face look bigger.”

“That’s the point, love. Now, let’s work on that fashion trademark.”

Hal followed Michelle out front to a floor-length mirror.

She examined him while fingering her false pearl necklace. “Those suspenders have definitely got to go. Let’s try something bolder.” She removed a pair of plaid pants from the rack and motioned Hal toward the change room.

Hal went into the cubicle and put on the pants. When he came out, Michelle shook her head.

“No, not quite.” She placed a bowler hat on his head. “Too twenty-first century! Try these.” She handed Hal a white leather belt and matching shoes.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” he said.

They worked their way through a series of fashion accessories: wide ties, a folded handkerchief in the breast pocket, a bandanna, and a pocket protector. In the end, they selected ankle boots with side zippers, black peg-legged slacks, white shirts, two electric blue sports coats with narrow lapels, and skinny ties. The latter were clip-ons that would break loose if a raging mutant tried to use one to strangle Hal in a fight. For winter, he had a gray, wool trench coat with black velvet tabs on the lapels.

“I’ll put this on Faber’s account,” she said. “You can wear those home. We’ll deliver the rest.”

“Did Faber say when we’d meet next?” asked Hal.

“You’ll have to ask him,” Michelle said. “Good luck.”

Hal stopped for lunch at a crowded diner. When he took a seat at the counter, the man next to him eyed Hal from head to toe then lifted his plate and carried it to a distant stool. Evidently, people in the city didn’t value courtesy as much as they did back home.

4

Faber didn’t call.

That evening, Hal went to the market. All he could afford was spaghetti, ground beef, tomato sauce, and some limp carrots that had been marked down for quick sale. At the checkout line, he counted banknotes from the diminishing supply in his wallet while gazing at the chocolates and marzipan he couldn’t afford. Faber hadn’t mentioned his salary but Hal hoped Faber would pay him before he starved.

Hal waited for days with no word. Each morning he stared out the dirty window at the men and women waiting for the bus to take them downtown to work. They didn’t wear silly fashions. They wore proper clothing that blended in: the men often in khaki slacks and button-down shirts; the women in pantsuits, dresses, or skirts and tops. It felt wrong not to be with them. Hal had never been alone that long before. True, everyone was his brother or sister but things seemed different in the big city. To pass the time he went to Francis S. Collins Park and took part in pickup basketball games. His teammates asked Hal out to dinner but their prodding about his job made him uncomfortable. He never went back. Instead, Hal took to walking among the bustling crowds to feel part of something. He passed restaurants serving delicacies he’d never tried such as Peking duck, sushi, and everything French. The food at Lansdale had been wholesome but unimaginative. The Tivoli Theater was showing Kirk DK2020’s latest movie about a headstrong G.A. agent’s crusade to arrest natural-procreation outlaws. Hal found it more than ironic that he, now a real G.A. agent, could not afford a ticket. Late Thursday night the phone woke Hal from a deep sleep.

“Hal? Faber. Meet me out front in fifteen minutes.”

Twenty minutes later, Faber pulled up in a rusty green Ford Miser. Hal climbed in behind a woman, with a spider web tattoo on her cheek, in the passenger seat. She wore black lipstick, thick eye shadow, and a black leather dress to match.

“Hal, this is Stacey. She’s caught more mongrels than a dogcatcher. Stacey, Hal.” Faber put his arm over the seat and steered with one hand into traffic. “So anyway, Steven launches into his spiel: ‘Department of Genome Assurance, screening for Haines’ Syndrome, free medical care, blah, blah, blah.’ Meanwhile this mule has a razor hidden in her wig. Steven doesn’t have a weapon, and his narcospray is in his pants on the chair.”

“So what happened?” asked Stacey.

“I’m in the hallway and hear screaming. I bust through the door and fire before that mule turned Steven into Stephanie.”

“He would have deserved it for being such an idiot,” Stacey cackled.

“Right, I told him to get her alone not bang her.” Faber shook his head. “Wasted all that time training him, too. That’s why we’re blessed with young Hal’s company, tonight.”

They drove through the working-class neighborhood of Washburn, with its shoebox houses, TV antennas, and bowling alleys, to Greenwood, where the mansions occupied fifteen-acre estates. Faber pulled into a driveway and spoke into the intercom. The metal gate swung open allowing their car to enter. Faber parked on the driveway behind a line of cars.

“See you boys later.” Stacey opened the car door.

“Good hunting,” Faber said.

She walked along the asphalt toward the mansion’s entrance. Hal admired how her short leather dress and fishnet stockings highlighted her figure.

“We’ll give her a few minutes’ head start before going in,” Faber said. “The man we’re looking for is known as Scorpion. He’s got a cult following in sadomasochist circles. Occasionally he makes surprise appearances at events like this. You never know.

“While we’re waiting, let’s get your cover story straight. You moved here to work as an on-call repairman for Cummings UV Lithography Equipment. It’ll explain your odd working hours, and since most artistic types know little about technology, you won’t get too many questions. An old drinking buddy of mine, Bill KK1987, works at Lansdale as a janitor. He suggested you look me up.” Faber glanced at his watch. “That should be enough time. Stick close to me.” He stepped out and led Hal toward the front door.

Moths flittered and swirled in the lights that illuminated the manicured lawn in the middle of the horseshoe-shaped driveway filled with Jaguars, Honda Eliminators, and other high-priced cars. Most sported the RDP’s green, political bumper stickers. The mansion was huge but its design seemed all wrong. Instead of comforting stucco, its exterior was wood and each section of the roof sloped at a different angle. It was as if the owner was purposely trying to flaunt his ego.

They paused beneath a pair of lamps that lit the porch with a warm, yellow glow. Faber rang the bell beside the impressive, wooden door. It opened, releasing a blast of deafening music. A pair of laughing women exited, carrying their high heels in their hands. Hal followed Faber inside.

“Faber!” A shirtless man with long curled hair removed a cigarette holder from between his teeth and put his arms around the Genome Assurance agent. “Glad you could make it.” The man let go and stood with his hand on his hip above the waistband of his tight leather pants.

“Hey Moxie. How could I miss the most happening romp in M-Town? This is Hal. He’s a friend of an old whiskey-rat of mine. Just moved here for a job in Elmhurst.”

“Pleased to meet you, Hal.” Moxie replaced his cigarette holder in his mouth and shook hands. “Come on in. You want a drink?” Moxie turned and strutted into the tiled entryway.

Faber followed. Hal closed the door, hurrying to catch up. Moxie paused outside a black-walled alcove. Inside, a strobe light made the nude bodies of a woman and three hairless men appear to move in slow motion choreography. Hal wasn’t offended, exactly. Everyone had a body. There was nothing obscene about that, but showing it off like that seemed more than a little egotistical. Still his job was to blend in so he mimicked Faber and tried to look as if sex shows were as common to him as television commercials.

“Of course, you remember Melissa.” Moxie pointed to the woman who was now grabbing her ankles and rubbing her rear end against one of the men.

They passed a man with a bowl haircut leading a topless woman by a sliver chain attached to her pierced nipples. Several people in colorful clothing milled around the bar. Faber muscled through the crowd, poured two absinthes, and handed one to Hal. Since it was his first time, Hal mimicked his superior by adding water until the green liquor turned opalescent.

“So Moxie,” Faber said. “You always find the best places for these bashes. How’d you get a hold of this one?”

“Real estate connections, darling. Real estate connections. Remember the headlines a few months back about the billionaire who was trying to have a natural child with that actress on the soap opera Maladies?” Moxie puffed his cigarette. It smelled more like burning leaves in fall than tobacco.

“Yeah, I heard she was a few months pregnant before someone turned her in to the authorities.”

“Well, he used to own this place before he was arrested. The bank’s letting the scandal die down before they try to sell it. Until then, I get to stay here for almost nothing.”

“Faber!” A woman in a green, backless gown slung her arm over Faber’s shoulder and pressed her body to his. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” She whispered something in his ear and led him off.

After Moxie abandoned him to entertain more interesting guests, Hal held his glass and tried to look at ease. He swept his eyes over the crowd of misfits. They didn’t look threatening. A girl in a man’s dress shirt jumped to the music and swayed her arms over her head. A man with a gaudy ring on each finger greeted people by kissing both cheeks. Of course, maybe that’s how murderers sneak up on you. Anyone could be hiding a knife. Hal concluded he was overreacting. The danger had to be minimal or else Faber wouldn’t have left him alone. He finished his drink, set the glass down on the bar, and returned to watch the nude dance.

“Strawberry Euphoria?” A transvestite in a maid’s uniform offered a silver tray topped with champagne glasses with pink tablets bubbling in the liquid inside.

Hal accepted the cocktail and sipped as he climbed the wide, carpeted stairs to the second floor. Gasps and moans came from behind several closed doors. He caught a glimpse of painted skin and paused to investigate. A nude woman lay on the bed while a man with a goatee painted leopard spots on her body with an airbrush. Painted trees covered her face and legs while a big cat stared from her abdomen. Hal joined the spectators and sat in a vacant chair.

“I need another drink.” The artist set down his brush. “Be back in a few minutes. Don’t move until the paint dries, Aeval.”

Rhymes with “navel,” Hal mused, mesmerized by the wild cat on the woman’s abdomen.

The artist and spectators wandered away. Hal stood to follow.

“Some party, huh?” the model said. Unlike the other women’s hair, Aeval’s was shoulder length and parted in the middle.

“Yeah, we didn’t have anything like this back in Fayetteville,” Hal struggled to look someplace that wouldn’t cause embarrassment and settled on the tiny, dyed braid that hung over her forehead.

“You’re not going to leave me all alone, are you?”

“You want me to stay?”

“You can look if you want.” Aeval opened her legs a little wider so Hal could see the parrot flower painted on her inner thigh.

“That’s, uh . . . very nice.” Hal’s face grew hot.

“I’m Aeval, by the way.”

“Hal.”

“Could you hand me my purse, Hal? It’s the tan one over by the closet.”

Hal handed her the bag.

“Cody always does this to me.” Aeval rifled the purse’s contents. A cigar-shaped plastic object fell out and began buzzing. Aeval switched it off and stashed it away. “Just like him to leave me freezing my ass off up here while he parties with his fan boys.” She removed a tissue and blew her nose. “Next time he can get someone else to be his model.” She swallowed some of the whiskey on the nightstand. “I’m so sick of his bullshit. If you were my man, you wouldn’t treat me that way. Would you?”

“Uh . . .”

“Oh baby, I’m only kidding.” Aeval touched Hal’s leg. “There are plenty of women here who won’t bore you with their bitching and moaning like I am. Why don’t you go find one? I’ll be all right.”

Hal downed the Strawberry Euphoria, placed the glass on the floor, and returned to the living room where a crowd was dancing. But it was unlike any dancing Hal had seen. Everyone moved to a different rhythm. Nobody made even a modest effort to synchronize. Most didn’t even keep time with the beat. Hal began to feel dizzy. He sat down. At some point, the music began to echo. Things got blurry. He saw traces where the dancers had been. He remembered naked women in a hot tub and the squish of his wet shoes on the stairs. Then everything went black.

Sunlight pried its way through the blinds and struck Hal’s eyes. He pulled the covers over his head but the satin sheets kept slipping off.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Time to go.” Faber was standing by the side of the bed.

Hal opened his eyes and noticed the colorful design on his arm. He lifted the sheet and looked underneath. Paint covered his nude body.

“Meet me down at the car.” Faber left to let Hal dress.

Hal pulled on his clammy wet pants and shuddered.

On the drive home Faber asked Stacey, “Any luck?”

“No nothing.”

“How about you, hotshot?”

“I don’t remember what happened.” Hal blushed.

Stacey guffawed. Faber clamped his mouth shut as if to contain an outburst boiling inside. He dropped Stacey off first. Carrying her high-heeled shoes in her hand, she walked away, raising her arm to wave without turning to look back at them. After a fifteen-minute drive, Faber stopped in front of Hal’s apartment building.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Hal said, “but you never said when I’d get paid. I’m almost out of money, and the rent’s due next week.”

Faber pulled a wad of money from his pants pocket, counted fifteen crisp hundred-credit notes, and handed them to Hal. “This ought to keep you.”

5

Faber didn’t get in touch right away but Aeval did. When Hal got home from the party, he went to sleep and dreamed he was back at the Lansdale dorm. A knock on the door woke him. He opened his bleary eyes and briefly wondered where he was. The digital clock on the nightstand said 1:23 p.m. Where was his calculus homework with its sum and integral signs crawling on the page like black ants? Then he remembered Faber, the murder, and his mission to stop the mutants. Hal stepped into his pants, padded to the door, and opened it. He recognized Aeval from her tiny braid.

“Are you all right? You seemed pretty out of it, last night.” She touched Hal’s shoulder and breezed past him. “Hope you like Ethiopian. I find it’s the best cure for a hangover. The Axum’s got a wonderful lentil stew.” She carried a white paper bag into the kitchen.

“So what kind of name’s Aeval, anyway?” He pointed to her custom nametag.

“It’s from the story of a fairy queen who told men to stop being prudes and please their women.”

“That’s silly.”

“Love what you’ve done with the place. Been here long?” Her footsteps echoing on the bare floor, she strolled through the apartment looking at the lack of furnishings.

“About a week,” Hal said.

“I should have guessed from the lack of dust.” Aeval searched the cupboards for plates and set a variety of styrofoam containers on the table. “Don’t make the mistakes I did. It’s easy to get in trouble in a strange city.” She placed a large piece of bread on a plate and spooned red and gold stews in the corners.

As instructed, Hal tore pieces of bread and used them to eat the stews. It was wonderful. The bread was soft as foam rubber and there were lentils in fiery pepper sauce, cabbage, spinach, and green beans with tomatoes. He didn’t even know what some of the dishes were, and the fact that there was no meat didn’t bother him at all. The question of what exactly he’d done the previous night squatted like an unacknowledged rhinoceros on the threadbare couch. Hal didn’t go near it, but his thoughts circled around like birds picking parasites off the big beasts’ skin.

“What’s your real name?” Hal sniffled. Why hadn’t Dr. Pak reengineered humans so their noses didn’t run when they ate spicy food?

“Nora ZD1123. Satisfied?”

“What’s wrong with Nora? It’s a perfectly fine name.”

“It’s a perfectly boring name.” Aeval tossed her head in slow motion to clear her long hair from her eyes and reached for the green beans. “I wanted something more romantic and found it in an Irish legend. . . . How do you know Faber?”

“A Lansdale alumnus suggested I look him up when I got into town.” Hal felt that wasn’t exactly a lie. “Have you known him long?”

“About a year. Cody introduced us when I first moved here. He said Faber had the best dope but I steer clear of him. He gives me the creeps.”

“Where do you come from?” Hal asked.

“Port Townsend.” Aeval scooped up some spinach with her bread. She spoke with her mouth full. “The Pacific Northwest is beautiful but the cost of living’s too high. I moved here to cut expenses so I could devote a few years to painting. I miss the big trees, though.”

“What kind of things do you paint?”

“Archetypes, scenes from myth, and that kind of thing. I can show you my studio after dinner if you’d like.”

“I would,” Hal said.

After they finished eating, Hal stashed the leftovers in the refrigerator. Aeval led him to a Honda motorcycle in the parking lot. Bungee cords held two helmets to the seat. Aeval handed Hal the one painted with daisies and put on the other.

“Get on.” She swung a leg over the seat and turned on the ignition.

Hal sat behind her and looped his arms around her waist. Aeval maneuvered through the side streets and opened the throttle on Ventner Boulevard. The engine screamed. Hal tightened his grip and pressed his chest against her back as she leaned the bike from side to side while weaving through traffic. After a ten-minute ride, she parked in front of a strange building that resembled a dirty brick castle with high walls and towers. There was a no-parking sign on the curb.

“They never check.” Aeval took off her helmet and shook out her hair.

Hal followed her into a courtyard. Weeds grew through the cracked concrete and a broken bottle lay near the base of an overflowing trashcan by a wooden bench. An old woman in a paisley poncho looked up from planting flowers by some steps and waved.

“Aeval, are you coming to the tenants’ meeting?”

“I’ll be there.” Aeval pointed to Hal. “Maureen, this is my friend Hal. Hal, this is Maureen X. She used to sing for Corduroy Rocket.”

“I remember you,” Hal said.

“Yeah, lots of teenaged boys used to masturbate to my album covers.”

“You still got it, Maureen.” Aeval took hold of Hal’s arm. “Come on, Hal.”

“Seven p.m. on Wednesday!” Maureen called as they walked away.

Hal followed Aeval though a gray steel door that slammed behind him with a hollow clang and then she led him through a maze of grimy hallways and stairwells lit by anemic sixty-watt bulbs. Eventually she stopped outside her studio and jangled her cluttered key chain while searching for the key to her door.

“Welcome to my palace.” She held the door for Hal to pass.

He stepped into the dark space that smelled of turpentine. Aeval turned on the light. Two monstrous crucifixion paintings dominated the room. One showed a crowd of natural humans watching the death of a clone Jesus. The other showed a crowd of clones watching a natural Jesus. The drop cloth crumpled in the corner had failed to stop all of the paint from splattered the wooden floor. Smaller pictures, such as a clone Buddha touching the earth from a lotus position and a blue-skinned Krishna, surrounded by identical women in saris, hung on the other walls. Climbing numerous flights of stairs had left Hal sweaty. The heat and lack of ventilation made it worse. He took a step. The floor creaked and a gray blur shot past Hal and stopped at Aeval’s feet.

“Hi Max.” She stooped to pick up a lop-eared rabbit, kissed it on the head, and cradled it to her shoulder so its oversized rear feet rested on her forearm.

“I’ve never known anyone with a pet rabbit. How long have you had him?” Hal asked.

“About two years.” Aeval set the rabbit down. “He’s a she. Stands for Maxine. An old boyfriend liberated her from an animal-testing lab.”

Max hopped to Hal and smelled his boot.

“You can pet her if you want,” Aeval brushed past.

Max put up with Hal stroking her velvety fur before she scooted to another portion of the studio and bit a hunk off a wooden easel’s leg.

“That one’s Cody’s.” Aeval pointed at a picture of a naked woman with raven wings sitting atop a cedar tree. “Want some coffee? It’s only instant.”

“Sure”

Hal sat on the couch and thumbed through a copy of Liberal Girl magazine. An editorial discussed why the Rapid Development Party was best for technological progress Hal put it down and examined the contents of the bookshelves improvised from cinderblocks and boards. Aeval returned from the makeshift kitchen with two stained, white mugs.

“God, it’s sweltering in here.” She peeled off her sweatshirt leaving only the thin, white fabric of her sleeveless T-shirt between her round full breasts and Hal’s hungry eyes. “Hot in the summer and cold in the winter but at least the rent’s cheap. The complex used to be an Atom Beer brewery. You can still see some stainless-steel tanks in the north building.”

Aeval ran her hands through her hair to tie it up in a bun, revealing the hair that sprouted from her underarms. She was so different from the prim, neatly groomed girls at Lansdale. He wanted to study her like a textbook in braille. When she turned toward him, he darted his eyes away to hide his fascination.

“Let me show you some of my recent work.” Aeval removed a group of unframed canvases from a closet and chose one from the middle of the stack. The painting showed a pair of buffalo-headed beings cooking a human heart in a cauldron. Aeval turned to face the painting.

Hal moved closer and stood behind her. A few stray hairs stuck out in random angles from the nape of her neck. He could almost feel his lips press against her sweaty skin.

“If you help me stretch some canvases, I’ll give you ice cream,” Aeval said.

“Okay.”

The task wasn’t hard. Hal held cloth to wooden frames for Aeval to staple. His reward was a bowl of chalky sorbet made from cashews.

“Wow!” Hal noticed a video cassette recorder in the corner. “I’ve heard of these but never seen one.”

“Want to watch a movie?” Aeval asked.

She inserted a tape. The movie was a period piece called The Adventures of Mary Lou Hausfrau. It was true story about a spy fighting a dictator who wanted to impose an inferior genome on humanity. Sitting on the couch with Aeval and her pet rabbit, Hal was the happiest he’d been in months. He heard a key in the door.

“Hi, Cody.” Aeval turned and waved.

The painter with the goatee entered and dropped his canvas knapsack by the door.

“There’s some ice cream if you want.” She pointed to the kitchen. “You remember Hal from the party?”

“Oh yeah, the wild man.” Cody shook Hal’s hand. “How you doing?”

Hal didn’t stay for the end of the movie. With Cody in the room, he felt as awkward as gazpacho at a hotdog-eating contest. Cody rubbed Hal the wrong way. Hal wasn’t sure why but one thing was for sure. If Hal had a girlfriend like Aeval, he wouldn’t ignore her like Cody did. Aeval offered him a ride home but Hal said he could walk. On the way out he got lost in the labyrinth of stairwells and hallways and eventually ended up on the ground floor in a paved courtyard. He stopped outside a studio with an open door to ask directions.

“Hello?”

When no one answered, Hal stepped into the room crowded with steel dinosaurs made from scrap metal. It smelled of ozone and burnt iron. He entered deeper to look at a stegosaurus with hubcaps for the blades on its back.

“Hey,” a man with welding goggles on his forehead came from the back room. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Love you work,” Hal said, “Mind if I look around?”

“Go right ahead.”

Hal stepped around the greasy metal parts littering the floor to admire the tyrannosaurus and left after fifteen minutes. His experience emboldened him to browse in other studios. After all, he didn’t have much else to do. For the most part the artists seemed glad to show their work. A man, who built mechanical insects, even described the complex wing motion that made them fly. Only the painter, whose work consisted of squiggles and splotches, seemed reluctant.

Hal felt ready to call it quits after his encounter with the Abstract Expressionist but stepped inside a last open doorway on his way out. Where the other studios had been cluttered, this one was immaculate. Track lights illuminated the paintings displayed at eye level on clean white walls. The pieces were surreal and disturbing. One showed a disembodied breast floating in a black, moonless sky. A needle pierced the nipple and blood dripped onto a thorny bush that bloomed in one red rose. The work was not only violent but blasphemous. The worst depicted a scorpion severing Dr. Pak’s neck with its claw. Could the artist be the deviant Faber was hunting? Hal moved to a painting of a giant scorpion with an impaled woman writhing on its stinger.

“May I help you?” Like the woman in the painting, the attendant had a shaved head and scar on her left cheek.

“This is fantastic!” Hal said. “Were you the model?”

“That’s an old piece. I was much younger then.”

“Who’s the artist?”

“A recluse, I’m afraid. Let me get you a card.” She took one from the tray on the desk and handed it to Hal. “We’re opening some of his new work, next Friday. Perhaps he’ll be here.”

“Thanks.” Hal examined the card that read October 23 Gallery. “I’ll mark my calendar.”

Faber would definitely have to hear about this.

6

Colored lights played through the cluster of leather-clad topless dancers, chained to iron rings on the wall. Fake bars furthered the illusion that October 23 Gallery was a dungeon. Hal turned to Faber, but thought better of commenting. Recorded sounds of whips interrupted blaring music that made conversation almost impossible anyway. Custom lightbulbs mimicked flames from wall-mounted lamps that looked like torches. Hal sidled over to the hors d’oeuvres table where amyl nitrate and a host of other intoxicants lay next to pastries and slices of bloody, roast beef. Hal stacked his plate and returned to his companions. He bit into an éclair and the custard filling squirted onto his shirt. Hal daubed it with a tiny paper napkin but only managed to make a bigger mess. The music stopped.

“Thank you for coming, tonight.” The bald woman adjusted the microphone’s height. “You wouldn’t be here if you were content to live like lambs bleating in the meadow. The wolf’s call beckons you to the steppes where only the ruthless survive. By feeding on the weak, we cull the herd of disease and infirmity. Perhaps you’ve already bitten your prey’s ankle and the smell of blood drives you mad. You know that only the taste of warm flesh will satisfy your hunger.

“Friends, a wolf pack must work together to succeed in the hunt. And like a wolf pack, we must form a team of humanity’s strongest and react instinctively as one. One man has been out front leading our movement for years. I give you the alpha wolf, Scorpion!”

The introduction bugged Hal. If the guy was named Scorpion, the analogy shouldn’t have been to a wolf pack but to something related to insects like a beehive or ant colony. If he were still at Lansdale, he would have made a sarcastic remark, but he judged it wouldn’t go over well with Faber. The crowd applauded as the artist walked to the microphone. Unlike the others in the room, Scorpion didn’t set himself apart with body piercing or extravagant fashions. Instead, he wore a lightweight sports coat. Aside from his short hair, he could have passed for Principal George or any of the Lansdale staff.

“Most people who are attracted to my work,” Scorpion said in a surprisingly mild voice, “come to it from a disgust at the weakness and self-indulgence of their lives. They dream of power, not power for its own sake but power to achieve greatness.

“When I first started painting, the critics called my work dangerous and obscene. A few went so far as to suggest I needed psychiatric help. Those few galleries that dared show my paintings were closed for ‘contributing to social unrest.’ The elite wouldn’t have taken these actions if the truth hadn’t frightened them. They know my work is nitroglycerine that can blow the superstructure of lies our society is built on to pieces. Despite their attempts to silence me, people like you, dear friends, recognize the truth in my work, a truth you will find nowhere else.

“Ladies and gentlemen, greatness is possible only through sacrifice. If you would be powerful, read the myths of the Aztecs and the ancient Near East. The gods only bestow their gifts on those who pay with blood. Enjoy the show.” He walked away from the microphone.

The music started.

“Tag him,” Faber whispered.

Stacey made her way to the cluster of admirers thronging Scorpion, waited for a chance to embrace him, and plant a remote tracking device. When her chance came, she also placed her hands liberally on his back to mark his jacket with a chemical that glowed in infrared. Since Scorpion showed no sign of leaving soon, Hal moved to the wall and looked at the paintings.

“Don’t wander too far,” Faber said.

Hal stopped in front of one he hadn’t seen the previous week. It depicted a cutaway view of an androgynous being with gears and screws inside. Someone tapped Hal on the shoulder. He turned.

“You sure left quickly the other day,” Aeval said.

She wore sky-blue pajamas with bedroom slippers that looked like bunnies. On any other woman, this would look absurd but Aeval managed to pull it off.

“You two looked like you needed your privacy. Where is Cody, anyway?”

“He’s such a bore. The most notorious artist in North America’s next door, and he stays home to watch Lenny and Stewart on TV. What a child! Hey, the Joffrey Ballet is coming to town. I can never get Cody to go. You interested?”

Faber motioned to Hal. Scorpion was moving toward the door.

“Listen, Aeval. I’ve got to run. I’ll talk to you about it later.” Hal waded through the writhing dancers to Faber and Stacey. The three walked out the door and stopped in the hall.

“I tried to get him to take me along but he didn’t seem interested,” Stacey said.

“You must be losing your touch.” Faber looked at the tracking display on his watch face. “Let’s give him a head start. Don’t want to spook him.” He spoke into his hidden microphone. “Mobile One, target’s heading your way. When he comes out, keep a loose tail. I want to see where he goes.” Faber held up his hand. “He’s moving. Okay, let’s go.”

Hal followed Stacey and Faber down the hall and into the deserted courtyard. Even outside he could hear the dance music blasting through the walls. All the tenants must have been at the party.

“Hold on. He’s stopped,” Faber halted.

Hal leaned against the wall, felt the bricks’ rough surface through his shirt, and counted his heartbeats to judge the time.

“What’s he waiting for?” Stacey asked.

“Go check,” Faber said. “Keep walking past him and radio once you’re out of sight.”

She set off. Sensing that anything he said would be an annoyance, Hal kept his mouth shut.

“What’s that?” Faber put his hand to his ear. “Shit! He slipped us. Come on!”

They dashed across the asphalt and rounded a corner to where Stacey stood, holding Scorpion’s discarded sports coat.

“Damn!” Faber yanked it from her hands and threw it to the ground.

“There!” Hal pointed to a figure ducking behind a building.

Pulling a pistol from his waistband, Faber sprinted after him and vanished behind the wall. The silenced pistol’s pop was barely audible above the background music. Hal and Stacey ran to where Faber stood over the fallen man. The plastic garbage bag beside him had spilled its guts of paper and cans on the cement. Faber turned the victim face up with his foot. Hal recognized the wounded man’s goatee.

Cody. Aeval’s boyfriend. Cody reached his arms toward Hal and opened his mouth as if trying to speak, but no words came out.

“Can’t afford to leave witnesses.” Faber aimed the pistol at Cody’s head.

Hal turned away and squeezed his eyes shut when he heard the gunshot.

“Mobile One, Scorpion escaped. He left a bodyguard behind to set up an ambush. We need cleanup at the northwest corner of Building H fast.” Faber holstered his pistol. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The Ford Miser’s fast turns buffeted Hal back and forth in its claustrophobic back seat as Faber took out his rage on the road. The sweet taste of vomit rose to the back of Hal’s throat. It took all his will power to keep down his dinner. What had he signed up for? This wasn’t the heroic career he’d dreamed about. Faber was a murderer and a lunatic. As soon as Faber dropped Stacey off, Hal planned to resign. He rehearsed the words in his head but what would stop Faber from killing him just like Cody? Faber short-circuited his plans by stopping at Hal’s apartment first.

“Could have happened to anyone, kid.” Faber sighed and dropped his hands from the steering wheel. “You couldn’t have known you pointed out the wrong guy. Don’t worry. We’re a team. I won’t blame you in my report. Get some rest.”

“Yeah.” Hal pulled the latch and shoved against the door. “A team.”

He walked to the concrete steps and heard the car pull away. Hal grabbed the iron railing to steady himself and pulled open the door.

7

Next morning sunlight infiltrated Hal’s blinds, waking him at 8:30. He pulled the sheets over his head but escaping into unconsciousness was impossible. The garbage truck’s roaring diesel motor was more effective than an alarm clock. Hal got up and took a drink of tepid water from the bathroom faucet but couldn’t wash the bitter taste of guilt from his mouth. Someone pounded on his door. He tried to ignore them but they wouldn’t quit.

“Hal, it’s Aeval. Let me in!”

Dressed only in his loose, boxer shorts, Hal opened the door. Aeval rushed inside. She wore plaid pants, kung fu shoes, and a baggy sweatshirt.

“Cody didn’t come home last night!” She dropped her purse spilling its contents on the floor. “I’m scared he’s lying in a ditch somewhere.”

“He’s probably sleeping off a hangover.” Hal turned sideways to hide the kangaroo pouch in his shorts. Covering up his knowledge of Cody’s death would be harder. “Why don’t you give it a few days? He’ll be back.”

Any affection Hal had felt for Aeval disappeared. The shock of Cody’s murder and his complicity in its cover up were enough for him to deal with. Adding a frantic woman into the mix was too much. He wished she’d just go away.

“It’s not like him to stay gone.” Soles slapping on the hardwood floor, Aeval paced back and forth. “His friends haven’t seen him. I called public safety but they wouldn’t listen. To them I was just another hysterical woman.” She bent and stuffed tampons and keys into her purse, got fed up, and tossed it.

“Will you come to the station with me?” She fixed Hal with pleading eyes. “You’re a man. They’ll listen to you.”

The sound of the gunshot that had splattered Cody’s brains on the pavement echoed in Hal’s memory. Much as he hated to get more involved, he had to keep Aeval from the truth or she could end up the same way.

“Not a good idea. Safety won’t investigate missing persons until,” Hal pulled a number out of the air, “ninety-six hours have passed. Let’s start by checking the hospitals.” He handed Aeval the phone book. “Write down their addresses and we’ll go in person. That way they can’t put us on hold.”

Hal dressed in the bathroom, wet a comb under the tap, and dragged it through his hair. When he returned to the living room, Aeval was sitting with her face in her hands.

“Sorry.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “We can start at Mendel City General.”

Aeval led him to a brown Toyota Elegans sedan instead of the motorcycle.

“It’s Cody’s,” she said.

They drove to the concrete monstrosity in the northeast sector and paid fifteen credits to park in the garage. An elevator took them to an overpass, which they crossed into the artificial world of modern medicine where fluorescent lights illuminated pale green walls. Even at the front desk, the air smelled of rubbing alcohol and cafeteria food, a smell Hal always associated with sickness. He let Aeval do the talking. The more frustrated she became the sooner she’d give up.

“Excuse me,” she said to a woman at the front desk. “My boyfriend Cody KR3722 is missing. I’m afraid he might have been in an accident. Is he here?”

“Do you have a power of attorney or domestic partner agreement?”

Aeval shook her head.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t release that information.” The woman turned to her monitor and resumed typing.

“Come on.” Hal touched Aeval’s arm and led her away. “Does Cody have any distinguishing marks that would let you tell him apart from the others? Besides the goatee, I mean?”

“He has a scar on his left shoulder. If we had a barcode reader, we could check his ID tattoo.”

“What?” Hal asked. “You never altered an ID to get into a bar when you were younger?”

“I did. I just forget the details.”

“I still remember,” Hal said. “Find a candidate Cody and I’ll read his code.”

They took the elevator to the third floor and stopped at the gift shop to buy props to help them blend in. Carrying a bouquet of flowers, Hal led Aeval through the wards. The helium get-well-soon balloon she held by its ribbon brought up the rear, bouncing in her draft like a happy puppy’s tail. Hospital staff in pale blue scrubs and white lab coats paid little attention when they paused at doorways and attempted to examine the patients inside.

After an hour, Aeval spotted a man with a goatee reclining on one of the beds. She pulled Hal to the wall outside the door.

“That looks like him. What should we do?”

“Ask,” Hal said.

“Cody, how are you feeling?” Aeval put on a fake smile, entered, and bent to kiss the patient on the cheek.

“Sorry.” His face grew red. “I’m Lester.”

“They must have given us the wrong room number,” Hal said. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Don’t mention it.” The man’s eyes lingered on Aeval’s ass as she walked away.

On their way, out Hal slapped his forehead and pointed to the patients’ charts by the door. Lester KI1876’s name was clearly visible on the form. They continued their search until Hal grew light-headed from hunger.

“I need something to eat,” he said.

Aeval nodded.

In the half-century since the Race Wars, humanity had perfected the science of genetics. The same could not be said of hospital cuisine. Hal examined his choices at the steam table and pointed to the cubes of meat and olive-drab green beans in runny white sauce next to the label “Chicken a la King.” The cafeteria worker spooned the glop onto rice and handed him the plate. Aeval selected a fish fillet. After paying, they carried their trays to a free table. Aeval tied her balloon to her chair while Hal cleared the plates and napkins left by the previous occupants. He returned to find Aeval sawing her fillet with a butter knife.

“How is it?” Hal asked.

“Tough enough to stop a bullet.” Aeval dropped her utensils. They clattered on the table.

At the mention of bullet, Hal pictured the gray matter that had leaked from Cody’s skull. He paused holding his fork in midair and then set it down.

“Chicken no good?” Aeval pushed a dish of quivering green toward him. “Want my gelatin?”

Hal shook his head.

“I can’t eat this either.” Aeval stood and unleashed her balloon. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

They drove to a small sandwich shop where Aeval treated Hal to a corned beef on rye. He devoured it in two minutes and then finished off the coleslaw and tart pickle. While she picked at her salad, Hal nibbled his brownie and scouted the crowd, a group of identical humans set apart only by nametags, fashions, and ID tattoos. Why did Aeval seem different? There was something warm and honest about her that he hadn’t felt with Jane. He wanted to open up to Aeval but that would only get her killed. Why did things have to be so complicated? The burble of Aeval sucking air through her straw interrupted his thoughts. She set down her cup and looked at her watch.

“It’s almost five. I’ve taken up too much of your time. I’d better drive you home.”

“I could stay longer. Maybe try another hospital.” Hal tried to free a caraway seed from between his teeth with his tongue.

“No, I’m tired. I didn’t sleep last night.”

She drove Hal home and parked in front of his building.

“It was awfully sweet of you to help.” She leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Tomorrow then?” He savored the moment inside her dome of personal space. Her breath smelled of cloves.

“Tomorrow.”

8

Hal and Aeval finished their reconnaissance of Mendel City’s hospitals in two days. On the drive home from Methodist, Aeval spoke only in clipped phrases.

“What do we do now?” She stared through the windshield avoiding Hal’s eyes. “Wait for public safety to take an interest?”

Leaving her discouraged would have been safer but the tired look in her eyes and the lines of worry on her forehead dug at Hal’s heart. A pointless task would distract her from her loss.

“Does he have any friends he might be staying with?” Hal asked. “Maybe you can put together a list. We can call them, tomorrow.”

Hal was up by 8:00 the next morning. The carton of milk he took from the refrigerator contained barely enough to dampen his cereal. He tossed the empty jug in the trash and shoveled down his meager breakfast. The morning news had the usual: the day’s weather, sports scores, economic figures, and reports of traffic accidents. By 8:45, Aeval still hadn’t arrived. Hal walked to the kitchen and opened the bare cupboard. He really should go shopping, but what if he was gone when she came by? Hal sat down and changed the channel. The movie station showed a generic romantic comedy about an older man, Melvin, who leaves his wife Whitney NC1701 for a younger woman also named Whitney. She was Whitney DG1987. Melvin eventually suffers the same dissatisfaction with young Whitney and returns to his wife after realizing the problem was in his own mind. Months ago, Hal would have found the movie comforting but now he was not so sure. At 10:30, he went to the store. When Hal returned, his memo light was blinking. He pushed play.

“Hal, it’s Aeval. Could you call me when you get in? Thanks.”

He dialed her number and got a busy signal. Playing phone tag was inconvenient, and he still hadn’t replaced his old cell phone. Maybe he’d shop for one as soon as things settled down. He put away his groceries and tried again. No luck. He dashed outside, caught a bus across town, and arrived at her building forty minutes later. After climbing the dingy stairway, he arrived at Aeval’s door. She answered holding a phone to her ear.

“Brenda, Hal’s here. I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” Aeval set the phone down in its cradle. Her nose resembled a large strawberry dripping with mucous. “Cody’s dead!” She sagged into his arms.

Hal led Aeval to the couch and sat her down.

“What happened?” he asked.

“New Orleans Public Safety called and said he died in a car crash. The body was burned so they had to identify him from rental car agency records.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose it’s little comfort but at least you know.”

“The funny thing is.” Aeval took a rumpled tissue from the pocket of her sweat pants and blew her nose. “Even though Cody’s crèche was in New Orleans, he hated the place and said he’d never go back.”

“Who knows why people do the things they do? Maybe he visited an old friend.”

“They’re doing an autopsy.” Aeval looked in his eyes. Her expression transformed to one of sharp determination. “I asked for a copy of the report.”

“What’s the point of dwelling on it?” Hal looked at the painting of the crucifixion. “You need to put it behind you. The sooner you get on with your life the better.”

Tears filled Aeval’s eyes. Hal pulled her head to his shoulder and stroked her hair. The loose shirt she wore smelled faintly lived in. It was Cody’s shirt.

“It’ll be okay. You’re a smart, talented woman. You’ll find someone else.”

“But I want Cody.”

“I know.” Hal fought back the urge to kiss her.

He left fifteen minutes later. When he exited onto the street, he spotted a familiar Ford Miser parked near the entrance. Faber rolled down the window.

“Get in. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Hal slid into the passenger seat, and Faber pulled away from the curb.

“Comforting the grieving widow?” Faber asked. “Routine surveillance spotted you hanging around. I must say I never figured you for the type. Still, it is one of the fringe benefits of our work. I remember this woman in LA. I had to waste her old man in the afternoon and put it too her all night. Never told her it was me that killed him, of course. Broke my heart to order her detention, but you can’t be too careful with ras 154 mutants.”

Hal sat very still and looked out the window so Faber wouldn’t see his clenched jaw.

“What? Did I offend you? Don’t tell me you actually love her.” Faber shook his head. “We’re in a war here. A war! If you can’t learn to divorce your feelings from your work, it’ll get you killed.”

They drove on. Faber turned on the radio and the sounds of Atomkraft’s hit single “Nein Danke” covered the silence. Twenty minutes later, he stopped in front of Hal’s apartment complex.

“Look, all I’m saying is you need to be careful. Screw whoever you like. I’ll look the other way. Hell, I’ve done it myself. But never.” Faber pointed his index finger at Hal’s face. “Never let a woman confuse your loyalties.”

“All right,” Hal murmured.

“Good.” Faber slapped him on the back. “We’ve got an interesting gathering to infiltrate, tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

9

Faber came at 8:45 p.m.

“Where’s Stacey?” Hal asked.

“This one’s not for her.”

Despite the warning bells in his head, Hal got in Faber’s car and closed the door behind him. Rather than take a right on the 121 toward the center of town, Faber turned left. Tall buildings gave way to suburbs, strip malls, and car dealerships. Traffic thinned out. The lights illuminating the highway grew sparse. Hal smelled petroleum. They drove past an oil refinery, a glowing island of mercury-vapor light with flares of natural gas shooting flames in a sea of darkness. Soon they were a lone pair of headlights in the blackness. Hal looked into the emptiness outside. It was a perfect place for Faber to dump his body if he decided Hal was the loose end that would unravel the story of Cody’s murder. Despite the evening chill, Hal began to sweat. He turned to Faber. The G.A. agent wore same emotionless mask he’d worn when he’d executed Cody.

“Where are we going?”

“Relax. We’re almost there.” Faber kept driving.

Each second took Hal further into the wilderness, farther from the possibility of help. Faber turned off the road. The car’s tires crunched and rumbled on the rough gravel surface. Dread crawled like an electric eel up Hal’s spine but he played along, fearing that angering Faber would make things worse. The road eventually widened to a parking lot. Hal relaxed when he saw the cars. Faber stopped, yanked the parking brake, and got out. Hal followed. The sound of yelling and swearing came from a corrugated-metal building that had no billboard or markings of any kind. They followed a concrete sidewalk leading to an entryway lit by a single incandescent bulb. A man with a shaved head leaned against the wall by the green wooden door that hung askew on its hinges. He wore a denim vest that revealed muscular tattooed arms.

“Fifty credits each.” He took the toothpick from his mouth and spat a splinter into the dirt.

Faber gave the man fifty credits. Hal looked dazed.

“What are you, my date?” Faber said. “Pay the man!”

Hal paid and followed Faber into the dark room. Harsh floodlights illuminated a boxing ring and drew beams in the air thick with cigar smoke, sweat, and stale beer. Faber wedged through the crowd toward the bar. Peanut shells cracked under Hal’s feet as he did his best to keep up, muttering apologies to the men who turned to him with angry looks.

“Scotch,” Faber said when the bartender finally noticed.

“Beer,” Hal added.

Anxious to avoid another of Faber’s rebukes Hal paid for his drink, although seven credits seemed like robbery for the watery swill in his glass. They made their way closer to the ring and shoehorned themselves into a tiny space with a view of the action.

A man in a black karate gi fought a shirtless wrestler. Speed and viciousness made up for the karate fighter’s lack of bulk. Though both men had started with identical bodies, the karate guy’s training emphasized agility while the wrestler had clearly opted for brute strength. The blood that streamed from the wrestler’s broken nose testified to the karate man’s skill. Each time the wrestler approached, the karate fighter tagged him with a flurry of kicks and punches but stopped short of delivering the final blow. Enamored of his seeming invincibility, the karate fighter danced circles around his opponent and taunted him by moving close. The wrestler lunged. The karate fighter stung him with a back fist and danced away.

Then the karate fighter made a fatal mistake. Distracted by a voice from the crowd he turned to an admirer in the front row. This gave the wrestler the opening he needed. He entered in a crouch, grabbed the karate man’s legs, and upended him. The karate fighter landed on his back. His head struck the mat. In a flash, the wrestler straddled him and began beating the man’s face with fists and elbows. The crowd’s roar almost drowned out the sick sound of knuckles smacking flesh.

“Yeah!” a man to the left yelled in Hal’s ear.

Puzzled by what he didn’t understand, Hal studied the spectator out of the corner of his eye. Dr. Pak had eliminated violence from the human genome, so why was the audience here? Were they mutants? On drugs? There were also a few women cheering even louder than the men.

The wrestler turned the karate fighter’s face into a pulpy mess of blood and raw meat, but he kept sinking pile driver punches into his unconscious opponent. The crowd grew bored. The wrestler stood and began stomping his opponent’s ribs and kidneys. After a few minutes, even the wrestler lost interest and raised both fists in victory to the crowd’s applause.

“Give our winner, Burt DQ0193 a big hand!” A referee in a striped shirt handed the wrestler an envelope of cash and slapped him on the back.

The audience responded with lukewarm cheers.

“Now for the event you’ve been waiting for,” the referee said. “What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? We’ll try to answer that age-old question when Sledgehammer Sam CF1875 meets Walter ‘The Wall’ KN5827.”

Hal had seen pictures of sumo wrestlers in history books but had never seen anyone as huge as Sledgehammer in real life. He must have weighed four hundred pounds. How could anybody make themselves that big? He’d have to eat massive amounts of food. Maybe steroids were involved. The Wall was even larger than Sledgehammer. He climbed into the ring, stood on legs the size of Sequoias, and glared at Sledgehammer.

“Begin!” The referee scampered out of the ring.

The two fighters met with a gigantic crash and began grappling. Sledgehammer swung roundhouse palm strikes that thudded into the Wall’s misshapen ears.

“Come on.” Faber tapped Hal’s shoulder. “We have work to do.”

They jostled through the screaming crowd, walked down a hallway, and entered a dingy locker room. Inside, the wrestler from the previous bout sat on a wooden bench under a naked light bulb. Eyes closed he tilted his head back against the metal lockers and held an icepack against his face. Two wads of bloodstained tissue were stuffed in his nostrils.

“Nice fight, Burt,” Faber said.

“Thanks.” The wrestler sat up, opened his bloodshot eyes, and pointed to Hal. “Who’s the cherry?

“This is Hal. He’ll be bringing your supply from now on. Got the money?”

The wrestler took a gym bag from his locker, showed Faber the cash inside, and zipped it closed.

“You got the stuff?” The wrestler plucked the wadded tissue from his nose.

“In my car,” Faber said. “I felt nervous bringing it in here. Why don’t you follow me out to the parking lot? We’ll make the trade there.”

The wrestler wiped his face with a towel and pulled a shirt over his muscular chest. Faber led the way out followed by the wrestler who carried the bag and limped on his left leg. Hal brought up the rear.

“Burt,” a patron in a narrow-brimmed fedora called. “You won me a hundred credits. Let me buy you a beer.”

“Later.” The wrestler sidestepped his grinning fan and followed Faber outside.

The tough guarding the door ignored them. Once Faber got to the parking lot, he began swiveling his head to the left and right.

“Something doesn’t seem right. See that white car?” He pointed to a Honda Crick next to his Ford Miser. “It followed me here all the way from town.”

Hal looked at Faber. What was he talking about? They were alone for most of the drive.

“Maybe he came for the fights,” the wrestler said.

“Don’t think so. I’ve seen that car in my rearview mirror for the past few days.” Faber looked over his shoulder and turned back. “Tell you what. We’ll do the deal on the road. Hal and I will go first. You drive after us. If no one follows, I’ll pull over and we’ll make the trade.”

The wrestler gave Faber a wary look.

“Come on,” Faber said. “You don’t think I’d tangle with a bare-knuckle champion, do you?”

“Better not.” The wrestler tossed the gym bag into his Chrysler Drosophila, withdrew a nickel-plated pistol from under the front seat, and tucked it into his waistband.

Hal and Faber got in the Ford Miser.

“Just keep quiet and follow my lead,” Faber said.

He turned the ignition, left the parking lot, and drove up the rutted access road to the highway. The wrestler followed in his car. Faber turned east. Ten minutes later, he pulled over and killed the headlights. The wrestler parked behind him. Faber got out and opened the trunk. Unsure what to do, Hal got out and stood in the wet grass by the side of the road.

“I think you’ll like this batch.” Faber reached into the trunk. “It’s my most potent ever.”

The wrestler lumbered to Faber’s side.

“And this time,” Faber said. “I added a little something extra just for you.”

He straightened and spun, using his body to swing a tire iron into the wrestler’s jaw. From his vantage point by the car, Hal saw something wet ejected from the wrestler’s mouth. The wrestler pulled the pistol from his waistband. Before he could aim, Faber brought the tire iron down on the wrestler’s wrist and sent the pistol flying into the grass.

The wrestler blocked Faber’s third swing and sunk a fist into the G.A. agent’s gut. Faber doubled over allowing the wrestler to get a grip on the tire iron and twist it from Faber’s grasp. Faber’s weapon fell to the ground. The wrestler wrapped his massive hands around Faber’s neck, pressed him against the car, and squeezed. Hal’s eyes darted between the pistol and Faber’s pathetic attempts to escape. After what seemed an eternity Hal snatched the pistol from the grass and pointed it at the wrestler.

“Let him go!”

“Careful, sonny. You might hurt yourself with that thing.” The wrestler leaned forward putting more weight on Faber’s windpipe.

Faber gagged.

“I said let him go!”

The wrestler continued without acknowledging the threat. Hal extended the pistol in his trembling arms, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Its muzzle flashed orange, leaving an afterglow of purple spots dancing on Hal’s retinas. The burning gunpowder smelled like a firework display. The wrestler released Faber’s neck, touched the wound in his side, and looked at his bloody hand as if puzzled.

“Shoot.” Faber coughed. “Shoot him again!”

The wrestler stepped toward Hal. Hal looked at the pistol and back at the wrestler. He fired another shot but the wrestler kept coming. His hands trembling, Hal struggled to keep the sights lined up on his target. He squeezed off more rounds until the slide locked back indicating his magazine was empty. They seemed to have no effect. When the wrestler got within a few paces, Faber brained him with the tire iron. Burt fell. Faber hammered the fallen man’s skull until he stopped moving. Faber let the tire iron slip to the ground and leaned panting against his car. Splattered blood speckled his face as if murder were some childhood disease.

“Didn’t think he’d have that much fight left in him.” Faber took the pistol from Hal, removed the magazine, and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Help me get him in the trunk.”

Faber reached under the wrestler’s arms. Hal grabbed his feet. Together they dragged the slumping body toward the wrestler’s car. Within seconds, Hal’s fingers felt like they were going to rip off and his arms became leaden, but he didn’t let go. A car drove by, blinding Hal with its headlights—and then kept going. The Chrysler had blocked the driver’s view of the dead man. They set the corpse on the grass while Faber yanked the keys from the Chrysler’s ignition and opened the trunk to retrieve the gym bag full of cash.

“On three,” Faber said. “One . . . two . . . three.”

They heaved the body over the lip and inside. Hal turned away until he heard the trunk close.

“I’ll drive the Chrysler. Follow me in my car.” Faber tossed Hal the keys.

They bounced off his hand and fell to the ground. Hal knelt and picked them up. Hal got in the Ford Miser and followed Faber back into town. After a twenty-minute drive, Faber parked in front of an auto repair shop. Hal pulled in behind him and turned off the ignition. Faber came to the window.

“Wait here.”

He returned five minutes later with a man in overalls.

“This is Jerry. He’ll drive you home.”

Hal followed Jerry to a tow truck and got in.

“So where do you live?” Jerry asked.

“The Lakeshore Apartments off Jefferson.”

“I know it.” Jerry turned the key and set off.

Hal sagged against the seat as he watched neon street lights play across Jerry’s face. The truck’s stiff suspension made for a rough ride. Jerry didn’t seem inclined to talk, which suited Hal fine. When they arrived after twenty minutes, Hal thanked him and went inside. It took all his energy to trudge up the stairs to the safety of his apartmen

10

As soon as Hal locked the door behind him, he slumped to the floor. Crashing from the adrenaline aftermath, he could have stayed that way all night, but he had to clean up the evidence of the murder. He emptied his pockets and then stuffed his bloodstained clothes into a plastic bag. He got in the shower and made the water as hot as he could stand. It lasted twenty minutes before it ran cold. After dressing, Hal sat on the living room floor staring at the bag. Throwing out his boots was a waste but he had to get rid of everything that could tie him to the killing. He could always buy another pair. Should he wash his clothes first? He imagined public safety officials swarming both the dumpster and the apartment complex’s coin-operated washing machines. When did the garbage truck come? Maybe he was worrying for nothing. Faber would cover up tonight’s killing just as he’d done with Cody’s. Hal put his head in his hands. They still smelled of gunpowder. He needed to understand Faber’s game but there was no one he could ask. Hal closed the garbage bag with a twist tie and carried it to the dumpster.

Hal went to bed but fear and guilt kept him twisting on his mattress until four in the morning. The sound of the garbage truck woke him at 6:37. At least the bloody clothes were gone. Soon he heard neighbors flushing toilets and running showers. Hal checked the kitchen cupboards. There was enough food for several days. He was getting low on cash. That meant he’d need to see Faber soon. Hal switched on the TV and stared numbly at the pictures flickering on the screen. Someone knocked. Dread swam through his veins. They knocked again.

“Hal, it’s Aeval. Let me in.”

He opened the door. Aeval barged in and took a place on the couch.

“I got the autopsy report.” She removed some papers from her purse and spread them on the table. “There’s something I don’t understand.”

Hal sat down beside her, his hands clamped like vices around his quadriceps. “It says here that the body they recovered from the wreck had an orthopedic screw in the right ulna.” Aeval pointed to the paragraph.

Hal picked up the papers and read. “That’s right.”

“Cody never broke his arm.” Aeval’s face shined with hope. “He’d have a scar if they’d operated, right? Oh, Hal, do you know what this means? Cody might still be alive.”

“It could be a mix up.” Hal evaded Aeval’s pleading eyes. “Maybe the scar on his shoulder confused them.”

“How could I find out?” Aeval paced back and forth. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor. “If Cody’s out there somewhere, I’ve got to try.”

“If Cody were alive, don’t you think he would have contacted you by now?” Hal moved to Aeval and held her to still her pacing.

Their bodies fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Aeval’s hair smelled of floral shampoo, but Hal couldn’t let it distract him. Her stubbornness was going to get her killed unless he did something. There had to be a place where she would be safe. New Orleans was farther from Faber, but who knew what shadowy contacts he had there? And Hal wouldn’t be nearby to protect her. Then he hit on a brilliant idea.

“Scorpion!” Hal backed away from Aeval. Hands on her shoulders, he looked into her eyes. “He left the party before everyone else. If anyone saw what happened, it would be him.”

It was perfect. If Faber discovered Aeval’s little investigation, Hal would say he put her up to it in order to track Scorpion. Faber wouldn’t hurt her if he believed there was even the faintest chance she’d succeed. And there wouldn’t be any danger from Scorpion. After all, if Genome Assurance had tried for years and couldn’t find him, what chance did a twenty-six-year-old artist have?

“Now, he’s a pretty unsavory character,” Hal said. “I don’t want you taking any chances. Before you do anything too radical, let me know so we can go together.”

11

Faber’s call woke Hal the next morning.

“Get dressed. Time to meet the boss.”

Hal examined his eccentric wardrobe and settled on slacks and a dark sports jacket with white piping around the labels. His cold cereal tasted like soggy cardboard but he had neither the time nor the inclination to make something more substantial. When he neared the bottom of the bowl, milk dribbled down his chin and stained his shirt. Before Hal made it halfway to the closet, Faber rang the doorbell.

“You ready?” Instead of his usual getup, Faber wore a pinstriped suit, vest, and red tie.

Hal grabbed his jacket and followed Faber out to the car. They soon ran into a traffic jam on the Crick Expressway.

“You ever seen traffic this bad?” Hal stared through the windshield.

“Yes.”

Making small talk with Faber was pointless. The drive to the Genome Assurance headquarters took forty-five minutes. Faber approached the complex on Parthenogenesis Boulevard and showed his badge to the attendant. Traffic was lighter inside with G.A. employees riding golf carts between buildings. No flags flew from any building. Why would humanity need countries when all were brothers and sisters? Faber drove past an outdoor shooting range where paramilitary troops in khaki uniforms fired the latest Kel-Tec assault rifles at steel targets backed by dirt berms. It seemed impossible but the buildings on the G.A. campus were even more utilitarian than typical government structures. They rose from the bedrock of Middle America like a concrete fortress of conventionality. Faber pulled into the underground garage. Even at five miles per hour, the car’s wheels squealed when he turned. Faber parked in a reserved spot and they got out. The slams of the car doors echoed in the enclosed space. Faber led Hal to an elevator, put his key in the panel, and simultaneously pressed the buttons for floors three and twenty-four. For an instant, the elevator’s acceleration pressed Hal’s feet to the carpet with an extra thirty pounds. The indicator over the door lit higher and higher numbers but after the elevator passed the top floor, the display went dark. The elevator stopped and a wave of upward momentum buoyed Hal for a moment before setting him down again. A bell chimed and the brushed steel doors slid open.

“Agent Faber, how nice to see you again,” the woman in gray sitting at the reception desk said. She’d collected her hair in a knot on top of her head and let it spout like a fountain down the sides of her face. “And you must be Hal. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She picked up the phone. “Sir, Faber and Hal are here. Okay.” She set the phone in its cradle. “He’ll be just a few minutes. Help yourselves to coffee.”

“Thanks, Doris.” Faber motioned Hal to the silver service.

Hal poured coffee into a white china cup and stirred in cream and sugar with a tiny spoon. He and Faber sat on the couch and balanced cups and saucers on their laps while they waited. The phone buzzed.

“He’ll see you now,” the receptionist said.

Like Faber, Hal left his cup on the receptionist’s desk. They walked through a door and entered the huge office with wood paneling and a Kandinsky painting where the window should be. It had to be a reproduction. The originals were destroyed in the Race Wars, or at least Hal believed they were.

“Faber, how are you?” The director stood and walked around his mahogany desk to greet his subordinates. There was no photo of a wife.

“Good, sir.”

“And you must be his new assistant, Hal LK2154.” The director took Hal’s hand in a strong grip. “Some of our best employees have come from the Lansdale crèche. They instill strong traditional values, unlike in the big city. I’m sure you’ll make Faber proud.”

How could that be true? Hal had never heard of recent Lansdale graduates working for G.A.

“Please have a seat.” The director motioned to two Merlot-colored leather chairs and returned to his seat behind the desk. “Want coffee?”

Hal and Faber shook their heads.

“Any news from the Council?” Faber asked.

“Once again, the elephants are dancing.” The director toyed with the heavy gold chain on his wrist. “They cut my budget seven percent. The Minister of Health tried to talk sense to them, but the RDP members are fixated on North Africa. ‘Let the mutant problem be damned,’ they say. With fewer resources, I’ll have to rely even more on the dedication of men like you to stem the rising tide of chaos and violence.”

“You can count on us, sir.”

“Thank you.” The director examined some papers from a neat pile on his desk. “I see that Scorpion slipped out of our grasp once again.”

Faber nodded.

“And a civilian was killed.”

“A regrettable incident.” Faber shifted in his chair. “But unavoidable if we’re to maintain an aggressive effort to put a stop to Scorpion and the danger he poses.”

“Do whatever you need to. You have my complete support. You and your colleagues are all that stands between us and chaos.” The director’s eyes blazed like lasers. “I trust you to discipline your people however you see fit, just so long as news of any incidents doesn’t get back to the Council. The Unity Party has given us free reign but right now they’re in a coalition with Golden Path. I don’t have to tell you what would happen to our mandate if a scandal caused GP to switch sides and throw their support behind the RDP.”

Golden Path, Hal read a magazine article about them once. A reclusive billionaire ran it. Although he had solid moral credentials, he had some kooky idea about hypersonic airliners. That is, he had one foot in Unity and the other in Rapid Development.

“I wouldn’t worry, sir. No matter who thinks they’re in charge, they’ll still need the deep state to keep order. In any case, all news of the civilian’s death has been sanitized.”

“Good! But that’s not why we’re here, today.” The director turned to Hal. “Young man, when I read Agent Faber’s report describing your bravery, I decided some kind of commendation was in order.” The director removed a blue velour case from his desk drawer and opened the lid. A bronze badge gleamed against the black nylon inside. “For saving Agent Faber’s life, I’m waiving the customer nine-month waiting period and promoting you to Agent Third Class. With this promotion comes an increase in pay, which will be credited to your account effective today.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hal took the case and ran his thumb over the raised DNA spiral and the word “Fidelity” on the badge’s bronze surface. It felt as cold and lifeless as the two corpses weighing on his conscience. He wished he’d taken the insurance job the guidance counselor had recommended. Still other people just like Hal had succeeded in Genome Assurance. He forced a smile.

“Of course,” Faber said, “you can’t carry it when you’re undercover.”

“Of course.”

“But maybe,” Faber continued, “when you’re feeling discouraged, you can pull it out of your drawer and remember what we’re working for.”

“I imagine it’s been frustrating not knowing the big picture.” The director placed his palms on the desktop. “I’m going to share some sensitive information with you because I believe an informed agent is a motivated agent. What do you know about Central Africa?”

“Just what I learned in history class,” Hal said. “They bombed it during the Race Wars. Fallout poisoned the land and it’s unfit for human habitation.”

“That’s the cover story.” The director placed a reel on an 8-mm projector and threaded the film through the sprockets and onto the take-up reel. “What I’m about to tell you can’t be discussed outside this room.”

A film of people building homes and tilling fields projected on the wall.

“Our common genome brought many blessings to society,” the director narrated. “Without the mistrust and envy caused by differences, warfare and persecution became largely things of the past. We live in peaceful communities where we’re truly all brothers and sisters.

“After our forefathers established cloning in Europe and North America, they sought to spread our revolution to the rest of the world. Those were heady days. At first, the colonies in Central Africa were successful but our common genome had a fatal weakness. We were susceptible to disease.”

The film showed rooms crowded with immobile patients on cots. The scene switched to bodies piled on street corners. Workers in protective suits doused them with gasoline and set them on fire. The camera pulled back to an aerial shot showing columns of black smoke rising from the city. The footage ended leaving a rectangle of light on the wall while the loose film flapped on the projector’s still turning take-up reel.

“Thirty-five years ago an epidemic broke out. Doctors were powerless to stop it. Within days, ninety-five percent of Brazzaville was dead. Our leaders made a tough choice. They used some of the remaining nuclear devices to sterilize the area, thus preventing a plague that could destroy all human life from spreading. To this day Central Africa remains off limits.

“The Council realized that a totally uniform genome makes humanity subject to extinction so they decided to play a dangerous game. They directed all crèches to introduce mutations into Dr. Pak’s design. Even with all we know about DNA, modifying genes isn’t an exact science. Sometimes the mutants develop antisocial tendencies. Our job in G.A. is to cull those mutants who become destabilizing. We’re a small piece of a big enterprise but civilization’s survival depends on how well we do our job. Do you have any questions?”

“I just don’t understand why the mutants’ existence has to be kept secret,” Hal said.

“For their protection.” The director folded his hands. “After living in a homogenized society, how would people react to those with a different genome? The Council wanted to avoid any possibility of a modern-day witch-hunt. I know the idea’s hard to get used to but when you reflect on it, you’ll see the wisdom of the Council’s decision. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to work.” The director turned to his papers to indicate the meeting was over.

On the elevator ride to the parking garage Faber asked, “Feel like having a drink to celebrate your new promotion?”

“Uh, sure!”

They drove to a working-class tavern on Pleasant Street, a misnamed stretch of road in a rundown part of town. When the door swung closed behind him, Hal’s eyes took a minute to adjust to the dim interior lit only by shaded thirty-watt bulbs and an Atom Beer lamp. Only a few hardcore drinkers in plaid shirts and baseball caps sat inside. They looked like they’d been there for the past week.

“Bartender, your best bourbon!” Faber sat at one of the numerous empty booths.

Hal followed and slid across the table from him. The bartender brought a bottle and two shot glasses to the table. Faber paid with a fifty-credit note and poured the burnt amber liquid into their glasses.

“Cheers!” Faber touched his glass to Hal’s and drained its contents.

The liquid settled in a warm pool in Hal’s stomach. The oak gave it a flavor of sweet vanilla. Faber poured another round.

“Sorry I kept you at arm’s length for so long, kid.” Faber set his glass down. “I had to make sure I could count on you before I brought you in deeper.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Hal asked. “You think I’m some kind of mutant or something?”

“No kid, I checked you out before we hired you. You’re one hundred percent pure Pak original. It’s the environment. No matter how uniform we try to make your upbringing, there are thousands of reasons a recruit may run from a fight, or not. Did he get caught and punished for ditching algebra? How about the prom? Did he drink too much and get sick before he could score? What about the kid who sees a truck barreling down on a puppy? Did he have time to save it or did he have to watch helplessly as the truck mashed the little doggy into the pavement? All those experiences add up. Some recruits have what it takes. Others don’t. Another round?”

Hal nodded. Faber poured for them both and downed his shot. Hal sipped his while Faber settled into a story. “I remember one recruit. Must have been seven or eight years ago. We pulled a sting on a counterfeiting ring run by a seventeen-year-old who’d run away from his crèche at fourteen and set up shop in Boise. Anyway, out of nowhere, this kid pulls a knife and slashes my gun hand, sending my pistol to the ground. Rather than shoot the little fucker the recruit tries to talk him into surrendering while the kid is trying to carve me a new asshole.”

“So what happened?”

“I eventually got the counterfeiter subdued and put the cuffs on him. The recruit knew too much to return to civilian life but I couldn’t trust him to watch my back. Now he’s riding a desk in payroll.”

The alcohol loosened Hal’s tongue a bit more than would be diplomatic. “So what’s with the drugs?”

Faber glanced at the bartender who was out of earshot. “What do you mean?” Despite his alcohol intake, Faber showed no loss of self-control.

“Everybody says you have the best dope, and Burt was going to buy something from you.”

Faber sighed. “The real world’s not like a twelfth-grade civics class. I do what’s necessary to get street credibility. Let me give you some advice.” Faber’s eyes flashed a warning. “You can have a long and successful career as long as you don’t meddle with things that don’t concern you. Anyway . . .” Faber downed his bourbon. “You’ve proved I can count on you. From now on, I’ll make sure you’re involved in all our operations. Now drink up and let’s get out of here.” Faber got up and led the way to the door.

Hal followed with an unsteady gait. His warm thoughts of brotherhood floated on a sea of alcohol. Only after Faber dropped him off did Hal remember he’d forgotten to ask about the bank account the director had mentioned.

12

Faber didn’t delay. Two days after his promotion, Hal was infiltrating a false identity ring in Phoenix. Since everybody was identical, one only needed to modify the barcode on their forearm and get a new nametag to change their identity. While this would fool a cursory examination (to get an underage student into a bar, for example), it wouldn’t survive the cross check with the master database needed to get a job or buy a house. Hence most fugitive mutants made ends meet by prostitution, panhandling, working odd jobs, or petty crime. Only those with enough money could buy their way out of this shadowy existence with a new identity.

G.A. had monitored a dermatologist named Gordon VB8163 since a mutant whose false identity duplicated that of a Kansas City furniture salesman had informed on the good doctor in exchange for a transfer to a better cell. According to the mutant, Dr. Gordon would modify an ID barcode for two thousand credits.

At 1:30 p.m., Hal parked his rental car in front of the professional building that housed Dr. Gordon’s office. Even with the car’s air conditioning running full blast, the dry southwest heat baked Hal like a loaf of bread in an adobe oven. By the time he walked to the entrance, his chest and legs were damp with sweat and lethargy sapped his will. Hal removed his sunglasses, checked the directory, and took an elevator to Dr. Gordon’s third floor office.

Hal gave the receptionist a pseudonym and said he’d pay in cash. She dispensed with the customary arm scan. While waiting, he read old dermatology pamphlets—dull stuff. Hal set the pamphlet down and studied the other patients. A woman in a tan skirt had a scar on the corner of her mouth and an older man had some kind of dark spot on his forehead.

“Robert.”

Hal followed the nurse in flower-print scrubs into an exam room, and sat on a paper-covered exam table. A poster on the wall displayed drawings of various skin cancers such as melanoma and squamous cell carcinoma. The nurse wrapped a cuff around his arm and inflated it until Hal’s fingers numbed. She turned a screw, the air hissed out, and she wrote on a chart.

“The doctor will be with you shortly.” The nurse walked out and closed the door.

Hal had always wondered what doctors kept in their exam room drawers. Now that he was undercover, he had an excuse to look but restrained himself. He doubted that Dr. Gordon had any evidence in there and digging up evidence wasn’t the purpose of Hal’s visit, anyway. Dr. Gordon knocked on the door for formality’s sake and entered a few milliseconds later.

“What can I do for you, today?” The doctor took a pen from the pocket of his white lab coat and perched ready to write on the clipboard.

“It’s more a question of what I can do for you,” Hal replied.

“What do you mean?” The doctor narrowed his eyes.

“Would you agree that a physician should treat more than the symptoms of disease? Say a patient, through no fault of his own, acquired a social stigma that interfered with his ability to live a happy and productive life. Wouldn’t it be a doctor’s duty to help such a patient?”

“I don’t see what you’re getting at.” Dr. Gordon sat on a stool. “But my job is to help however I can. Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind?”

“I know some employees at the Ministry of Vital Statistics.” Hal leaned forward. “They’re dedicated and hard-working, but a civil servant’s salary doesn’t go very far in Chicago. As you might imagine there are thousands of traffic accidents each year in that city. Tragically hundreds of motorists die. But what if a chance at a new life could come from their deaths? My contacts enter traffic fatalities into the master database. For a small fee, they can forget to change the victim’s status to deceased and provide you with his name and bio.”

“I’m not saying I’m interested but for the sake of argument how much would this cost?” The doctor stroked his chin.

“Ten thousand credits a name.”

“That’s pretty steep.”

“Not when you consider that whoever takes the deceased’s place will have access to his bank account. It’s a win-win for everyone. The fugitive gets a chance at a new life, you treat more patients, and my contacts supplement their income.” Hal took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to the doctor. “Here are five names. Check them out. Once you’re satisfied they’re legit, change your patients’ identities to them and have them pay you from the deceased’s assets. When fifty thousand credits are deposited to the bank account listed at the bottom of the page, I’ll bring you more names.”

The doctor followed Hal to the waiting room.

“No charge for this one,” he told the receptionist.

Hal rendezvoused with Faber and Stacey at a diner on McKinley.

“Did he bite?” Stacey asked.

“He took the names,” Hal said. “Guess we’ll find out for certain when he deposits the money.”

“We’ll leave him alone for a few years,” Faber said. “Then round up the fugitives he’s treated. Let’s get something to eat before we catch our plane to Albuquerque. I hear the blue-corn enchiladas are outstanding.”

That week Hal, Stacey, and Faber passed on names to false identity rings in three cities before catching a flight home late Friday afternoon.

“Get some rest,” Faber told them at the airport. “We start again Monday.”

After the wait for his bags and a shuttle ride home Hal arrived feeling gritty at his apartment around eight in the evening. Two messages waited on his answering machine.

“Hal, it’s Aeval. I made some salmon. Do you want to come over for dinner? Give me a call.”

“Hal, it’s Aeval again. Are you there? Oh well, I guess you must be out. Call me.”

Hal phoned back. “Sorry, I was out of town on business. I just got back.”

“What are you doing for dinner?”

“No plans--I was going to grab a burger at Arvin’s. I don’t have any food in the house.”

“Why don’t you come by? I made lasagna. Pick you up in ten minutes.”

“But I need a shower,” Hal said.

“You can shower at my place.”

Hal opened his mouth to object but the phone had gone dead. Aeval knocked on his door twenty minutes later. On the drive to her studio, the hum of tires on the pavement lulled Hal like a narcotic. He closed his eyes.

“We’re here.” Aeval touched his shoulder.

Hal shook his head and blinked. He followed Aeval to the entrance, trudged up the stairs behind her, and stopped while she turned the locks on the big steel door to her studio. She led him inside and tossed her keys into a bowl by the door. The oven had warmed the huge space, normally drafty and cold. The rich smell of garlic and cheese filled the air.

“Why don’t you take a shower while I make the salad? Bathroom’s this way.” She led him past a painting of Ganesha on the wall. “Let me get you a towel.” Aeval returned a moment later with a thick fluffy towel, a T-shirt, and a pair of sweat pants. “These are clean.” She set them down, stepped out of the bathroom, and closed the door behind her.

Hal stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. After lathering, he let the warm spray rinse the day’s tension from his shoulders. A half-dozen shampoo bottles crowded the wire rack hanging from the nozzle. Hal chose at random and washed his hair. He turned off the faucets and stepped out. Cody’s clothing waited on the toilet seat like a tumor. Hal turned away and reached for his own shirt but the reek of the day’s travel made him abandon that idea. He stepped into the dead man’s loose fleecy pants and pulled the Atomkraft T-shirt over his head. After wiping away the mirror’s condensation, Hal dragged a comb though his hair and stepped out into Aeval’s studio.

Hal padded toward to warm glow of two slender white candles, took a seat at the paint-speckled table, and placed a burgundy cloth napkin on his lap. Max, the rabbit, bumped his leg. Hal stroked her between the ears with his index finger. Each time he touched her head, Max stuck out her tongue. Hal transferred a serving of marinated tomato, cucumber, onion, olives, and feta from an odd angular salad bowl to his turquoise trapezoidal plate.

“Careful! This is hot.” Wearing a pair of oven mitts shaped like fish, Aeval carried a casserole from the kitchen and set it on the table. “Help yourself.”

Hal penetrated the lasagna’s bubbling surface with a spatula and lifted a large block of noodles and cheese onto his plate.

“So you weren’t around for a few days.” Aeval poured wine into Hal’s glass.

“Yeah, the company’s pushing its lithography systems to extreme ultraviolet. I had to fly to Albuquerque for training. It wasn’t as exciting as it sounds.”

“Cheers!” Aeval touched her wine glass to his. The candle’s flames sparkled through the crimson liquid. “For someone with a full-time job you sure work irregular hours. Sure you’re not an international jewel thief?”

“I’m on call,” Hal said. “Spend most of my time waiting. Then something breaks and I fly out to fix it. Besides there are no international jewel thieves. Dr. Pak eliminated most crime with our genome. Remember?”

“I had a dream about Cody,” Aeval said.

The lasagna burned Hal’s tongue. He gulped his wine to cool his mouth and swallowed the plug of food. “What was that?”

“He was holding a straight razor in front of the bathroom mirror. He cut off his beard and then slit his throat. All the hairs turned into a swarm of bees and flew through the crack under the door. I chased them but when I got outside, I was on a dusty desert road in some ghost town. I looked back and forth but all I saw were abandoned buildings. Then I saw the bees up the street. I ran after them and rounded a corner to find a green and tan bus. The bearded driver closed the door in my face, touched his hat brim, and drove away.

“I went to buy a ticket, but the next bus wasn’t due to leave for forty-three years. I told the man at the counter that wasn’t soon enough. Then I was a bee flying after the bus. I felt my wings buzzing, and everything looked kaleidoscopic. Next, I was the bus driver turning the big wheel to round corners. Each time I blinked, the vehicle I drove got smaller, a pickup truck, sports car, bicycle until finally I was walking up the stairs back to my studio.”

“What do you think that means?” Hal asked.

“That it’s time to put my search for Cody aside. I’ve fixated on his superficial differences when there’s a man close by who could make me happy.” Aeval reached across the table and took Hal’s hand.

“You put a lot of stock in dreams?” Much as he’d dreamed of her touch, Hal felt a momentary urge to pull away.

“Always”

“Since when?”

“Since I had meningitis as a girl.”

“What happened?”

Aeval stroked the back of Hal’s arm while she paused. The years of washing off paint had made her skin dry and rough. He imagined those rough hands stroking his chest and thighs.

“It started with headaches and a rash on my limbs. Then I went into convulsions in gym class. They put me on intravenous antibiotics in the hospital but the drugs didn’t work. For days, I was in and out of consciousness. I dreamt my spirit floated out of my body, sank through the gaps between the linoleum tiles, and descended to a shadowy world of limestone and underground rivers. A creature, half man and half bison, removed my heart, washed it in the water, and returned it to my chest.

“When I came to, one of the crèche matrons was sitting by my bed. It’s funny. I’d always thought of them as cold and bossy, enforcing all their silly rules. But seeing her there asleep in her rumpled clothes filled me with sympathy. I got out of bed, tapped her shoulder, and told her to go home. I’d be all right.

“Since then I get feelings about people–people who need a kind word, a hug, or a hot meal. Sometimes dreams warn me or point out things I have to do.” Aeval dropped her hand from Hal’s arm. “I’ve gone on too long. Let’s eat.” Suddenly shy, she lifted her fork and picked at her food.

By now, Hal’s lasagna had cooled. He alternated bites with talk of the book he was reading, a new history of the Race Wars. Soon contentment chased away the achy lightheadedness that had been with him since an hour after his airline lunch of pretzels and soda. “That was good.” He wiped his mouth on the napkin.

Aeval collected the dishes and carried them to the kitchen sink.

“Do you need any help?” Hal asked.

“No, it’ll just take a minute. Why don’t you relax? Put on some music if you like.”

Hal went into the next room and sank into the couch. What a relief to simply sit! His arms and legs, heavy with relaxation, sank into the foam cushioning.

Aeval curled up beside him and put her arm, still warm and wet from the soapy dishwasher on his shoulders. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Then she leaned back and studied Hal’s face. “You look tired. Do you want to lie down?”

Hal nodded, trying to look nonchalant despite his thundering pulse. Aeval took his hand and led him into her bedroom. The furnishings were clean and spare: a small blond wood dresser and a queen size futon. She peeled her shirt over her head and let it slip to the floor. Hal stroked her side, its skin pebbled with goose bumps, and brushed the shapely breasts she never confined in a bra.

Aeval shivered. “Brrr! It’s chilly. Let’s get under the covers.” She lifted the navy-blue comforter and slid between the clean sheets.

Hal climbed into bed and kissed her from ear to throat. The heft of her breast weighted his palm, and he inhaled the comforting scent of her body. The snap on Aeval’s jeans proved difficult. Hal fumbled with it for what seemed hours before unlocking the key to her warm silky wetness. Aeval grasped his hand and firmly moved his fingers where she wanted them.

A sheen of sweat formed on Aeval’s thighs. The high pitch of her gasps carried a hint of vulnerability that made Hal want to cradle her like a fragile bird in his hands. Within seconds, she tilted her pelvis, abdominals contracting spasmodically, squeezed her legs together, and shuddered. They shed their remaining clothes. Hal climbed on top of her to float atop her body while engaging in the hydraulics of pleasure. Then it was over. All the worries and fears kept at bay by Hal’s arousal came flooding back. He stared at the clothing he’d abandoned so quickly. There must have been a hundred reasons not to get involved with this woman.

“Why are there still genders?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t need sex to reproduce any more. Why didn’t Dr. Pak make us all the same gender?”

Aeval leaned on her elbow, brought her face to within inches of Hal’s, and looked into his eyes. “Because it’s what makes us human.”

13

Six months later, on a snowy road, the Chrysler Nucleotide sedan they’d borrowed from the Indianapolis G.A. facility fishtailed. Hal cut the wheel left to bring the car back in line.

“It must be around here somewhere,” Stacey said looking up from the map.

“We’ve been going around in circles for half an hour.” Faber glowered in the back seat.

Since they’d started the phony ID sting, several arrest teams had hauled in ninety-seven fugitive mutants. The bounty had kept them so busy that even undercover operatives like Hal and Faber had been pressed into service. Nelson RE2737 was to be G.A.’s ninety-eighth arrest, that is, if they could find his address.

“Give me that.” Faber snatched the map from Stacey’s hands and illuminated it with a penlight. “Here’s the problem. Elm Street changes names. Go back a half mile and turn right on Hornsby.”

Fifteen minutes later, Hal coasted to the curb three driveways up from 637 Elm, a massive turquoise home that Nelson RE2737 had bought eight weeks after mysteriously disappearing from his aerospace job and cleaning out his bank accounts. The three got out of the car and walked toward the house. Near the driveway, Hal’s feet slipped on the icy sidewalk. He flailed his arms and caught his balance.

“Why don’t you take the back door this time?” Faber said.

Hal touched the nine-millimeter pistol under his left arm for reassurance and nodded. Since shooting the wrestler, he’d become more proficient with firearms, spending an hour at the G.A. shooting range each week. He tended to mash the trigger on pistols sending his shots low but he could still hit center chest at twenty yards. Hal plodded to the backyard and hoped the crunch of his boots breaking the snow’s icy crust wouldn’t alert their target. At least no dogs barked. He positioned himself by the back door, withdrew his pistol from its holster, and leaned against the concrete wall. The bitter cold sucked heat from his torso. It was a clear night. Without a blanket of clouds, whatever warmth the wan sun had delivered during the day had long since radiated into the crystal sky. He smelled wood smoke. Somebody was warming himself in front of a fireplace. Hal wished it was him. Fear and the cold intensified his need for a bathroom. What was taking so long?

The doorbell rang. Hal heard Stacey’s voice. He couldn’t make out her words but he knew the script: the broken-down car, request to use the phone, and a show of cleavage to get past men’s defenses. Sounds of breaking glass came from inside. Seconds later, a man in a silk bathrobe burst through the back door. Hal grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, swung him into the wall, and pressed the pistol into the soft skin under his jaw.

“Going somewhere, Nelson? You shouldn’t leave without a coat. You’ll catch your death in this weather.” Hal marched the prisoner back inside where Faber waited, dangling a pair of handcuffs next to an overturned bookshelf.

“Care to tell me who you are?” Faber cinched the man’s hands behind his back.

“Nelson RD2774. No RE2737.” Fear widened Nelson’s eyes. He looked to Stacey as if beseeching her for protection.

“Nelson.” Stacey stroked his cheek with her index finger. “Whoever sold you your new identity, messed up.” She dug her fingernails into his skin and turned his chin to her. “The real Nelson RE2737 died eight months ago in a car wreck.”

“If I were you,” Hal said, “I’d ask for my money back. Of course, G.A. will be glad to file a consumer complaint in your behalf, but we’ll need your real name and the name of the forger you used.”

Faber injected the prisoner’s shoulder with a hypo spray.

“What’s in that stuff, anyway?” Hal asked.

“Just a little something to make the prisoner more cooperative.” Faber led Nelson to the car, and they drove him toward a holding cell at G.A.’s Indianapolis facility.

The slippery road conditions made the drive longer than expected. Traffic ground to a halt. After ten minutes staring at the salt-crusted back of a semi, the cars started moving again. They passed a tow truck, its yellow light flashing, next to two cars that had suffered a minor collision.

“Don’t these morons realize that looking at a bent fender costs them an hour in traffic?” Faber said. “I don’t want to spend a minute longer than I have to in this cow town. Let’s drop the prisoner off and get out of here.”

Stacey pulled the cell phone away from her ear. “Last flight’s at 9:15.” She looked at her watch. “It’s 8:30 now. We’ll never make it.”

“Congratulations on your single-handed capture of the fugitive Nelson RE2737.” Faber slapped Hal on the back. “After you turn him in, why don’t you enjoy the finest nightlife this town has to offer? The airport exit’s in two miles. There should be just enough time for Stacey and me to catch our 9:15 flight.”

“But doesn’t procedure require two agents present, in case the prisoner gets unruly?” Hal asked.

“Believe me. He won’t cause any problems.”

Hal looked over the seat back. Nelson lay shivering in his robe with his head against the window. Hal shrugged his shoulders and drove on. It took twenty minutes to reach the airport’s departure gates. Before leaving, Faber dropped the handcuff key in Hal’s palm.

“How you doing back there, Nelson?” Hal asked.

Nelson did not reply. Hal gave a longing look at Stacey wheeling her bag toward the entrance, shifted into drive, and pulled away. It took forty-five minutes to get to the G.A. facility on the east side of town. Hal identified himself to the perimeter guard. After a scan of Hal’s barcode, the guard waved him through. Hal parked close to the front entrance and kicked loose the snow that had stuck in the car’s wheel wells. He escorted the prisoner out of the back seat.

“Watch your step.” Hal placed his hand on Nelson’s elbow and steered him around the snowdrifts. They climbed the steps and entered the front door.

“You can’t bring prisoners in here!” the guard behind the front desk yelled. “Take him around back!”

Nelson slumped against the wall.

“I don’t think he’ll make it.” Hal struggled to keep him from falling and looked toward the entrance noting the wet footprints they’d made on the tile floor.

“I’ll call for a gurney.” The guard picked up the phone.

Moments later a man with messy, white hair wheeled a gurney through the double doors behind the desk. Under his white lab coat, he wore the typical khaki slacks and blue shirt but the shirt was stained with tomato sauce. Hal hoped it was tomato sauce. From the patchwork of wrinkles lining his face, Hal guessed the man must have been in his eighties. He’d never seen anybody that old.

“I didn’t know you were still here, Dr. Bill.” The guard straightened up.

“Just tidying up some files,” the old man said. “I don’t sleep so much these days, you know.” He turned toward the prisoner. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

“This agent brought a prisoner.”

“I can see that,” Dr. Bill said. “How many times do I have to tell you guys not to inject the retrovirus before you bring prisoners in? Turns their genome to oatmeal and makes ID damn near impossible. You aren’t even supposed to have the stuff. Who gave it to you, anyway?”

“It wasn’t me, sir,” Hal stammered. “Faber . . .”

“Faber!” Dr. Bill squinted. “Worst mistake of my career hiring that bastard!” He softened his gaze. “So you work for Faber, huh? My condolences. What’s your name?”

“Hal LK2154”

“Nice to meet you, Hal. Now help me get the prisoner on the gurney so I can take him to the clinic.”

Hal removed Nelson’s handcuffs and let him collapse on the gurney.

“Get the door for me. Would you?” Dr. Bill tightened leather straps around Nelson’s legs and torso. “Just to keep you from falling off and hurting yourself.”

Dr. Bill pushed the gurney through the doorway. As the gurney moved, one misaligned wheel wobbled against the tile floor. Hal thought he should offer to take over but the old man already had the cart moving at a vigorous pace. Hal ran to catch up and followed as the old man wheeled Nelson through a maze of hallways to an exam room near the back entrance. Dr. Bill parked the gurney next to a paper-covered exam table, shoved aside jars of gauze and tongue depressors, and found a cotton swab.

“This won’t hurt a bit.” Dr. Bill scraped a sample from inside Nelson’s cheek and placed the swab in an agar-filled test tube. “He ever say who he was?”

“No,” Hal replied. “We only know his pseudonym.”

“When did your partner inject the retrovirus?”

“About two hours ago.”

“Mutation’s fast-acting but it won’t have gotten far.” Dr. Bill scribbled on the test tube’s label and inserted the sample into a pneumatic tube. A whoosh of air sent it on its way to the lab. “Might have a decent chance of getting a good sample of his genome to enter into the database. Sure would be easier if he told us who he was, though.”

“I don’t get it.” Hal leaned against the wall. “What’s the retrovirus for?”

“Vector for gene therapy,” Dr. Bill looked up from writing in a logbook. “It’s one of X Division’s stupid projects. The idea is to replace mutated genes with those from Dr. Pak’s reference genome.”

“So the deviant mutant will be cured and can return to society?”

“So the theory goes,” Dr. Bill said. “But it seldom works out in practice. Some genes only express during fetal development, and sometimes the cocktail doesn’t replace the right genes, especially when field agents inject the wrong one. Just makes it harder for me to correlate the deviant’s behavior with a specific mutation.”

“Must be fascinating research.” By now, Hal’s bladder was aching in earnest. He shifted his weight back and forth.

“All this is classified, by the way.” Dr. Bill returned the pen to his pocket. “So don’t go blabbing to anyone.”

Hal heard a truck pulling up to the loading dock.

“Of course, Mind if I use the bathroom?”

“Right outside. I’ll show you.” Dr. Bill ushered Hal into the hall. “Go past the fire extinguisher there and take a left. Bathroom’s third door on the right.”

Hal found the bathroom with no trouble. With that emergency taken care of, Hal began planning the rest of his evening while walking back to the exam room. He wondered whether to look for something downtown or just find a hotel by the airport. A nice dinner would hit the spot but he didn’t have energy for anything more than room service and TV. An explosion blew him across the hall. His head smacked against the wall, leaving its imprint in the crushed sheetrock. As he slid to the floor, scrambled neurons sent chaotic signals through Hal’s bruised brain. Eventually his body’s protective mechanisms came into play and Hal came to hearing a ringing in his ears. Where was he? It didn’t seem like his apartment. A hotel? He reached for the alarm clock and touched a piece of broken concrete. Hal blinked, choked in the smoke-filled air, and saw a light fixture swinging from a cable on the ceiling.

“The Geneva Process!” Dr. Bill’s voice sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of an elevator shaft. “We’ve got to shut down the data server before they can get to it. Come on!” He dragged Hal to his feet.

As they passed the exam room, Hal paused to stare at Nelson who lay crushed under a fallen beam next to the overturned gurney.

“You can’t help him now.” Dr. Bill yanked Hal from the doorway. “Besides he’s better off than where he was going.”

Hal’s lungs struggled against the tightness in his chest. A noise like someone popping bubble wrap came from up ahead. Dr. Bill rounded the corner and darted back holding up an arm to stop Hal from proceeding.

“Gunmen!” Dr. Bill said. “I know another way.”

They retraced their steps to a stairway, which descended to a locked door. Red lettering on a white plastic sign read, “Morgue.” Dr. Bill jangled the keys from his pocket, opened the door, and held it for Hal.

“Coming?”

Hal followed the old man inside. His fears of a gruesome scene proved unfounded. No bodies lined the hallway but Hal kept his eyes straight ahead, lest he glimpse a macabre sight through the narrow windows on the autopsy room doors. He followed Dr. Bill into an overheated utility room of insulated pipes and humming transformers. The old man climbed a dingy staircase, two oil-stained steps at a time. After two flights, he stopped and leaned against the cinderblock wall.

“Not in as good shape as I used to be,” he panted. “Better keep moving.” Dr. Bill grabbed the corroded handrail and hauled himself up one more flight.

They exited into a storage room filled with mops, galvanized buckets, and sweaty janitors’ overalls. Dr. Bill cracked the door, peered through the opening, and stepped out. Hal followed and caught a motion out of the corner of his eye.

“Down!” Hal drew his pistol and fired two shots that sent a black-clad gunman sprawling.

“Thanks.” Dr. Bill rose from his crouch.

As Hal and Dr. Bill rounded a corner, a dozen guards in khaki G.A. uniforms trained their assault rifles on them. Hal skidded to a halt, kneeled to place his pistol on the floor, and raised his hands.

“Nice to see you, Dr. Bill.” The officer wearing a silver lieutenant’s bar smiled. “Who’s your friend?”

“This here’s Hal.” Dr. Bill examined the fingertip he’d used to scratch his ear. “Brought in a prisoner before all hell broke loose.”

The guards lowered their weapons.

“They’re after the Geneva Process,” Dr. Bill continued. “We gotta shut down the data server before they can access from a remote.”

“Way ahead of you,” the lieutenant said. “Officer Rod killed the power. We’re heading that way to make sure the intruders don’t turn it on again.”

They double-timed to the server room and ran smack into a squad of intruders coming from the other direction. Something sounding like a bee whizzed past Hal’s ear. A hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him around a corner.

“Let the guards do it,” Dr. Bill said. “They’re trained for this.”

As trained, Hal stood way back when he looked around the corner. Contrary to popular belief, standing too close to cover was actually more dangerous because bullets ricocheted at shallow angles. From his position, Hal could see the guards who had taken up positions in doorways shooting back. Automatic weapons fire stitched the silence between yells with the sound of miniature explosions. The sound of gunfire in the enclosed space was almost too loud for Hal to stand. Each round fired hurt his eardrums and he wondered if there would be permanent damage. The guard across the hall caught a bullet in his shoulder and grimaced. Blood oozed between his fingers as he gripped the wound. To Hal’s ear, the amount of gunfire coming from the intruders equaled that from the guards. The balance shifted until the intruders’ side grew silent. Hal emerged from his hideout to see a group of guards converge on the lone surviving intruder.

“Put down your weapon and you won’t be harmed,” the lieutenant said.

The intruder’s machine pistol clattered to the floor. He smiled, pulled a knife from the sheath attached to the straps crisscrossing his chest, and drew it across his own throat. Blood sprayed from the wound and coated the wall. The intruder’s body slumped to the floor.

“What the hell?” Dr. Bill murmured from behind Hal. He approached the still-twitching body and knelt. “Must have had a hell of a lot of will power.” Dr. Bill pointed to the severed neck. “Almost sliced his head clean off. The pain would stop most people from cutting that deep.”

Hal’s skin felt clammy. The sick sweet taste of stomach acid gathered in back of his throat.

“You don’t look so good.” Dr. Bill studied Hal’s dilated pupils. “Must have been that bump on the head. Lieutenant, get this man to the clinic. He’ll need a head CT and plenty of bed rest.”

With their supply of adrenalin depleted, Hal’s muscles grew weak. A guard eased him to the floor. Hal sat shivering with his head in his hands. Overcome with dizziness and malaise, Hal couldn’t make sense of Dr. Bill’s discussion with the lieutenant. Only the words Scorpion and Geneva Process registered. Soon the guards brought a stretcher and carted Hal away to clean sheets and sleep.

14

A wall of security came down like a curtain of depleted uranium around all news of the attack. Before doctors released Hal from the clinic, a lieutenant instructed him not to mention the incident to anyone, not even Faber. Something sure had G.A.’s higher ups spooked.

After his flight back to Mendel City, Hal drove home in the Mazda Protease coupe, he’d bought two months earlier. The payments were steep but he wasn’t shelling out much for rent. When he got home, he examined his face for bruises in the bathroom mirror. Fortunately, there were none to explain. Hal called Aeval at 5:30 and suggested dinner. To his surprise, she declined, saying she and Cynthia, a former crèche mate, were having a girls’ night out. As much as he missed her, Hal was relieved for the time to decompress and get his cover story straight.

He unpacked, tossed a load of laundry in the machine, and set a frozen dinner in the microwave. Hal checked the refrigerator. The lettuce was brown and the milk had turned sour. He garnished his meal with a slice of stale Italian bread and a cup of tap water. Hal took a taste and set down his fork. The meatloaf tasted like wet sawdust in tomato paste. What was up with Aeval, anyway? She was usually glad to see him when he returned from a trip. She had to be up to something. Fearing it could be another man, Hal tossed the meatloaf down the disposal and headed for the door.

He didn’t know where Aeval was but the nightclubs near the university seemed a good place to start. The drive took only fifteen minutes. By then, rush hour had deserted the well-salted winter streets like an unwanted guest finally moving on. He parked in a pay lot next to a pile of dirty snow and walked toward his first stop of the night.

Even outside the nightclub, Hal could hear the thump of amplified music. In the four months since its opening, the Plaid Zebra had become a gathering spot for Mendel City’s young bohemians. For some reason Faber avoided the place, preferring more established bars like Molly’s Castle. Hal wiped his boots on the mat and entered.

A wall of sound deafened him and the bass vibrated his internal organs. Men and women holding drinks stood around a life-sized plastic zebra decked out in a kilt and tartan scarf. More party-goers filled the other rooms. Hal scanned the crowd in vain for Aeval’s coat or any familiar item of clothing.

Although hundreds of bottles of scotch lined the shelves behind the bar, Hal reasoned alcohol would not help his concussion and ordered a meat pie and club soda. By the time he finished his snack, the music had induced a dull ache in his temple. His night out began to feel less and less like a good idea. He downed his club soda and set the glass on the bar.

“What, no scotch?”

Hal turned. Stacey had parted her bangs so a lock of hair missed her eye and rested above the spider web tattoo on her cheek. He dropped his eyes to the nipples that saluted from under her skintight vinyl top.

“I thought I recognized that rip in your coat,” she said. “Really Hal, don’t we pay you enough to buy a new one?”

The sound of a flute introduced the next song.

“Dance with me.” Stacey looped her feather boa like a lasso around Hal’s neck.

As if in awe of her presence, the crowd of writhing bodies seemed to part and let her pass. Hal followed her swaying hips to the dance floor. At first, she synchronized with the other dancers but soon she worked in flashy twirls that the others tried to mimic. Hal made a half-hearted attempt to move to the rhythm while Stacey snaked her body back and forth as if she had no vertebrae. Periodically, she brushed him with a hip or breast. When she sensed this was not having the desired effect, she embraced him, leaned back, and hooked a leg around his. The song ended. Stacey fanned the perspiration from her throat and breezed back to her table with Hal in tow.

“Sorry Roy,” she told the man sitting in the opposite chair. “I haven’t seen Hal since I left Cincinnati three years ago. I’ll call you.” Stacey took her rabbit-fur coat from the back of the chair and waved as she walked Hal out the door.

They ended up at a table in a small Italian restaurant. A candle in a Chianti bottle illuminated the red and white checked tablecloth. Stacey ordered spaghetti carbonara. Hal settled for minestrone soup.

“So,” Stacey touched Hal’s leg with her knee. “How was Indianapolis? Did you get Nelson all squared away?”

“Sure, no sweat.” Hal set down his soup spoon. The meat pie had ruined his appetite.

“It was real shitty for Faber to leave you there like that. He can be a jerk sometimes.”

“I didn’t hear you volunteering to stay.”

“Hey, I sympathize but I’m not stupid. So, I don’t see you after hours much.” Stacey lifted a fork to her mouth and sucked a noodle through pursed lips. “Do you have a girlfriend of something?”

Hal nodded.

“Oh, what’s her name?”

“Joan!” Hal avoided Stacey’s eyes. “Her name’s Joan.”

“Wonderful! You shouldn’t keep her under wraps. Maybe we can all go out sometime.”

Hal blushed.

“Unless,” Stacey rested a hand on Hal’s knee. “You’re afraid I might make her jealous.”

Hal swallowed.

“You know I’ve worked with Faber for over three years.” Stacey returned her hand to her lap. “And I still don’t trust him. Did you ever see your G.A. bank account?”

“No, Faber always pays me in cash.”

“I’ve never seen mine either. I think he’s using the accounts to launder money.”

“Have you told anybody?” Hal asked.

“No, I want something solid before I bring my suspicions to Internal Affairs. Do you know anything that could help?”

Hal looked at Stacey’s tattoo. Should he tell her about Burt and the drugs Faber had been supplying? Better not! Hal had been the one who’d shot the wrestler. He shook his head.

“All right. If you ever get anything on Faber, I can protect you.” She touched Hal’s hand. “We’re in this together.”

Within moments of Hal’s arrival at Aeval’s apartment the next day, they were naked in bed. They snuggled in Aeval’s newly purchased satin sheets, which looked great but kept slipping off the bed and onto the floor.

“You want to hear about my dinner with Cindy?” Aeval asked.

“What, did you go see some exotic male dancers?”

“I have all the exotic male I need right here.” She kissed Hal’s shoulder. “Anyway, Cindy’s a gynecologist.”

Hal tensed, expecting a detailing of female complaints.

“When examining one of her patients, she found something unusual.” Aeval sat up and wrapped the sheet around her torso.

“What?”

“The woman had given birth.”

“That’s impossible.” Hal sat up. “You know as well as I do that crèche clinics harvest all girls’ eggs at puberty and cauterize their fallopian tubes as well. They wouldn’t be able to get pregnant, unless . . .”

“Unless someone implanted an embryo.” Aeval smiled. “Somebody paid this woman a lot of money to carry a fetus to term. Cynthia’s bound by medical ethics not to report her but she’s heard of similar cases from her colleagues.”

“But who would do such a thing?” Hal asked. “Some rich movie star? If so, why would he implant more than one?”

“I’m thinking of someone else, someone with a grudge against the current order, someone who can tell us what happened to Cody.”

“Scorpion!”

“Cindy said a front group called the Next Step hires the surrogates. They have an office on Howard Street.”

Hal downshifted into second gear, cut around a slow-moving pickup truck, and gunned the engine to make the yellow light. A horn blared.

“Go up three blocks and take a right on Meacher.” Aeval folded the map.

Hal veered into the right lane. Perhaps he should have passed the matter on to Faber or at least arranged for some backup but Hal didn’t want to risk bringing Aeval back into Faber’s reptilian attention unless there was something solid. Then again, Faber might cut Hal out of the Scorpion investigation entirely. Hal couldn’t stomach that. Hal followed Meacher to Howard, parallel parked, and put coins in the meter. He never knew how long he was going to be and always ended up overpaying.

511 Howard Street had a door that opened to a vestibule with a set of sheet-metal mailboxes on one wall. Hal located the one for Next Step. He and Aeval climbed a carpeted stairway and rang the doorbell at suite 203. A woman in a pale green skirt and matching jacket answered.

“Hi,” Aeval smiled. “My gynecologist referred me. She said I might be able to find work here.”

“We’re not hiring.” The woman attempted to close the door.

“Wait!” Aeval held it open. “I’m not looking for something permanent, just for nine months or so. I can be very discreet.”

“All right.” The woman led them in and retrieved a clipboard from her desk. “Please fill this out. One of our counselors will see you and arrange for a physical exam.”

After Aeval entered a false name, the receptionist ushered them into an office.

“What can I do for you?” A gray-haired man stood from behind the desk.

“We’d like to see Scorpion,” Hal said before Aeval could respond.

“I’m sorry.” The man sat and narrowed his eyes into slits. “I don’t know who you’re referring to.”

“Then I guess I’ve come to the wrong place.” Hal turned toward the door. “I’ll find someone else to share the reward for turning over the Geneva Process.”

“Maybe I can help you.” The man formed a steeple with his fingers. “But why would you need to see this Scorpion?”

“I thought Scorpion would be the only one who could authenticate the documents but I’ll gladly sell them to anyone with a million credits,” Hal said.

“Give me a few days, and I’ll get in touch with you. Mr.?”

“Virgo,” Hal said. “And you can call her Capricorn. We’ll get in touch with you.” He led Aeval out the door.

“Wow, that stuff about the Geneva Process was great!” Aeval said, once they got outside. “How’d you come up with that?”

“Some documentary I saw,” Hal replied.

“I have something that will interest you but we’d better not talk about it over an open line,” Hal told Faber over the phone.

“Can we meet tomorrow afternoon?” Faber asked.

“I think you’ll want to hear about it sooner.”

“All right,” Faber said. “Remember where we had your interview? Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

Hal drove to Tomahawk Pizza and found Faber sitting in a deserted booth under the mural of the dying buffalo. His snakeskin jacket lay on the seat next to him and he sat behind a big plate of linguini in clam sauce.

“Garlic bread?” Faber pushed a plate toward Hal. “What’s so important it couldn’t wait?”

“I’ve got a line on Scorpion,” Hal said.

Faber set down his wine glass.

“Tell me more.”

“First, I want something from you. The woman who lived with the artist you shot in the courtyard. I want your assurance she won’t be harmed.”

“No one cares about your girlfriend, Hal.”

“Do we have a deal?”

Faber nodded.

“A group called Next Step hires women to carry fetuses to term. I met them and offered to sell Scorpion the Geneva Process.”

“Where did you hear of that?” If Faber was surprised his voice and expression didn’t reveal it.

“Someone mentioned it in Indianapolis. What is it? I need to know in order to sound credible with the Next Step people.”

“You know how cloning takes place.” Faber sipped his wine. “We remove the nucleus from a human egg cell and replace it with one from an adult.”

Hal nodded.

“Suppose,” Faber said, “you could use an egg cell from a cow, a sheep, or a pig.”

“Then you wouldn’t need to harvest eggs from human females,” Hal said. “Anyone with access to farm animals . . .”

“Could breed as many clones as he liked,” Faber said.

The implications worked through Hal’s mind like a cherry bomb in a septic system.

“You see why this is dangerous,” Faber continued. “Imagine the effect of thousands of mutants on society.”

“I’ll need some forged documents to give them,” Hal said.

“I can get you those,” Faber said. “When will you meet?”

“Soon, I’ll meet my contact at Next Step tomorrow to set up a time.”

“Let me know,” Faber said. “When you meet Scorpion, we’ll arrange a little surprise for him. Let’s keep this our secret for now. Good work, Hal.”

Hal shook Faber’s hand and left. On the way to his car, he stopped at a phone booth and called Stacey.

15

Hal met the Next Step representative alone and told Aeval the meeting with Scorpion was scheduled a day after the real date. He wanted her far away when they took Scorpion down. She wasn’t a professional and could easily get killed. Once Scorpion was in the bag, Hal would take Aeval to some empty parking lot, wait an hour, and conclude Scorpion was a no show.

On the day of the meet, when Aeval thought he was at work, Hal walked two blocks from his apartment and knocked on the side of an orange Bimbo Bread truck parked on the street. Faber slid open the door. He and Stacey wore blue nylon jackets with “G.A.” in big yellow letters on the front and back. A half-dozen khaki-clad SWAT team members waited in back.

“The documents are inside.” Faber handed Hal a briefcase. “The case sends an LPI tracking signal so we’ll know where you are at all times. Our experts say the chances of them discovering the transmitter are slim.”

“Thanks.” Hal took the case.

“Play dumb,” Faber said. “Trying to spot tails will only tip Scorpion’s people off. Just follow their instructions and deliver the documents. We’ll do the rest. When he opens the briefcase, it will transmit a go signal. We’ll be there in thirty seconds. Good luck.” Faber shook Hal’s hand.

Hal stepped out into the cold gray winter morning, walked shivering to his car, and drove to the meeting spot. As instructed, he arrived at Amy’s Diner on Second Avenue at 9:30 and scooted into a pleather booth near the plate glass window. A waitress filled his cup with coffee.

“Just some whole-wheat toast,” Hal said.

Hal watched her walk behind the counter and clip his order to the metal wheel mounted in the aperture that led to the kitchen. The breakfast crowd had mostly thinned out. Only a few gray-haired retirees remained. Hal stared out the window at trucks and cars belching exhaust on the snowy street and wondered whether the tracking device would work. The waitress set Hal’s toast before him. He spread on strawberry jelly from a disposable plastic cube and nibbled even though he could hardly swallow.

“More coffee?” The waitress gestured with a Pyrex pot.

“No thanks.” Hal buttoned his coat and tried not the tremble.

Hal looked at his watch. He’d been there forty minutes and his nerves had moved the coffee right through him. Feet sliding on the recently mopped floor, Hal carried the briefcase to the men’s room. When he returned, he found a manila envelope on the table. He tore it open and slid out a cell phone and car key. Hal turned on the phone and waited for it to acquire a signal. It rang.

“Do you have the package?”

“Yes,” Hal replied.

“Go out the back door. Take a left and follow the alley to the street. Take a right, go to the second corner, and turn right again. You’ll find a tan Buick Gamete. Get in and head east on Jefferson. Once we know you’re not being followed, we’ll contact you again.” The caller hung up.

Hal picked up the briefcase and retraced his steps down the narrow hallway, passed the men’s room, and stopped at the back door.

“Emergency Only–Alarm will sound.”

Hal pushed the latch release. No blaring wail came from the aluminum box mounted on the door. He stepped into the icy alley, allowing the door to slam behind him, slipped past a dark green dumpster, rounded a corner, and passed a man unloading supplies from a delivery truck’s yawning tailgate.

Hal found the Buick, entered its frigid interior, and turned the key. The engine caught. Hal shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. Even though the heater was on, it only blew cold air. Hunching to peer through the clear spot on the fogged windshield, he followed Jefferson east. Soon the heater warmed and the windshield cleared. Hal crossed the river into Council Bluffs and drove out of town into a patchwork of farmed fields. The road was deserted except for trees standing like sentinels and spreading naked branches through the gray January sky. A traffic light turned yellow. Rather than slide on the winter road, Hal stepped on the gas and cleared the intersection. He heard a siren.

“Shit!” Hal looked in the mirror and saw the traffic patrol’s flashing red and blue lights. He pulled over and ransacked the glove box for the Buick’s registration.

The officer knocked on the window. “License and registration, please.”

“Borrowed my friend’s car. I’m not sure where the registration is.” Hal dug the wallet from his hip pocket and handed his license to the officer.

“What’s your friend’s name?” The officer’s eyes narrowed.

“Linda, Lindsey really.” Hal glimpsed a printed name on the green slip of paper. “We just call her Linda.”

“Step out of the vehicle, please.”

Hal stood by the road and tried to stomp the chill out of his toes while the officer carried the papers back to his patrol car to radio for instructions. A brown van approached from the other direction. As it whooshed past, Hal heard a pop. The officer spun and slumped to the ground. The cell phone rang. Hal dashed to the Buick and answered.

“Deal’s off!”

“Wait!” Hal said. “I didn’t do anything. I swear. I drove through a yellow light and he pulled me over. That’s all.”

The phone was silent.

“Look,” Hal continued. “How long have you been after the Geneva Process? You going to give up this easily?”

“OK. Drive back to Council Bluffs and park in the Hyssop Mall. A red Dodge Dominator will be near the Macy’s entrance. The keys will be in the ignition. This time, don’t fuck up.”

Hal walked back to retrieve his documents from dead officer’s hands. A bullet hole formed a neat circle in his forehead like a period punctuating the end of a life. The blood on the pavement had already started to freeze at the pool’s edges. After retrieving his license and registration, Hal ran to the Buick and sped back the way he’d come.

Soon after Hal crossed the Council Bluffs city limit, a pair of public safety cars raced past him going toward the crime scene. Moments later Hal pulled into the Hyssop Mall and parked between a pickup truck and minivan. He turned off the ignition, pocketed the key, and walked inside.

The mall’s dry overheated air, at first a relief from the bitter cold, quickly became stifling. Despite unbuttoning his coat, Hal sweated under the pullover that constricted his chest. He located the direction kiosk, walked to Macy’s, and passed through displays of female mannequins in bras and panties to the exit. He found the red pickup truck in the parking lot. As promised, the key was in the ignition. Hal turned it and the big engine rumbled to life. He drove toward the exit. The cell phone rang.

“Take Fir north toward Sunnyside. Go east on Bender about two miles. There’ll be a construction site on your left. Inside you’ll find an open manhole cover. Climb down the ladder and you’ll find further instructions at the bottom.”

Hal followed the caller’s directions, arrived at a site fenced off with painted plywood sheets, and circled the block. An open padlock hung from a chain securing the back gate. Hal opened the gate and drove through.

Inside a skeleton of steel beams rose two stories from a concrete foundation. Only a few rusty barrels and piles of hardened concrete remained as scavengers had picked the site clean of anything useful. Hal remembered hearing about the project. A company called Xenomed, which altered livestock to produce medicine in its milk, had planned to build its headquarters here. Unfortunately for them, another company discovered how to make the same drugs from corn, sending Xenomed’s stock plummeting before the new headquarters were completed. Hal followed the tire tracks in the snow to the manhole and got out.

A flashlight lay by the manhole’s raised concrete lip. Hal stuffed it in his pocket. Holding the briefcase made grasping the steel handholds awkward but he reached the bottom without incident. Hal’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dark but he found no instructions about what he was supposed to do next. A breeze’s cold fingers brushed his face. Hal shined the flashlight down the tunnel. Its dim beam fell on railroad tracks atop grimy ties before the distant darkness devoured the last of its photons. What was he supposed to do now? Hal looked around. A lone work glove lay on the ballast near the tracks. A rattle came from the other direction. A headlight was approaching. It got bigger until Hal could see it was an unmanned railcar. It stopped. Hal hesitated before stepping inside. The electric motor hummed and steel wheels clattered at an increased tempo as the tiny train accelerated into the darkness.

Hal couldn’t see much. The headlight illuminated only twenty feet of track. After ten minutes, the tunnel widened, and the train came to a stop at an empty platform lit by purplish fluorescent lights. Hal got out.

“It used to be a subway line before the Race Wars.” A man holding a pistol stepped out of the shadows. He wore a knee-length leather coat and was accompanied by another man in a down jacket.

“Scorpion?”

“One and the same. And you must be . . .”

“Virgo,” Hal replied.

“I see you have the documents.” Scorpion turned to his bodyguard. “Search him.”

The man in the down jacket patted Hal down for concealed weapons and listening devices. “He’s clean.” He took the case from Hal and carried it to Scorpion.

“What about the money?” Hal asked.

“All in due time.” Scorpion opened the case, held the papers to the light, and read.

Hal counted sixty heartbeats. Even with the way his pulse was racing that should have been thirty seconds, but Faber didn’t come. Hal realized the transmitter’s signal couldn’t penetrate the earth surrounding the tunnel. He had to stall.

“One thing I don’t understand,” Hal said, “is why go through all the trouble. I mean, I know what you can do with the Geneva Process. But why?”

Scorpion looked up from the papers. “From the very fact that you have access to Geneva, I assume you work for G.A.”

Hal nodded.

“I worked for G.A. once. In fact, I had a Delta clearance. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“It allowed me to access Dr. Pak’s research, not just the earlier work you learn about in school but his later studies.” Scorpion dropped the hand holding the papers to his side. “After establishing cloning in Europe and North America, Dr. Pak realized his new genome was far from perfect. For one thing, gender had become irrelevant. He wanted to make all humans female because cloning made males redundant. Imagine the difficulties that would vanish if we eliminated the sex drive. That wasn’t the only change Dr. Pak envisioned. He saw the sense of self as his new clones’ biggest shortcoming. Although you don’t hear much about it, violence still exists. Dr. Pak felt it would continue until he bred humans who value the common good over their own well-being. He was mistaken.”

Hal glimpsed a light flash in the tunnel, but neither Scorpion nor the bodyguard saw it.

“Let me ask you a question,” Scorpion said. “Name one major invention that took place in your lifetime.”

Hal tried to think.

“You can’t. Can you?” Scorpion said.

“Oh, I know!” Hal blurted. “There was that nonskid pavement they put on the freeways.”

“Really? You’ll have to do better than that.”

“How about the four percent increase in the efficiency of jet engines or that new gum that tastes like cinnamon?”

“Just proves my point,” Scorpion said. “Since Dr. Pak’s genome, technical innovation has ground to a halt. There hasn’t been a significant invention in over a century. Do you know why? Because Dr. Pak bred all the striving out of humanity. I mean to change that. People weren’t meant to live in peace. They were meant to fight. Only by struggle will they advance. I plan to breed humans who are stronger, smarter, and more ruthless, but the difficulty in obtaining human egg cells has slowed my research. The Geneva Process will allow me to breed a multitude of human prototypes so I can select a genome to replace Dr. Pak’s flawed version.”

“Why don’t I count the money while you examine the document?” Hal interrupted. “That way, we’ll save time.”

“I’m talking about humanity’s future, but you have so little imagination that all you care about is money. It just goes to prove everything I’ve been saying.” Scorpion snapped his fingers.

The bodyguard went around a corner and returned with an aluminum briefcase that he handed to Hal. Hal snapped the locks and spilled stacks of bills on the floor.

“Sorry.” He stooped and began returning the money.

“See that he doesn’t lose any,” Scorpion told his bodyguard before returning to the papers.

The bodyguard knelt beside Hal.

“On second thought.” Scorpion stroked his chin. “You won’t need to count the money. These documents are fake.”

Before the bodyguard could draw the pistol from under his jacket, a shot came from the tunnel. His mouth opened as if to recite the words he’d never get to say and he slumped forward. More shots sounded. The tunnel’s hard walls channeled the echoes of gunshots directly into Hal’s eardrums. In the enclosed space the gunfire was deafening. Hal’s ears rang. Scorpion dashed behind a concrete pillar and fired into the darkness toward the muzzle flash. Two bullets whizzed past Hal’s ear, smashed into the wall behind him, and showered him with bits of broken concrete.

Desperate for cover Hal dove off the platform with the money case, scraping his knee on the concrete edge. Keeping low, he duck-walked around the railcar to put its metal frame between him and the bullets. From his vantage point, Hal saw Scorpion drop one of the SWAT team. The slide of his pistol locked open. As Scorpion reached for a spare magazine, Faber and Stacey emerged, pistols drawn, from the darkness. Scorpion dropped his weapon and raised his hands.

“Suspect in custody!” Stacy shouted down the tunnel to the SWAT team. “Stand down!”

“Been a long time, Gene.” Faber holstered his weapon and removed a pair of handcuffs. “How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain,” Scorpion said. “Although I miss the cassoulet they served at the G.A. New Year’s party. Is it still as good?”

“I’ll make sure they send some to your prison cell.”

“I don’t think so.” Scorpion lowered his hands.

Hal watched with dread as Stacey turned her pistol from Scorpion to Faber and fired. A scream of warning caught in Hal’s throat like a fishbone. At first it seemed as if nothing had happened. Faber merely opened his mouth as if surprised. Then a gurgle came from his throat and he collapsed.

“Get the other one!” Scorpion ordered.

Hal rolled under the railcar to hide. As he heard Scorpion jump from the platform, voices came from the tunnel.

“The SWAT team!” Stacey cried to Scorpion. “You’ve got to leave.”

“He has my money!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll see to him.”

Hal felt the railcar shift with Scorpion’s weight. The motor hummed. Hal ran his hands over the carriage’s underside, scrambling for a grip. He hooked his ankles over the axle, gripped a greasy I beam, and hauled his body off the ground seconds before the car began moving. The sharp metal cut into his palms. Within minutes, Hal’s fingers went numb, but he hung on until the car stopped. He released his grip, let his body sag to the cold wet railroad ties, and massaged his aching hands. Once the sound of Scorpion’s footsteps vanished in the distance, Hal crawled from under the railroad car and gave Scorpion a ten-minute lead before climbing the stairs to the surface.

Hal emerged in a church basement crowded with dusty statues of Jesus that watched him with pitying eyes. Crouching behind a three-foot Virgin Mary Hal listened for Scorpion, although he doubted the renegade scientist had waited to ambush him. Church attendance had fallen after Dr. Pak perfected the human genome. Though there were still a few believers, the promise of eternal life had less appeal to people who knew there would be someone just like them to carry on after their death. While Hal caught his breath, he noticed that the Virgin’s blue cloak had faded and the tip of her nose had broken off revealing a surface of rough white plaster. Hal had to move. Stacey would take Aeval hostage if he didn’t get to her first. He took several bank notes from the briefcase and stuffed them in his pockets.

Rather than take the narrow elevator, Hal climbed the steps that took him to the church’s entrance and exited onto a crowded street. Huddled against the cold, Hal passed shoppers who gave his greasy clothes suspicious stares. He entered the first department store he saw and examined the men’s wear racks while a clerk hovered nearby. He selected khaki pants, generic shirts, a backpack, a lamb’s wool jacket with synthetic white trim, and a new pair of shoes and handed the clerk three hundred-credit bills.

“Which way to the changing room?” Hal asked.

The clerk pointed to the back.

“Keep the change.” In the privacy of the booth Hal transferred the money to the backpack and changed, leaving his old clothing behind.

After exiting the store, Hal patted the new jacket’s empty pockets. The cell phone! He’d forgotten it. He turned back but changed his mind. It could be tracked. Hal made it a block before a white van raced past and screeched to a halt in front of the store. A dozen men in khaki uniforms ran inside. Fighting the impulse to run, he walked away at a normal pace. With each step, he expected someone to yell and point him out. As Hal turned the corner, a transit bus pulled up to a stop. He joined the line of boarding passengers, dropped some coins in the box by the driver, and took a seat next to an elderly woman with a large shopping bag at her feet. Hal looked out the window. No one was giving chase.

He rode several miles before the bus came to a large hotel. Hal pulled the cord to ring the bell. The bus stopped, and the accordion doors hissed open. Hal got out and walked to a line of waiting taxis, their tailpipes billowing clouds of white exhaust onto the street. The attendant tipped his hat. Hal climbed into the lead cab.

At Hal’s request, the driver passed the old brewery that housed Aeval’s studio, circled, and made another pass. The blue newspaper van Hal had seen parked on a side street was still there. The exhaust pluming from its tailpipe told him the surveillance or arrest team inside was trying to keep warm. The cab drove on. Hal watched the brewery recede through the rear window. There had to be a way to get her out. They drove past clothing stores and photo shops. A yellow pizza sign called out an idea.

“Stop here!” Hal paid the driver and ran inside. “Do you guys deliver?”

“Sure,” the clerk said.

“Great! I want to send an extra-large,” Hal scanned the menu, “mushroom and pepper to my girlfriend. She’s in suite 238 in the old brewery. And is it okay if I put a note in it?”

“A note?”

“Yeah, we had a fight. It’s my way of making up.”

“I guess so.” The clerk took Hal’s money and starting making the pizza.

“Aeval, you’re in danger,” Hal scribbled. “Can’t explain now. Just get out of there. Bad people are watching. Disguise yourself. Meet me at Ace Pizza. Wear a scarf tucked into your collar so I’ll recognize you. Love, Hal.”

When the pizza was ready, Hal slipped the note in the box, and the delivery boy carried it to the car with the other orders. Hal found an alley across the street where he could watch the pizza parlor unobserved. Despite the blanket of clouds that kept the nighttime temperature from plummeting, he began shivering in minutes. He wrapped his arms around his chest and wished he’d bought a hat. The pizza sign beckoned him to the shop’s warmth. After ten minutes, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He crossed the street and entered.

“How much do they pay you?” He asked the lone clerk.

“Five credits an hour.”

“How about letting me take your shift, tonight?” Hal peeled two hundred-credit notes from a wad of cash. “It’s a joke for my girlfriend.”

“If my boss finds out, he could fire me.”

Hal peeled off two more notes.

“Shut down the oven and lock the door behind you when you leave.” The clerk chucked his tomato-stained apron, took his coat, and hightailed out the door. Wheels squealed on the asphalt outside.

Standing by the oven to chase away the chill, Hal put on the apron and fitted the paper hat on his head. Stealing occasional glances out the window, he formed a dome of pizza dough into a disk and gave it a toss into the air. It spun in a dumbbell rather than a circle. Hal caught it, tossed it again, and the dough splattered on the floor. Hal kneeled to retrieve the mess. When he looked up, a customer waited at the counter.

“Give me a medium pepperoni and a Texas Cola.”

“Sorry, I just started, tonight.” Hal took the man’s money and got the drink. “Have a seat. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Hal patted a new bunch of dough into an oblong shape, added sauce, cheese, and pepperoni, and slid the pie into the oven. The customer sipped his drink and tried not to look impatient. How long would it take? Hal didn’t know. He avoided the customer’s eyes and pretended to busy himself straightening up. A burning smell came from the oven.

“For here or to go?” Hal lifted the charred, pear-shaped pizza out of the oven with an oversize spatula.

“To go.”

“Thanks for choosing Ace Pizza.” Hal sliced the pie, slid it into a box, smiled at the man who would never come back, and opened the door to let the smoke out.

The delivery boy returned and placed his insulated pizza pouch on the counter.

“What happened to John?”

“He had a stomachache and asked me to fill in.”

The delivery boy shrugged his shoulders, poured himself a soda, and curled up in a booth with a porn magazine.

Wearing a stocking cap over her hair, Aeval entered. Even without the scarf, Hal would have recognized Aeval by her expression of concern. She looked at the delivery boy and then her eyes settled on Hal.

“Hal?”

“Wait here. I need to check something.”

Hal dragged a plastic garbage can out the back door and tossed its contents into the dumpster. He looked around but the alley was deserted. Clinching his arms to his chest against the cold, he circled around front and spotted nothing suspicious. Hal returned to the alley and carried the garbage can back inside.

“I think we’d better go.” After taking off his hat and apron, Hal told the delivery boy, “I’ll let you close up.”

The delivery boy shrugged, put down his magazine, and set about locking the doors. Hal took Aeval’s arm and led her out.

“I swapped clothes with Maureen and sent her back to my studio,” she said, once they got outside. “I borrowed her car. It’s parked up the street. What’s this all about?”

“I don’t work for a semiconductor manufacturer.” He cleared his throat to stop his voice from squeaking. The words he had to say felt like a concrete block in his chest. “I work as an undercover Genome Assurance operative. The meeting with Scorpion was today, not tomorrow like I told you.”

Aeval stopped. The look of stunned disbelief on her face was rapidly turning to anger.

“It was so we could arrest him,” Hal said, “but one of our people, a woman named Stacey, betrayed us. Faber wasn’t a dope dealer. He was my superior. Stacey killed him. Now her people are looking for me. I was afraid they’d take you hostage.”

“So I’ll never find out what happened to Cody,” Aeval murmured.

“Faber shot him the night of the opening. He thought Cody was Scorpion. I’m sorry.” Hal tried to pull Aeval’s rigid body to his and then let go. “I couldn’t let you get close to the truth. If Faber found out you were nosing around, he would have made you disappear, too.” Hal placed his hands on Aeval’s shoulders. “We can’t talk about this now. We have to get out of here. Stacey’s people will kill us if they find us.”

“This isn’t over.” Aeval got behind the wheel of a Honda Evergreen, with a “Together into the Future” bumper sticker, and reached across the seat to unlock the door for Hal. “Now what?”

“Find a place we can hide. In the morning, I’ll try to contact the director.”

They found a deserted motel, a seedy pink monstrosity called La Casa Rosa. Aeval parked the car out of sight in back. Inside a bored attendant took Hal’s money and handed him the key without looking at the pseudonym Hal had scribbled on the registration. The room was up two flights of stairs where it was difficult to make a fast getaway but it was the best they could do. When Hal opened the door to the room, the smell of disinfectant made his eyes water. Years of tenants had worn the finish from the wood paneling. The queen size bed sagged as if the meteor that had wiped out the dinosaurs had landed on the mattress. Hal closed the door and slid the chain into the slot.

Now that the immediate threat was past, the adrenaline that had kept Hal going cut out, leaving him too exhausted to do anything more than collapse in a chair, but Aeval was just getting fired up.

“So, what was that, you pretending to help me look for Cody when you knew he was already dead? Was that some kind of sick joke?”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“Safe!” Aeval snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a grown woman and can make my own decisions.”

Hal stared at her with his bloodshot eyes. “You have no idea what these people are capable of.”

“I don’t feel like being intimate with you.” Aeval pulled the floral-print spread back and sat on the bed.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” Hal depressed the lever that opened the foldout mattress and began arranging the sheets.

“How are you going to contact your director?” Aeval asked.

“Walking through the front door is too risky, and I’d never get through if I called from a phone booth.” Hal walked to the center of the room and stopped. “There is a secret entrance. Faber took me once. He had a key and it may still be on him. If Stacy doesn’t want anyone to find the body, she might have left him in the abandoned subway tunnel. Maybe she didn’t even report his death.” Hal stroked his chin. “If I go back there and find the body, Faber’s murder is still a secret and I’m still on good terms with G.A. If he’s missing, she probably said I killed him, and I’ve got a whole lot of problems. Of course, then she’d have to explain why a bullet from her gun is in Faber’s back.”

Hal turned on the television to catch the late-night news. A female reporter stood in front of a cluster of fire trucks and ambulances. The colorful scarf she wore belied the seriousness of the story.

“Is this thing on?” She held the microphone to her lips and paused for a reply from the control room. “This much we know. At around nine this evening masked gunmen attacked the Northwest Cleveland Public Safety Station. After a twenty-minute battle that left several officers dead or wounded, the gunmen set fire to the building and fled in a late-model van.” She turned to one of the officers standing behind a wooden barricade. “Commander Steve, I know I speak for all of our viewers when I express my shock and condolences at this unprecedented tragedy. How many officers died in the attack?”

The commander, his face a mask of grief and worry, ran a hand over his scalp. “Fifteen dead. Three wounded.”

“Any idea who’s behind this attack?”

“At this time, I don’t want to speculate. We’re investigating all leads. The Ruling Council’s been in touch and has offered their assistance.”

“Any comments about the note sent to the Cleveland Bee that said, ‘Without strength there can be no safety’?”

“Again, I don’t want to comment.”

“Scorpion.” Hal muttered.

It was clearly payback for G.A.’s arrest attempt. The coverage changed to two pundits who concluded the attack would help the Unity Party in the elections. Hal turned the television off.

Like the tiny glowing dot on the screen, the knowledge that Scorpion had taken his violence public would remain, no matter what he chose to watch.

16

The following morning Hal woke with a sore back from sleeping on the cramped couch, showered, pulled on the shirt that smelled of the previous day’s sweat, and made a mental note to buy new clothes the first chance he got. At least the vending machine in the hall had razor, toothbrush, and toothpaste. He hated the gritty film that formed on his teeth when he didn’t brush.

Aeval drove him by the church and circled the block while Hal noted any vans and trucks that could shelter an elimination team. They stopped a few miles away for breakfast and bought two flashlights with plenty of batteries at a hardware store. When they returned to the church two hours later, all vans were gone. Someone could still be waiting in the basement but Hal counted on Stacey not wanting to draw attention to the tunnels. Rather than stay in the parked car, Aeval accompanied Hal to the church. He felt torn about her coming. She’d be safer at the motel but showing her evidence that his fantastic story was true would go a long way toward restoring her trust.

In the daylight, Hal got a better look at the church than in the previous night. It was a typical Art Deco structure but the builders had added a steeple opposite the main entrance. He and Aeval climbed the steps, opened the massive wooden doors, and entered the vestibule. A few worshippers sat in wooden pews near the altar but didn’t turn to look.

With Aeval in tow, Hal retraced his steps to the statue-filled storage basement. The temperature must have been below fifty degrees but Hal couldn’t blame the congregation. With attendance so low, how could they afford heat? At the top of the steps leading to the platform, Hal removed the flashlights from his backpack and handed one to Aeval. He switched his on and started down. They followed the flashlight’s yellow beam into the darkness. After descending two flights, the stairs leveled off onto the platform. Hal shined his flashlight up and down the empty tracks.

“Scorpion drove some kind of subway car here last night. They must have moved it.” Hal placed his hands on the cold concrete, eased his body over the edge onto the tracks, and helped Aeval down. “Last night’s train ride took about ten minutes. I guess it’ll take us an hour to walk.”

As they left the platform behind, the tunnel narrowed until it was barely wider than the tracks. Within minutes, the thought of all the earth on top of him collapsing and cutting off any escape panicked Hal. His jacket felt like a boa constrictor wrapped around his chest. Despite the cold he began to sweat through his clothes, leaving them wet and destroying any warmth they’d provided. Water dripped on his head. Could there be a river above? A sewage line? Hal shined the flashlight at the ceiling but saw nothing. He dropped the beam to the ground in front of his feet. As long as Hal heard the crunch of Aeval’s footsteps on the crushed rock ballast, he was not alone.

They continued on. Though the tunnel had long been abandoned, it still smelled like a machine shop. At first this didn’t bother Hal, but after twenty minutes it became nauseating. The smell stuck to his face. He could taste it.

“So what do you do that’s so important?” Aeval asked after a half-hour of walking.

“We track down violent mutants.”

“And that’s worth killing Cody and lying to me?”

“You have no idea how dangerous these people are. Yesterday’s attack was Scorpion’s work.” Hal stubbed his toe on a railroad tie and cursed under his breath.

“You people are dangerous!” Aeval snorted with contempt. “How many people have you killed while tracking down these so-called mutants?”

“I saw a mutant plunge a knife into the belly of a woman not much older than you!” Hal stabbed the air in front of her face with his index finger. “Who do you think’s gonna stop people like that? Painters? Dancers?”

“You’re scaring me.” Aeval pulled away, and her big eyes filled with tears. “To think that I trusted you and even thought of spending my life with you! But all the while you were spinning lies, you were laughing at me. Weren’t you?”

“Aeval, I . . .”

A clattering came from the distance behind them. The screech of steel wheels from a tram rounding a corner followed.

“Run!”

They fled from the approaching tram. The crushed rock made for treacherous footing and kept their pace to that of a slow jog. Hal twisted his foot on the edge of a railroad tie. Something tore in his ankle but he kept going. Aeval gasped behind him. He heard her body crash against the rocks and hauled her to her feet. The tram’s headlight was visible in the distance. Together they limped away in hope of escape.

The tram’s clatter grew louder than Hal’s thundering pulse. He played his flashlight over the tunnel walls in a desperate search for a crevice where he and Aeval could hide but he saw only unforgiving concrete. In a last-ditch attempt to save themselves, they threw their bodies flat outside the tracks. Hal buried his face in the rocks between Aeval’s ankles and hoped the tram’s edge wouldn’t snag his fragile flesh. The clatter on the rails slowed and stopped.

“What the hell are you doing down there?”

Hal raised his head. A searchlight swept across his face. As he got to his feet, Hal squinted at the shadow getting out of the railcar. A driver in a green nylon parka stepped into the light. He held a pistol in his right hand.

“Get in back.” The driver motioned toward the railcar with the barrel. “And don’t try anything funny.”

Hal raised his hands and noted the weight of the flashlight still in his grip.

“Boy, you sure had me scared.” Aeval unzipped her pants, began to wiggle them down over her hips, and stopped. “Would you be gentleman and turn your backs? I really have to pee.”

The driver’s leering fascination with Aeval’s anatomy gave Hal a chance to grip the driver’s gun hand and bring the flashlight down on his skull. The driver staggered but would not drop his pistol. Hal swung the heavy steel tube at the driver’s arm. The impact knocked the pistol to the ground. Aeval swooped to retrieve it. Without pause, Hal reversed direction and drove the flashlight into the driver’s chin. The man fell back and collapsed against the tunnel wall. Aeval leveled the pistol at the unconscious driver.

“Good work.” Hal flicked the flashlight’s switch but the light no longer functioned. He tossed it aside.

“What do we do with him?” Aeval lowered the pistol and wiped at the cut on her cheek with a tissue.

“He must have been coming to move Faber.” Hal inched around the side of the railcar. “Yep, there’s a body bag back here. We’ll have to hide the body so Stacey can’t cover up his murder. There are also some bungee cords. We can use them to tie him up.”

Hal dragged him to the back and secured his arms with a knot Faber had taught him to use on fugitive mutants. Aeval kept the pistol handy and sat where she could watch the prisoner. Hal took the driver’s seat and examined the console. Hal pushed the joystick and the tram inched forward. He let go and the tram stopped. Having mastered the controls Hal pushed the joystick to its limit. The tram picked up speed. Within minutes, they arrived at the platform where Faber’s corpse lay.

“Get down in case there’s someone else there,” Hal pulled the railcar next to Faber’s body.

A rat lifted his head from feasting on the corpse. Blood smeared the hateful creature’s muzzle. Hal threw a rock at it and missed. The rat scurried into the shadows where its malevolent eyes glowed like two red dots in the tram’s light.

“Stay down.” Hal’s ankle began to ache and throb.

He retrieved the body bag from the back and limped to the platform past the handcuffs Faber had dropped the previous night. However intimidating Faber had been in life, he only looked small and pitiful in death. At least the cold kept the body from stinking of rotting meat. Fighting back his revulsion, Hal reached into the corpse’s cold damp pockets and removed Faber’s keys and badge. The pistol remained in the holster on the body’s hip. Hal left it there. He shifted and rolled Faber into the bag, as if wrapping a side of beef, and wiped his bloody hands on the nylon jacket but he could do nothing about the blood on the bag’s exterior.

“I can use your help now.” Hal returned to the tram.

The backseat didn’t have enough room for both Faber and the driver.

“Help me move the driver out of here.” Hal grabbed the unconscious man under the arms.

Aeval took his feet and helped carry him to the platform.

“Should we untie him?” she asked.

At first Hal wanted to leave the driver for the rats, but mercy got the better of him. He loosened the bungee cords enough for the man to free himself once he woke. Hal found the flashlight he’d dropped the previous night and replaced its batteries. By the time the driver hiked to an exit, Hal would be long gone.

“Let’s get Faber into the railcar,” Hal grunted as he lifted Faber’s shoulders and they lugged Faber’s body to the tram. “Where should we take him?”

“We could put him in the church basement and call public safety.” Aeval glanced at the body bag. “But your friends are good at making bodies disappear. We could put him someplace he’d be sure to be noticed.”

“Or someplace Stacey’s people won’t find him.” Hal scratched his chin. “Either way we have to get him out of this tunnel.”

Hal knew of only two exits. Carrying a body through church would arouse suspicion and Hal didn’t relish hauling Faber up the rungs to the construction site. The tram had come from behind so there must have been an exit upstream from the church but Hal didn’t want to meet the driver’s friends. The best option was to search for a suitable exit downstream. He pushed the joystick forward and the tram began to move.

Past the steel rungs that led to the construction site, they came to a small platform. The stairs stopped at a metal frame that blocked access to a collapsed tunnel. Farther ahead a second platform opened into an abandoned underground shopping center. The stores dated from before the Race Wars. Their windows had been smashed and the contents looted years ago. Little more than dust and broken concrete remained. Aeval stopped to stare at two mannequins, one with dark skin and the other with light.

“We need to keep moving,” Hal said.

Although each step hurt his ankle more, Hal searched the mall for an exit with Aeval. He had to rest at an old fountain, its dry basin filled with dirt and rusted metal, before continuing. They turned down several aisles that were dead ends. Finally, they found one that exited into a ruined building. Its ceiling beams had collapsed and only three walls remained standing. Hal and Aeval stepped outside to get their bearings, then returned to the railcar, and unloaded Faber onto the platform.

They took the railcar back toward the church in order to retrieve Maureen’s car and return for the body. Eventually they passed the platform where they’d left the driver. The pain in Hal’s ankle nagged at him. Wrapped up in plans for delivering Faber’s body and thoughts of an ice bag on his ankle, Hal didn’t notice the driver was gone. As the train rounded a corner, the railcar jerked to a halt smashing Hal’s face into the console. In his shock it took several seconds to realize that the driver had escaped and laid a railroad tie on the track.

He jumped into the cab. Hal barely raised his arm in time to intercept the pipe swung at his head. The metal crashed into Hal’s forearm but he managed to grip the driver’s weapon hand. The driver forced Hal onto his back and threw wild haymakers at Hal’s face with his free hand. Pain and shock shot through Hal’s head when each connected with his jaw. He struggled to free himself but couldn’t muster the strength to roll the berserk man off him. Then the driver got his hands around Hal’s throat and put pressure on his windpipe. Hal gagged and flailed his arms in futile motions. He began to black out.

Bang! Strength drained from the hands around Hal’s throat. He slid out from under the driver’s unmoving body. In the back seat, Aeval held out her hands, fingers splayed, in front of her, and stared in horror at the pistol she’d dropped after killing the driver. Hal crawled next to her and rested his arm over her shoulders. She collapsed sobbing into his embrace.

“I guess we’d better get out of here.” Hal dragged himself to his feet and shined his flashlight under the railcar.

The tram was off the track but the wheels and suspension looked intact.

“Our friend here gives us a devious option.” Hal touched his bruised cheekbones. “Let’s switch the bodies.” He recovered the pipe and kicked loose a rotted piece of tie to use as a fulcrum. “First we need to get the railcar back on the tracks. I’ll lift, and you maneuver.”

Using the pipe as a lever, Hal strained to lift the tram while Aeval pushed and prodded it back on the tracks. It took forty-five minutes of sweat and gritted teeth to get the tram ready to roll. Aeval’s emotions seemed too fragile to ask her for help moving the dead driver back into the railcar so Hal dragged the sagging dead man to the tram and boosted him into the center bench. That left the upstream driver’s seat for Aeval and the downstream for Hal. He drove them back to the abandoned shopping mall where Faber lay waiting on the platform.

Hal removed Faber from the body bag, pulled the jacket over Faber’s shoulders, and slipped it down his rigid, unfeeling arms. He also removed the dead man’s pistol and holster.

“Do you need any help?” Aeval asked when Hal returned to the railcar.

“Will it upset you to help carry him?” Hal pointed to the driver.

Without reply, Aeval took the driver’s legs and they set him on the platform next to Faber. Hal examined the two bodies. Their pants and shirts were similar enough to survive a cursory examination. Thank God for small mercies! He had no desire to undress the corpses and swap clothing. Hal removed the driver’s ID, swapped his jacket with Faber’s, clipped the pistol on his hip, and zipped him into the body bag. With Aeval’s help, he returned the driver, now masquerading as Faber, to the railcar.

Hal needed somewhere to hide Faber. Fortunately, the underground mall was cold enough to preserve the body. Eventually, they found a suitable compartment underneath a moribund escalator.

After stashing Faber, Hal and Aeval rode the railcar to the construction site exit. Taking the tunnel back to the church seemed prudent, especially since Scorpion could still have the construction site under surveillance, but Hal was sick of tunnels and corpses. Once Aeval got out, Hal jammed the controls with a rock to keep the railcar moving and jumped out. It would continue past the platform and derail like before. He hoped the driver’s corpse would fool anyone looking for Faber long enough for Hal to get to the director.

Followed by Aeval, Hal put his hands on the cold steel rungs and climbed. After five excruciating minutes, they made it out. Cold cut through Hal’s jacket like a razor. It smelled like freedom. They had an hour’s walk back to the church, and after five hours underground, Hal could finally see the sky.

17

The next day, Hal maneuvered Faber’s Ford Miser into the Crick Expressway’s right lane and took the exit for Genome Assurance’s headquarters. He had hardly slept. Consequently, Hal’s eyes felt bleary and his thoughts plodded as if his mind were filled with viscous fluid. What he wouldn’t give to return to the motel and curl up with Aeval!

He followed the broad boulevard through several traffic lights and around a curve into the Mendel City government complex. Past the courthouse and the Ministry of Progress stood the bronze statue of Dr. Pak that marked the entrance to the Ministry of Health buildings. Like all the others, this statue depicted Dr. Pak as strong and virile despite his ailments. The pigeon droppings whitening the good doctor’s shoulder spoiled the effect somewhat. The plaque at the statue’s base consisted of one word: Fidelity. Hal turned down the access road toward Genome Assurance headquarters. A guard in a blue jacket stepped out of the shack at the gate and blew on his hands to warm them. Hal removed Faber’s silver badge from his lapel and held it up for inspection.

“Wow!” The guard examined the bruises on Hal’s face. “Must have been a hell of a fight. Hope the other guy looks worse than you.”

“Damn mutants get stronger every day,” Hal said. “I’m too old for this shit.”

“I hear you.” The guard touched his cap and waved Hal through.

Hal parked the little car and entered the elevator that he and Faber had taken seemingly so long ago. He removed Faber’s keys from his pocket and tried to fit them one after another into the lock on the console. He succeeded on the fourth try and pushed the combination of floors he remembered. The indicator light passed the top floor before the elevator came to a stop. The doors slid open and revealed a half-dozen guards training machine pistols at Hal. He raised his hands.

“Agent Faber has been murdered. I need to see the director.” Hal gingerly removed Faber’s silver badge from his pocket and held it for the guards to see.

“Who are you?”

“Agent Hal LK2154.”

“It’s all right, Hank. He’s one of us.” Doris, the director’s receptionist, returned her pistol to her handbag. The big Colt 1911 seemed too large for a woman’s hands but she handled it easily. “Young man,” she addressed Hal, “you just about got yourself killed. This better be important.” She led him up a narrow staircase to the antechamber outside the director’s office and took a seat behind her desk. “Now what’s this all about?”

“We set up a sting to capture Scorpion but Stacey betrayed us. She shot Faber in the back and allowed Scorpion to escape.”

“What happened exactly?” Doris’s eyes grew serious.

Hal detailed the events leading up to the botched capture and described his escape while Doris scribbled notes on a legal pad.

“I suppose you have proof,” Doris said.

“Faber’s body. Ballistics can match the slug to Stacey’s pistol.”

“Good! I never trusted that little minx. She won’t be able to wiggle out this time. Where’s the body? We’ll send a forensics van.”

Hal gave directions to the underground shopping mall.

“You look like you’ve had a hell of a time. I think it’s best to put you in a safe house until the director returns from Washington.”

Hal understood she meant that they’d keep him under guard until they confirmed his story.

Doris picked up the phone. “Hank, can you send up a couple of undercovers to escort Hal to Echo Base?”

“Aeval too,” Hal added.

“What’s that?”

“My girlfriend. She needs to come too. Stacey might try to use her to get to me.”

“Hank, you’ll need to make a pickup before continuing to Echo. All right.” Doris cradled the phone. “Don’t worry, Agent Hal. For you the hard part is over. Once the director gets back, we’ll sort this mess out. There may even be a commendation for you.”

The elevator door opened. Two men in tan overcoats stepped out. Doris introduced them as Bob and Frank. They escorted Hal to the parking garage and ushered him into the backseat of a nondescript government sedan. Bob drove and Frank took the passenger seat.

“So where’s this other person we have to pick up?” Bob asked.

“Poplar Motel on Oak,” Hal said.

“Hell of a name,” Frank sniggered. “Hey Bob, Vig’s Deli is right by there. We could stop and pick up some food for the safe house.”

“Yeah! Dave was there last.” Bob steered toward the expressway. “He always stocks that bland shit ‘cause of his ulcer. What do you think?” The driver looked over the seat at Hal. “You willing to chip in twenty credits for some pasta, seafood salad, and wine?”

“I guess,” Hal said.

“That’s the spirit! We’ll stop after we pick up your friend.” Bob turned on the radio.

Afternoon traffic was light. Within minutes, they passed the Thirty-Eighth Street exit. Before they were barely five miles from the motel, the news came on. Hal ignored the sports and weather.

“Genome Assurance director Robert KU1719 visited a science class at the Park View Crèche outside Mendel City this afternoon,” a female announcer said. “The director presented a slide show and answered questions from several eager students. Sylvia MQ4143 has our report.”

Hackles raised on the back of Hal’s neck. Doris had lied. The director wasn’t in Washington. Wherever Bob and Frank were taking him, it wouldn’t be a safe house.

“So you like garlic?” Frank turned to Hal.

“Sure.” Hal felt certain they could hear the fear in his voice and read it on his face.

“’Cause they have a marinated pepper salad that you won’t believe,” Frank continued. “How about bread: white, wheat, or rye?”

“Wheat.”

“Might not go well with the pasta,” Bob said.

“Hell, let’s get one of each,” Frank suggested.

They exited onto Oak, passed a liquor store, and turned into the motel’s parking lot.

“It’s around the other side,” Hal said.

The government sedan coasted past Maureen’s car as well as many empty spots on the opposite side of the building. Mendel City was not a hot tourist destination in the dead of winter and the Poplar Motel had seen better days. Hal led his escorts up the icy exterior walkway. Their heavy footsteps echoed on the hollow stairs. Hal chose an unlit room at random, knocked on the metal door, and prayed no one would answer.

“Doesn’t look like she’s here.” Hal tried to look puzzled. “She couldn’t have gone far. Why don’t we check out the deli? She should be back by the time we return.”

The escorts looked at each other and shrugged.

Vig’s Deli occupied the corner of a strip mall barely a mile from the motel. Hal had expected a hole in the wall but it looked more like an upscale supermarket. They commandeered a shopping cart and pushed it past the sliding doors. The interior smelled of fresh bread and barbecue. Mounds of peaches blushed with pink, red and green apples, and clear plastic baskets of fresh berries greeted them once they maneuvered the cart past the check stand. Hal stood puzzled in front of a fruit called a mangosteen and another called a cape gooseberry. Bob selected a golden pineapple and held it to his nose. Satisfied with its fragrance, he placed it in the cart. An idea began working in Hal’s brain. They stopped at a kiosk and ordered seafood salad. While his escorts argued the merits of salmon fillets, Hal slipped a fifty-credit jar of caviar into his pocket.

“I want some cheese.” Hal scouted the dairy section and found an overpriced tub of fresh mozzarella in brine. He peeled the price from a cheap Monterey Jack and placed it over the mozzarella’s fifteen-credit sticker.

“What’s that for?” Bob asked when Hal placed the cheese in the cart.

“Caprese,” Hal said. “Mozzarella, basil, and a slice of tomato drizzled with olive oil. It’s the best!”

They returned to the produce section for hothouse tomatoes and basil. Feigning distraction Hal bumped into Frank.

“Sorry.” Hal slipped the stolen caviar into his escort’s jacket pocket.

Hal played his trick with the wine, placing a price from a cheap Merlot over that of a thirty-credit Pinot. By the time they rolled their cart to the checkout, Hal had doctored prices on a half-dozen items. The cashier rang up the goods, paused at the mozzarella, and knitted her brows in puzzlement.

“Al, can I get a price check on Midbury Farms mozzarella on aisle three?” she said over the intercom.

“Fourteen ninety-five,” the manager in a white shirt said when he strode to the counter moments later.

“I’m sick of you guys!” Hal screamed. “You said you weren’t going to do it again!”

Bob and Frank looked at Hal.

“And you Frank, don’t play innocent with me! I saw you swipe that caviar and put it in your pocket!” While his escorts stared uncomprehendingly at the checker, Hal stomped out the door.

Bob and Frank tried to follow but the manager stepped in their path. A shoving match ensued. Stock boys abandoned their tasks and rushed to their boss’s defense. Hal ran for the government car in the parking lot, jimmied the hood, and yanked out the ignition wires. Sucking cold winter air that froze his lungs he sprinted down Oak Street to the motel, dashed up the stairs, and burst into the room to find Aeval, legs bent and ankles hooked behind her, lying on her stomach on the bed. She looked up from the newspaper spread on the floor.

“No time to pack! We have to leave now!” Hal grabbed the backpack.

Aeval threw on her coat and shoes. They ran down the stairs to the car. Hal gunned the engine and they raced east on Watson.

“What happened?” Aeval asked.

“The director’s secretary betrayed us.” Hal looked in the rearview mirror, but no one was following them.

18

Hal and Aeval holed up in another cheap motel, this time in Council Bluffs. Unable to calm his agitation, Hal paced back and forth between the twin beds and the television. Aeval craned her neck to see around him every time he got in front of the picture.

“Would you stop?” she asked. “You’re making me nervous.”

Hal sat on the bed. There had to be a way to get to the director. He had an idea and sprang to his feet.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to find a pay phone. I’ll explain on the way.”

Hal stood beside Aeval as she dropped coins into the phone outside a gas station and dialed the radio station.

“Hello, I’d like to speak with Sylvia MQ4143. I’m Jean XC3128 from the Hillside Crèche in Fairview. . . . Okay, I’ll wait.” Aeval put her hand over the mouthpiece. “They put me on hold.” She stared at a man removing the nozzle from a pump, then straightened, and spoke into the phone. “Hello, Sylvia. I teach fifth grade science at Hillside Crèche. I’m in town visiting friends. I heard your report about the Genome Assurance director’s presentation and thought it would be great if he could talk at our school. So many of my kids are interested in the topic. I can just imagine how their eyes would light up. Before I ask, I’d like to know if his talk would be over their heads. Is there a copy of his talk or even better will he be speaking anywhere else soon?” Aeval paused. “Really? The Virtue Building at Allegiant University. Who would I talk to? Never mind. I’ll call the university for details. Thanks, you’ve been a dear.” Aeval hung up. “The director’s speaking at the university tomorrow at noon.”

Hal and Aeval slipped into the darkened Francis S. Collins Auditorium in the university’s Virtue Building and found two unoccupied seats near the back. Even with the lights out, Hal could make out the crests on the maroon blazers of those lucky students who would go on to careers in research. How he longed to work on cutting edge problems in a clean lab rather than rolling in the muck with crazed attackers!

In an attempt to make himself more approachable, the director wore an argyle sweater under a tan sports coat with elbow patches instead of a bureaucrat’s suit and tie. He stood on stage behind a podium and periodically stepped to the overhead projector to change transparencies. Hal had heard of machines that would do this automatically but these were reserved for government offices only. Though Hal would have liked to concentrate on the talk, he scouted the exits. The director would most likely leave by one of the doorways that led backstage.

“Excuse me.” Hal touched Aeval’s knee and stood. He made his way out of the auditorium and circled the hallways to the back.

Sure enough, two bodyguards, with cords running from under their darks suits to the speakers in their ears, stood like fireplugs by the stage door. They turned their steely gazes toward Hal when he approached.

“Bathroom?” he asked.

The larger pointed back the way Hal had come. Hal retraced his steps to the men’s room, rinsed his chapped hands under the tap, and dried them on a rough paper towel from the dispenser before returning to his seat. The director lectured about applying information theory to DNA. All the talk about entropy and signal-to-noise ratios baffled Hal after five minutes. When the director finished, he looked at his watch and said, “We have time for a few questions.”

A woman with short-bobbed hair stood. The director gave an expectant smile.

“My name’s Tanya CH4223, and I’m in honors biochem. Who’s the best person to send my application to? Can I send it to you?”

“It’d be best to send it to human resources.” The smile vanished from the director’s face.

“What can I do to improve my chances of getting in?” a young man asked.

The director sagged under the barrage of self-serving questions. Instead of discussing science and social issues with one of the world’s leading experts, the students monopolized his precious time by droning on about their own mediocre accomplishments.

A professor stepped in to rescue his guest.

“We have time for one more question.”

“Come on.” Hal took Aeval’s hand. They hurried out the exit and circled the outside hallways to the stage door.

A crowd of job seekers waited to ambush the director. Soon more arrived and packed behind Hal and Aeval. When the director emerged, the crowd surged and carried them forward like detritus on top of a wave. The guards tried in vain to hold everyone back. Pistol shots interrupted job seekers’ career schemes. Bullets tore through the director’s skull and blood, brain, and bone fragments sprayed on the wall behind him. A woman screamed. Hal craned his neck to see around the heads blocking his view. Another shot took out a bodyguard reaching under his jacket to draw his pistol.

“Back up or she dies!” The shooter, a man in a university blazer, clamped the bobbed haired woman’s neck in the crook of his arm and pressed his pistol to her temple.

The remaining guard lowered his weapon. The crowd parted, and the gunman dragged his whimpering hostage away. Once the shooter was out of sight, the bodyguard spoke into the microphone under his lapel.

“Backup’s on the way. Everyone stay put,” he called out, once he got off the radio. “We’ll need to get statements from everyone.”

“Let’s go.” Hal took Aeval’s elbow and began inching to the back of the crowd.

“Hey you!” the bodyguard yelled. “Stop right there!”

Hal tugged Aeval’s arm. They dashed down the hallway, skidded to a stop at the corner, and took off toward the door. Their action started a panic. Witnesses scattered like June bugs in a tornado. Hal and Aeval exited the front door with the rest of the runaways as a phalanx of uniformed Genome Assurance officers ascended the front steps. One caught a fleeing man by the hair, spun him around, and marched him back inside.

Hal broke through the line and assumed Aeval was right behind him. Her scream stopped his advance. He turned. An officer had her in a hammerlock and was dragging her up the stairs. Hal ran to Aeval’s aid and stomped the officer’s shin allowing Aeval to tear free from the officer’s grasp.

Hal felt guilty about attacking the man who was just doing his job but he had little time for remorse. Another officer came to the aid of his fallen comrade. Hal stepped to the inside of the man’s roundhouse punch and nailed him with a palm heel to the chin. Emboldened by Hal’s resistance, the mob of witnesses turned on the Genome Assurance officers. Two men knocked an officer down and stomped his kidneys. A woman swung a heavy purse into another’s face. The chaos gave Hal and Aeval a chance to slip away before the officers could get the upper hand.

They dashed between two nearby buildings and turned the corner onto a mall with one of the ubiquitous Dr. Pak statues. Hal paused to suck air and wipe the sweat from his forehead. He and Aeval set a slow pace strolling toward the parking lot as if nothing were wrong. Their feigned nonchalance worked. A dozen officers ran past without giving them a second look. Hal and Aeval ducked into the campus library and spent a half hour browsing gourmet magazines’ recipes for spring rolls with cellophane noodles and pork loin crusted with cracked pepper while the chaos played out on the streets. Once it was safe, they returned to Maureen’s car in the parking lot and calmly drove away. Aeval switched on the radio.

“We have a report of breaking news. A gunman murdered Genome Assurance director Robert KU1719 after a talk at Pioneer University. KWTCZ news has learned that a rogue G.A. agent is wanted for questioning. G.A. spokesperson Doris MW1124 confirmed two agents Faber ZU1534 and Stacey MF4429 also died in mysterious circumstances.”

“How did they get that on the news so fast unless Doris had it prepared?” Hal switched off the radio. He’d stumbled into a mess too big for him to get out of by himself. The only man who could help him lived in Indianapolis.

Money talks. Hal laid eight thousand credits on the desk. He could almost see the travel agent drool in anticipation of her commission.

“I’d like to send my friend Hal LK2115 on a three-week vacation to Italy. He’s been awfully upset since Janet left him. Getting away will do him good. You know what?” Hal counted out an additional eight thousand credits. “Why don’t you make it a vacation for two? That way it’ll encourage him to take a date.”

An hour later, Aeval dialed the number Hal had found in the phone book. A man answered on the third ring.

“Is this Hal LK2115? Hi, I’m Melanie from KXTTZ radio. You’ve won an all-expense vacation to Italy. No Sir, there’s no catch. All you have to do to claim your prize is call Riviera Travel at 442-3580. That’s right. Though, you will have to leave by Friday. Congratulations!”

With Hal LK2115 out of the way Hal LK2154 could assume his identity with little chance of the former finding out. All he had to do was modify the barcode on his forearm with a permanent marker and obtain identification. He knew several forgers who’d set up shop on Baker Street. Hal opened the phone book to N and ran his index finger down the columns. He stopped at Nora ZK1422, a perfect candidate for Aeval.

Hal and Aeval abandoned Maureen’s car and took a bus to Indianapolis. A flight would have been faster but even though the forged documents were good, Hal preferred to avoid identity checks. After a ten-hour trip, Hal arrived feeling stiff, bleary-eyed, and in need of a shower. He and Aeval scouted the rundown motels near the bus station and found a room.

Next morning Hal dialed the Genome Assurance complex from a pay phone. Rather than asking for Dr. Bill directly, he asked to be connected with the infirmary.

“Is Dr. Bill around?”

“Hold on.”

“What do you want?” Dr. Bill asked in a gruff voice.

“Remember me?” Hal asked. “You treated me for a concussion after the intruders struck. Is it safe to talk?”

“Give me your number, and I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

Hal hesitated. Dr. Bill could send an arrest team to his location, but there really was no other way.

“679-1236.” Hal hung up.

He scribbled, “Out of order,” on a slip of paper, jammed it in the coin slot, and ducked into a doorway where he could watch for anyone approaching. Minutes later the phone rang. Hal picked it up.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, young man,” Dr. Bill said.

“None of it’s my fault. Stacey shot Faber to keep him from arresting Scorpion. I informed Doris MW1124, the director’s receptionist. She betrayed me. Next thing I know, someone shoots the director, and I hear Stacey’s dead on the news. I need your help. Can we meet?”

“Do you know the art museum on Thirty-Eighth Street? Meet me there at noon.”

Corroded steel letters that spelled LOVE greeted Hal and Aeval as they approached the art museum. The old building didn’t look like anything Hal had seen before. It was white with a cylindrical, glass structure on one side. The interior was empty except for a handful of office workers who preferred spending their lunch hours with a Matisse rather than with a ham and cheese sandwich. Track lights shined on Realist and Impressionist paintings hung on immaculate white walls. The Asian wing held bronze Jizo statues and ceramic horses from the Tang Dynasty. Hal stopped in front of a pair of Japanese swords.

“It’s one of my favorite places,” Dr. Bill said from behind. Somehow, he’d approached without Hal or Aeval noticing. “It’s been here for over two hundred years. They have a great pre-Columbian exhibit in the other room.”

“I’d like to see that,” Aeval said.

“Aeval, this is Dr. Bill. Dr. Bill, Aeval.”

They followed the old man into another room. He nodded to the gray-uniformed guard who drew a rope across the entrance. Hal examined the small Olmec, Toltec, and Mayan stone carvings as well as clay jugs with human and animal faces displayed in Plexiglas cases.

“We can talk in here,” Dr. Bill said. “I suspected something like this would happen. The director was never popular with the politicians. Now that he’s out of the way, this toad Malcolm MM3873 is in line to take control. People always said if Byron LE1139 stopped to tie his shoe, Malcolm would break his nose.

“Yeah, something’s definitely up. The other day I noticed an error after I uploaded the gene map from a mutant arrested in Muncie. When I tried to edit the master database, the system denied me access. Hell, I’ve been using that thing for forty years! I tried to call Mort in Philly to ask what was up but he’d been reassigned.” Dr. Bill shook his head. “I can’t help thinking this is tied up with North Africa somehow.”

“What’s going on there?” Aeval asked.

“Nobody knows.” Dr. Bill scratched his ear and examined the glob of wax on his finger before flicking it away. “Even the budget’s classified but I hear it’s huge. Sometimes a fugitive mutant’s file is kept in a red folder. That means his genome is not to be tampered with under any circumstances. When they’re captured, we turn the red folder mutants over to X Division for transport to North Africa.”

“What makes them so special?” Hal asked.

“Nothing that I can see,” Dr. Bill said. “Made me curious, though. Whenever we capture one, I keep a copy of his gene map. Don’t have access to a computer big enough to look for correlations.”

They paused in front of a waist-high stone Olmec head. The face had thick lips and vaguely oriental eyes.

“How old is this?” Aeval asked.

“About twenty years. It’s a reproduction.” Dr. Bill paused and looked at Hal. “Someone needs to find out what’s going on in North Africa and events seem to have chosen you.  You can keep running but G.A. will eventually track you down and send you to the euthanasia tanks. Or you can impersonate a red file mutant, go to Africa, and report back.”

Hal swallowed. “How would I escape?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Aeval?” Hal asked.

“Is anyone looking for her?”

“Only to find me.” With Stacey dead, Hal doubted anyone would bother Aeval.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Dr. Bill said. “I’ll say the next body in the morgue is you. That should take the pressure off the young lady. Do we have a deal?”

“When would I leave?” Hal asked.

“I’ve got a van outside. I’ll give you five minutes to make up your mind.” Dr. Bill left the room and replaced the rope behind him.

“Don’t do it!” Aeval clutched Hal’s arm.

He looked away.

“Do you hear me?” She tugged his arm again. “I said don’t do it!” She burrowed the finger of her free hand into the gap between his pants and shirt. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We can figure something else out.”

Her brow was knitted with fear and concern for him. Hal would have given anything to leave with her but the old man’s arguments pulled him inexorably away. For the first time in his life, Hal knew inevitability. Rather than run from his fate, he chose to meet it. Hal kissed the wrinkle between Aeval’s eyebrows and extracted his arm from her grasp.  He tossed her the motel keys and walked outside to where the old man waited.

“Hell of woman you got there,” Dr. Bill said. “She’s definitely a keeper.”

“If she’s still around when I get back.”

“She’ll be there.” The old man led Hal to a beige Chrysler Chrysalis van in the parking lot, rustled some keys from his pocket, and slid open the side door. “Hop in.”

Hal climbed in the back. The old man followed and closed the door. He settled in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and put the van in gear.

“I got a place over by the old race track. We can get you ready there.”

Hal looked out the back window and saw Aeval standing by the museum’s entrance. He lifted his hand in a feeble wave goodbye.

“First thing we gotta do,” Dr. Bill said, “is change the name on your barcode. Would you rather be Stan KT1835 or Vernon BW2724?”

“I guess I’ll take Stan,” Hal said. “I can’t see going through life being called Vern.”

“Good choice.”

After fifteen minutes, Dr. Bill pulled into a driveway and pressed the button on a box attached to the sunshade. The garage door clanked open, Dr. Bill inched the van inside and pushed the button to close the door behind them.

“Clinic’s inside.”

Hal squeezed between the van and a table saw and then followed Dr. Bill out of the garage, down a hallway, and into a small exam room that smelled of rubbing alcohol.

“Sit down and roll up your sleeve.” Dr. Bill pointed to a chair with wide armrests. “Let’s take a look.” Dr. Bill rolled up a stool and examined Hal’s forearm through a magnifying lamp.

“Who’s the other Hal?” Dr. Bill asked.

“Someone I sent on an Italian vacation so I could borrow his identity.”

“Procedure might sting a bit so I’ll use a nerve block.” Dr. Bill wiped away the magic marker with alcohol, filled a syringe from a tiny bottle, and injected Hal near the elbow.

Within minutes, Hal’s forearm felt as if it weren’t there. Dr. Bill reached for the laser mounted on an articulated swivel and positioned its clear plastic nozzle over Hal’s skin. The laser popped. Hal felt a tingle but no pain. The old man continued for a half-hour before stopping to admire his work. The skin on Hal’s forearm was red. All traces of his identity barcode were gone.

“Ordinarily I’d let it heal before adding the new tattoo but we don’t have time.” Dr. Bill donned latex gloves and used a ruler to outline the new barcode on Hal’s skin. Once satisfied, he filled a tattoo gun with ink and set to work.

The needle buzzed. Periodically Dr. Bill stopped and wiped Hal’s arm. After an hour, he moved the magnifying lamp aside and stood.

“There you go, Stan.” Dr. Bill wrapped Hal’s arm in gauze. “Keep it clean and dry for a few days.” Dr. Bill reached into a cupboard for a hypospray and fitted a glass bottle into the uptake. “There’s one more thing we need to do.”

“What’s that?” Hal asked.

“Modify your genome so when they do a gene map, they’ll think you’re Stan. I duplicated some red folder DNA and put it in an adenovirus vector.”

“Are there any side effects?”

“Would you have any other choice if there were?”

“How long have you been planning this?” Hal offered his arm.

“Ever since they carted away my first red file prisoner twelve years ago.” Dr. Bill pressed the hypo-spray to Hal’s bicep and pulled the trigger. Hal felt a brief sting.

“I’ll show you to the guest room.” Dr. Bill walked to the hall. “You can stay there while you recover.”

The guest room had a window that looked out on a courtyard. After Dr. Bill left, Hal sat on the bed and used the remote control to turn on the television. Fifteen minutes into a talk show, Hal began to wonder if Dr. Bill had sent others to North Africa before him. Then the chills and fever struck. Hal’s head spun and he could barely summon the energy to lift his limbs. He crawled under the covers and curled into a ball. Even the thick down comforter could not stop him from shivering. Pain shot like diamond-tipped drill bits through his forehead. His attention was so riveted to his agony that Hal could not attend to the television droning in the background.

He slept. In his dreams Hal lay naked and shivering chained to a bed of ice. A hooded figure in a dark cloak sliced Hal open with an obsidian blade and reached into his torso to remove his organs. The shadowy figure hoisted a bloodstained burlap sack, removed a liver dripping with bile, and jammed it into Hal’s abdomen. Intestines, stomach, lungs, and heart followed. Hal tried to see the figure’s face while he sewed Hal’s foot-long incision with a bone needle, but it was hidden in shadow. The being removed a cauldron of molten lead from a fire and poured it on Hal’s forearm. The pain made Hal black out. Hal passed in and out of consciousness. He remembered the old man cradling his head and feeding him soup. Whether the latter was a dream or reality, Hal did not know.

Hal opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the window and painted a golden trapezoid on the carpet. He got out of bed, padded to the bathroom, and peeled off his sweat-drenched clothes. The shower’s warm spray washed away the stench of illness. Hal toweled off and changed into the red plaid bathrobe hanging on the door.

“Hello,” he called. “Dr. Bill?”

No one answered. Hal checked the halls. The house was deserted. He found a note on the kitchen table.

I’ve done all I can. The rest is up to you. Help yourself to breakfast, and take whatever clothing you need.
Bill

Two days later after he’d recovered his strength, Hal walked to the airline ticket counter. “I need to get on the next flight to Albuquerque.”

The attendant typed at her terminal.

“Flight 602 leaves at 11:30 a.m. from gate 32. That’ll be eight hundred sixty-three credits. How would you like to pay?” She gave an ersatz smile.

Hal counted out the money in fresh bills and laid them on the counter. The attendant scanned his forearm and typed. She looked puzzled.

“Just a minute, sir.” The attendant carried a paper to the back room and returned five minutes later. “Will you be checking any baggage?”

Hal shook his head.

“Have a nice flight.” The attendant handed Hal his tickets.

Hal walked through the terminal. Before he got to his gate, a hand grasped his shoulder.

“Come with us, please,” the more muscular of two sober men in dark blue jackets said.

19

One week later Hal gazed out the porthole at the harbor where water taxis jetted the pale blue Mediterranean between the docks and ships at anchor. Huge cranes offloaded twenty-foot storage containers from freighters onto railcars for transport to the interior. Hal had occupied the pale-green cell for five days while the ship had crossed the Atlantic. The room was barely large enough for a cot and bathroom with a shower attachment on the sink and small drain in the deck. He’d had no contact with other prisoners or guards for that matter. Rather than use a set of bars to provide visibility the cell’s designers had installed a video feed to allow guards to monitor its occupant. Hence, the solid door had given Hal the illusion of privacy. He’d heard muffled yelling through the walls but felt no need to reply.

The electric lock buzzed. Two guards in pale blue Division X uniforms entered carrying stainless steel chains. Hal held up his hands. The guards manacled his wrists and ankles, placing the steel cuffs outside his denim pant legs, and escorted Hal into the hallway where another prisoner waited.

“Hi, where are you from?” Hal asked.

“No talking,” a guard said.

Once on deck, the guards pointed Hal down a gangway to an open-topped boat painted navy gray where a half-dozen prisoners already sat on the benches inside the hull. Like Hal, they wore jeans, tennis shoes, and denim shirts. A pair of guards eyed the captives and held electric lashes ready. Hal took a seat behind the others. More prisoners arrived. A crewman in a gray tunic untied the line and pushed off. The helmsman started the engine and cut the rudder so the boat pulled away from the ship.

The boat bounced through the waves. Each time it landed, the bow threw salt-water spray on Hal’s face and arms. After five days indoors, it felt good to be outside. He closed his eyes and felt the sun warm his skin. They pulled up to a dock where the crewman tied up to cleat. The guards motioned with their lashes. Hal followed the others ashore. Having adapted to the ship’s motion, his legs felt the ground pitch and roll when he stepped on dry land.

More guards pointed toward a pale green, sheet-metal enclosure. They entered the stifling windowless building and sat on wooden benches. Once the doors were locked, the guards allowed prisoners access to bathrooms that smelled of stale urine and tepid water from the drinking fountain.

“What’s your name?” Hal asked the man seated next to him.

“Joe.”

“I’m Stan. Where you from?”

“Buffalo. You?”

“Cincinnati. What are you here for?”

“Robbed a liquor store.” Joe stared

“Yeah, but why are you here?” Hal asked. “They have other places to put people who rob liquor stores.”

“I don’t know why I’m here, I don’t know what they got in store for me, and I don’t want to talk about it.” Joe turned and faced forward.

The vanes of the overhead fans made their slow orbits and circulated overheated air. A bead of sweat rolled down Hal’s neck. He watched a fly rub its hands together after it landed on the bench in front of him. Several prisoners slept. After several hours, the doors opened.

“On your feet,” a guard bellowed. “Let’s go.”

The prisoners filed out the door and onto a platform where a train waited. The rig consisted of a boxy orange and black locomotive, twenty boxcars painted with the RTA logo, a flatcar with two SUVs chained in place, and three passenger cars with barred windows that would carry the prisoners. The captives entered one by one. Only after the guards shackled the preceding prisoner to his chair, did they allow the next to enter. Hal landed in a seat by a dirty window. Like the others, Hal’s neighbor had committed crimes and didn’t know why the authorities had selected him for North Africa.

The guards took an hour to secure their charges. Then the powerful diesel locomotives rumbled and the train pulled away from the platform. It started slowly at first and then gained speed. By the time they reached the outskirts of town, buildings whizzed by Hal’s window. The breeze cooled his face.

The three guards in Hal’s car contented themselves with drinking tea and joking. Occasionally one would patrol the aisle with a bored expression on his face.

“Hey! When we getting lunch?” a prisoner yelled.

A guard tapped the man with his electric lash, sending twenty thousand volts through the prisoner’s body, to silence the outburst.

“Next time call me ‘sir.’” The guard scanned the other prisoners’ faces. “Any other questions?”

The prisoners ducked in their seats as if they were turtles trying to pull their heads into protective shells. The train’s rocking lulled Hal to sleep. When he opened his eyes, they’d already crossed the narrow coastal zone and had begun climbing the mountains. He closed the window against the chill. The dirty glass blurred his view. An electric heater dried the air and made it smell of ozone. Once they passed the summit, the train descended into a barren landscape of rock and sand. Hal opened the window and stared at the horizon and brilliant, blue sky. He imagined parallel tracks, meeting at the vanishing point, the only features in this harsh empty geometry.

Hal dozed. Each time his head slumped forward, he startled awake. The dry air parched his throat and made it painful to swallow. Like the other prisoners, Hal sucked tepid water from one of the plastic water bottles the guards distributed. After hours traversing the empty desert, the train entered a cordon of fences topped with razor wire surrounding the tracks. Unlike the area they had recently passed through, here date palms and acacias dotted the landscape. After a half hour, they passed the bullet-shaped concrete containment dome of a nuclear reactor. Two cooling towers, graceful hourglasses of concrete, stood nearby. Eventually the train approached a station and slowed. When the passenger cars pulled up to the platform, the brakes screeched and pained Hal’s ears. They had arrived.

The guards unshackled their prisoners one by one and led each out the passenger car’s door. When Hal’s turn came, he exited onto the platform, passed through a gate in the razor wire, and joined a ragged formation of prisoners gathered around a group of officials in white tunics. Hal looked around the clearing and up the palm-shaded sidewalk for guards but didn’t see any except for those behind the fence. He allowed himself to feel cautiously optimistic. The buildings were different than Hal was used to. Most were prefabricated structures of corrugated metal or nylon siding. The latter seemed to discolor in the desert sun. Bicycle riders and an occasional truck passed on the road. A few miles away a cluster of gleaming white towers marked the city center. When all the prisoners had assembled, the official spoke.

“Welcome to Resurrection City. I’m Governor Kyle. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t made mistakes but the Council believes you deserve a second chance. You may have noticed the lack of guards on this side of the fence. At Resurrection City, we believe that when we treat our clients like responsible citizens, they act like responsible citizens.

“No doubt you’re tired and hungry after your journey. I’ll turn you over to Ingrid who’ll organize your housing assignments. After you get settled, I’ll look forward to talking with you again.” The governor mounted a bicycle and peddled toward the city center.

Ingrid stepped forward.

“Hello, I’m Ingrid GZ1997, the governor’s administrative assistant. Will those of you whose names begin with A through J please gather around Ron?” She pointed to one of her colleagues. “K through P with Bob and R through Z with Ted. Thanks.”

Hal joined roughly twenty other prisoners clustered around Ted who called names and handed out keys.

“Your quarters are all in Renewal Township,” Ted said. “If you follow me, I’ll show you the way.”

Ted’s group set off toward the city center and took a left after a few blocks. After a ten-minute walk, they arrived at a group of white structures.

“This is Renewal Township. Your quarters are arranged in a letter number grid and should be easy to find. You’re free to wander around town as long as you avoid the rail yard. The cafeteria is in the center of the complex. Normally they serve dinner between five and seven but they should have sandwiches if you can’t wait. When you take a shower, please conserve water. With that, I’ll say goodbye. If you have any trouble, feel free to contact me at the relocation center.”

Hal looked at the number on his key’s plastic tag and wandered the paths between prisoners’ quarters. Each was an individual home made from a converted shipping container with a door on one short side, two windows on each long side, and an individual air conditioning unit. Cantilevered metal frames supported fabric sunshades over the roofs and each home was white to reflect the heat. Hal found building K 13, fit his key in the aluminum door, and stepped inside. The interior contained an all-purpose room and a bathroom. A wool blanket with broad colorful stripes covered the narrow bed. Hal opened the closet and found some overalls and a pair of dark gray tunics.

He stripped off his denims, stepped into the shower, and turned on the taps. Lukewarm water trickled out of the showerhead. Following the instructions on the sign by the taps, he turned off the water, soaped up with a thick bar that smelled of mint, and rinsed. Once finished he toweled off. The remaining dampness evaporated from Hal’s body before he could slip into a tunic. Sitting at his blonde wood desk, he took stock of his new surroundings. The space was small but it was neat and cheerful. Hal’s stomach rumbled. He put the key in his pocket and set off toward the cafeteria.

Everyone else must have had the same idea. By the time Hal arrived, hungry prisoners sat four to a table and munched sandwiches and dried dates. To Hal, the dried fruit had always looked like big locusts but he took a few anyway. The only vacant spot was next to a man with a ponytail who still wore denim.

“Man, this is sweet!” the denim-clad man said between bites. “No guards, lots of little honeys running around. I’m gonna raise a little hell. Hey baby!” He patted a woman changing saltshakers on the ass. “How about coming back to my place for some horizontal tango lessons?”

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re not allowed intimate contact with new clients.” The woman retreated to the counter where she whispered and pointed with a female coworker.

“Tight ass,” the man hissed. He held out his hand to Hal. “I’m Mike by the way.”

“Stan,” Hal shook hands.

“What do you say we get out of here and grab a drink?” Mike asked. “You know, check out the lay of the land.” He held his hands in front of himself and made thrusting motions with his hips.

“Maybe another time. I’m bushed. I think I’ll get some sleep.” Hal stood and carried his tray to the conveyor.

“Yeah, sure,” Mike said. “Have a good time.”

The dryness aggravated Hal’s insomnia. Each time he woke, he drank water to sooth his throat and then woke later to use the toilet. He thought of taking a stroll but wanted to avoid Mike, so he tossed and turned until he eventually slept. A knock woke him. He glanced at the clock. It read 8:15. Already sunlight was coming through the window. Hal opened the door to find Ted.

“Good morning.” Ted beamed. “How did you sleep?”

“Not too well.” Hal rubbed his eyes. “I always have trouble getting used to a new place.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Ted pursed his lips. “Before I assign you to a work detail, I need to check whether you have any injuries that prevent you from doing manual work.”

“Should be okay.”

“Excellent!” Ted smiled. “Your team’s meeting Pete in front of the cafeteria at nine, although if you’re tired you could wait until afternoon.”

“No,” Hal said. “I’ll go. Just let me get some coffee and a bite to eat.”

“Great!” Ted handed Hal a paper ticket. “Just give this to Pete. Have a good day.”

Hal changed into his overalls and grabbed a quick breakfast before joining the others outside the cafeteria. The men clustered in small groups around the various supervisors. Hal checked several nametags before locating Pete who wore paint-splattered overalls and a straw hat. To Hal’s dismay, he spotted Mike in Pete’s group.

“Let’s see.” Pete took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “I should have Carl, George, Mike, and Stan. Anybody who’s not on this list, raise your hand.” He paused. “Okay, let’s go.” He led his charges to an old white pickup truck. “Hop in.”

Mike grabbed the passenger’s seat while the others got in back with splotched tarpaulins, brushes, and rollers. Hal examined his companions. Carl had a short moustache that fell short of the corners of his mouth. The scar above George’s eyebrow gave him a perpetual look of surprise. Pete set off gently down the road. Each time he hit a bump, cans of paint jumped and clattered against the truck bed. Ten minutes later, Pete pulled up in front of a large wooden house, one of the few Hal had seen in the city. Yellow paint peeled from its walls. Several ladders lay next to the foundations. Hal climbed over the side and jumped to the pavement as did his companions. Pete had them carry steel brushes, sandpaper, filter masks, and a water cooler to the building.

“This is Hope House, one of the first structures to be built in Resurrection City. The founders built it with wood, which is rare in the desert, but it symbolizes our ties with home and our aspiration that you may one day rejoin the society you left behind. Hope House is now a museum. As you can see, it’s in need of a new coat of paint. But first, we’ll need to remove the old paint and sand the wood. That’s where you come in.” Pete demonstrated how to scrape paint from a wooden surface and sand it smooth. “Each of you, take a wall and get started. I have to run off to another job. I’ll pick up some sandwiches and come back at lunchtime to see how you’re doing.” He walked to the truck, waved, and eased onto the road after two bicyclists passed.

Hal picked at his crusted nostrils before placing the filter mask over his mouth and fitting the elastic band over the back of his head. He chose a side wall and ran his metal scraper over a section. It was harder than Pete made it look. Some paint chips came off as easily as a stripper’s panties. Others hung on with the tenacity of a fungal infection, forcing Hal to bear down until his arms felt leaden. The desert sun bore down. Sweat ran into his eyes. Hal wiped his forehead with his arm and transferred splinters and bits of paint to his face. He compared the magazine-sized patch he’d completed with the area yet to be done and wondered how he’d ever finish.

After an hour, the dry air had parched his throat. Hal set down the sanding block and wandered out front to the water cooler for a tepid drink from a paper cup. Rather than return to his task immediately, Hal circled the building to see how the others were doing. Everyone had fared about as well as he had except for Mike who lounged in the shade, his section of wall untouched.

“What are you looking at?” Mike glared at him.

“Pete’s gonna be pissed,” Hal said.

“Let him.” Mike closed his eyes and leaned his back against the wall.

Hal struggled on through the morning while the desert heat baked him like a lasagna and left him groggy and lethargic. By the time the sun was overhead, he’d cleared an area only a little larger than himself. Not long after Hal’s stomach began growling in earnest, Pete returned with lunch.

The workers gathered in the front yard for sandwiches, dates, and sodas. Hal took a seat on the front porch, ate his meal, and guzzled a cold, fizzy drink. Pete examined the house. When he returned to the front he said, “Mike, can I talk with you for a minute?”

The two retreated out of earshot. Pete kept a calm demeanor while Mike gestured with his hands and pointed repeatedly to his elbow. When Pete finished, he got back in his truck and drove off. Hal wadded his date pits into the sandwich wrapper and placed it in the garbage bag. Mike returned to the porch.

“You!” Mike pointed a finger like a dagger at George. “Go work on the other side.”

“I’m not doing your work for you, lazy ass!” George sprang to his feet.

Like a Gila monster that transforms from placid to deadly in an instant, Mike delivered a flurry of roundhouse punches to the George’s jaw. Each strike swiveled George’s head on his seemingly elastic neck. An uppercut lifted George off his feet and landed him on his back. Mike delivered a vicious kick to George’s kidney before straddling him and wrapped his fingers around his throat.

“I’m foreman now!” Mike slammed George’s head against the ground. “Do what I say or else!” He climbed off George and retrieved his sandwich. “Now get back to work!”

Hal returned to his wall and picked up where he’d left off. Rage argued that he march over to Mike and tell him off but fear held him back. He’d never seen anyone as fast and brutal. Hal doubted he could beat him so he opted for the false safety of his corner and was grateful to see Pete’s truck at the day’s end.

After dinner, Hal returned to his quarters instead of staying in the cafeteria to swap stories with the others. It would have been a good way to gather information but the day’s fear and repressed rage had exhausted him. He went to bed not long after sunset. Tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep. His pulse thumped with anger like the bass notes from an inconsiderate neighbor’s stereo. Eventually, Mike would turn his abuse to him. Hal needed a plan to deal with that bastard. Pete would be no help. He’d only given a weak, stupid grin when he’d seen George’s swollen bruised face. Hal’s only hope was to join forces with the others and beat Mike so badly that he’d never mess with any of them again. Each time Hal looked at the clock, the dreaded hour he’d have to return to work inched closer. The alarm woke him too early. Hal struggled out of bed and donned his overalls like a funeral shroud. Before Hal left for the cafeteria, Ted knocked on his door.

“Glad I caught you before you left.” Ted handed Hal a ticket. “They had a last-minute cancellation at the Department of Social Engineering and moved your vocational evaluation up to today at nine. Catch the number fourteen bus out front and show the ticket to the driver. He’ll drop you at the right spot. I’ll tell Pete you won’t be on his crew, today.”

Hal let the tension drain from his body, changed into a tunic, and ate a leisurely breakfast. His reprieve only delayed the inevitable but he was grateful nonetheless. The bus ride gave Hal his first look at the city center. Bicycles crowded the streets. Sleek buildings with glass facades had courtyards where people gathered in the shade of palm trees. Rather than move at a frantic pace, the citizens in tunics of various colors remained relaxed. The bus stopped in front of a tall spire that pierced the sky like a sliver of glass and steel.

“This is your stop.” The bus driver nodded to Hal.

Hal showed his ticket to the receptionist at the front desk who directed him to the twenty-first floor. An elevator delivered Hal to his destination where he presented his ticket and sat in a plush chair to wait. Unfamiliar psychology magazines lay fanned on the table. He paged through one and began reading an article titled, “Adapting Stone Age Brains to the Modern World.” The author described how human brains were wired for a flight or fight response that was unsuited for modern living and postulated that a change in anatomy could solve the problem of violence. After the first paragraph, the article veered into the arcana of neuroscience. Hal read words like hypothalamus and nucleus accumbens but remained baffled by their meaning.

“You must be Stan.”

Hal looked up at the woman in a light blue tunic standing before him.

“I’m Elizabeth KI2935.”

Hal stood and shook her hand.

“Thanks for coming in on such short notice. If you just follow me, I’ll get you started.” She led Hal through a doorway and stopped to talk with the woman behind the counter. “Amy, is number four free?”

“Yes, will the standard battery be all?” Amy handed Elizabeth a blue plastic cartridge.

“To start,” Elizabeth said. “Let’s also get a situational inhibitory response profile.”

Amy reached into her drawer and handed over an orange cartridge. Hal followed Elizabeth to a tiny room and sat behind a CRT monitor. Elizabeth fed the cartridges into the slot and turned on the power.

“Each module starts with a brief introduction. All you have to do is touch the screen with the light pen to mark your responses. I’ll be back to check on you later. She left and closed the door behind her.

With the walls shutting out distractions from outside, Hal turned his attention to the monitor, which displayed glowing green text on a black background. He spent the first two hours touching a light pen to answer multiple-choice questions about his likes, dislikes, and personal habits. About the time he needed to use the bathroom, the monitor displayed a new splash screen introducing the intellectual assessment module.

“The following aptitude test measures your qualifications for an intellectually challenging career,” a man’s voice said. “Please answer each question as quickly and accurately as you can. The results will determine whether you qualify for one of the limited spaces on the technical or leadership tracks.”

The first question asked for the decimal value of four divided by nine. Hal touched the light pen to answer d.

“That is correct.” A bell chimed.

Hal answered more questions. When he got one wrong, a klaxon sounded and the recorded voice announced the correct response. Twenty minutes into the test Hal selected choice b for the roots of a quadratic equations. The klaxon sounded.

“I’m sorry. That is incorrect. The correct answer is b.”

“Hey,” Hal exclaimed.

He answered the next few questions without incident. Then the machine miscounted another of his correct answers. Hal opened the door and looked into the empty hallway.

“Elizabeth,” he called. “I think the machine’s broken.”

The klaxon sounded.

“Time expired! Please proceed to the next question.”

Hal traced the light pen’s cord to a slot in the table that allowed no access. The test machine continued to malfunction. The queasy worm of frustration crawled further up Hal’s spine with each miscounted response. When he was about to slam the light pen on the table, he changed strategy and began choosing the wrong answers.

“That is correct.” A bell chimed.

That was it! Hal had to choose the answer after the correct one.

“Tricky bastards!” Hal continued choosing the answer after the correct one until the computer erupted with klaxons once more. Hal adjusted.

Elizabeth opened the door.

“How’s it going in here?”

“Not so well,” Hal said. “I think the light pen’s broken.”

“Really?” Elizabeth arched her eyebrows. “Why don’t you break for lunch and I’ll have it checked?”

Her act didn’t fool him.

“The cafeteria’s on the fifth floor. Tell them you’re here for testing, and they’ll bill us. Be back in an hour.” She looked at her watch. “Say 12:30?”

After lunch, Hal returned to the “repaired” test station and answered questions about abstract shapes. When he finished, Elizabeth took him to her office. She sat behind her desk and twiddled a silver pen between her fingers while examining his test results.

“Your file says you beat a man to death in Tucson.” She touched the pen to the corner of her mouth. “But these aren’t the scores of a murderer.”

“It was either him or me,” Hal said. “The authorities never understood that.”

“Well, might as well get a genetic profile while you’re here.” Elizabeth swabbed the inside of Hal’s cheek and placed the sample in a test tube. “Don’t get too discouraged with your current job.” She placed a sticker on the test tube and another on Hal’s file. “We’ll have something more suitable for you in a couple days.”

Hal returned to the painting crew the following day determined to put up with Mike’s antics no matter what. To his surprise, Pete actually came through. As soon as they reached Hope House, he addressed the crew gathered in the front yard.

“You guys have done a really good job in my absence.” Pete pushed the straw hat back on his head. “Sorry I haven’t been around to help. To make it up to you, I’ve arranged for some female company to see to your, um, emotional needs. Now, I can only take one of you today for about an hour or so. Anybody want to go first?”

“Oh baby, here I come.” Mike shoved past the others and rubbed his hands together.

“You sure the rest of you guys don’t mind if Mike goes first?” Pete asked.

Mike glared to intimidate any dissenters. George and Carl bobbed their heads in half-hearted agreement.

“Okay then.” Pete turned to Mike. “You ready to go where no man has gone before?”

After Pete drove Mike away, Hal went back to his wall. The work went slowly and was physically exhausting but the site seemed peaceful without Mike’s presence. Hal expected him back in a few hours. When Mike didn’t show up by eleven, Hal knew something was up.

When Pete brought lunch at noon, he stated, “Mike won’t be back for a day or two,” and refused more comment.

“Sure is fucking hot,” George said when they stopped for a water break an hour after Pete left.

“You get used to it.” Carl mopped his face with a handkerchief.

“Bullshit!” Hal took off his cap to let the sweat evaporate from his forehead.

“Hey, where’d you go the other day?” Carl asked.

“Vocational assessment.” Hal put his cap back on. “Much as I enjoy working with you gentlemen, it seems I’m meant for a white-collar position.”

“Lucky bastard! When they going to switch you?”

“Any day now,” Hal said.

“Before you go, will you help me get some payback?” George’s eyes focused on Hal from under his swollen eyelids.

Hal hesitated not wanting to jeopardize his new position but only for a moment. “Yeah, I’ll help you fix that bastard.”

The rest of the day passed without incident. When they returned to Renewal Township, Hal ate dinner with George and Carl. They stayed late watching videotaped television programs in the cafeteria before heading off to their separate quarters for bed.

George’s chance at Mike didn’t come. By Friday, Hal had sanded about half of his wall. Mike still hadn’t returned. Hal spent the weekend exploring Resurrection City. On Monday, Ted dropped off Hal’s new work assignment. Hal took one of the green-and-white buses to Legacy Township, a large compound, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire, north of the city. The sign above the gate read, “Historical Intellect Retrieval Office.”

“I’m here to see Alan BV1027.” Hal showed the guard at the gate his work ticket.

The guard scanned Hal’s forearm and made a phone call. A man in a yellow tunic came to the gate.

“You must be Stan.” He shook Hal’s hand. “I’m Alan. Glad to have you on board. Please come this way.”

The interior of Legacy Township looked like a movie studio with houses that resembled those he’d seen in history books. Many with half-timbering on their bay windows and facades could have come from a Bavarian village. Distracted by the sights, Hal paid little attention to Alan. Instead of the customary tunics and overalls, the population wore period dress from corsets and hoop skirts to blast jackets and C.G. boots. A horn beeped. Alan pulled Hal out of the way of a truck carrying a piano. He led Hal up three wooden steps to a trailer’s entrance. Inside Alan sat behind a desk cluttered with papers and motioned to the chair opposite him.

“Sorry, we’ve undergone a rapid expansion. Office space is at a premium. Coffee?”

Hal nodded.

Alan filled two stained cups from the coffee machine and loaded nondairy creamer into one. He handed the other to Hal.

“So,” Alan sat behind his desk and sipped. “Ever done any acting?”

“Well, maybe a bit.” Surely, Hal’s undercover work counted. “Would I have to memorize lines?”

“Lord no,” Alan said. “It’s more like role playing.”

“What does it involve?”

“It would be easier to show you.” Alan picked up the phone. “Marge, it’s Alan. Can you send a costume over to my office? Male, boarding school uniform. Great!”

After landing his job with Genome Assurance, Hal had thought he was out of the classroom for good. Now he was back. Dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, khaki shorts, and tie Hal sat in the back on a wooden chair. Other students in identical dress fiddled with slide rules and wrote in notebooks at the desks in front of him. A teacher in round, wire rimmed spectacles drew a circle on the blackboard. His chalk tapped against its surface as he added a pair of equations with m’s, tau’s, and derivatives of theta.

“In rotational dynamics, you use an equation similar to Newton’s second law. Torque replaces force. Moment of inertia replaces mass. . . .”

A student with features different from everyone else’s slipped in the door and took a seat. His appearance was so startling that Hal sucked in an involuntary breath and had to stare at his desk to hide his embarrassment. The new student had the same unruly hair, bushy moustache, and sad brown eyes as the greatest physicist who ever lived. What the hell was going on?

“Mr. Einstein!” The teacher slapped a wooden pointer on the desk. “You’re late again. One more time and I’ll throw you out of this class.”

Einstein’s clone rolled his eyes.

“Now, where was I?” the teacher said. “Oh yes, calculating moments of inertia . . .”

Hal turned back to the board and took half-hearted lecture notes. Every time he could, he stole glances at Young Einstein scribbling in his notebook. Hal craned his neck to get a peek and suppressed a chuckle. The pages held a caricature of the teacher on a runaway merry-go-round. Speed lines flew from the man’s glasses as he clutched the student he rode, instead of a wooden horse, around the throat like Tarzan strangling a python. The class went on for another hour. When the bell rang, Hal left the building, exited the boarding school’s gate and waited for the bus to Legacy City.

“Well?” Alan asked, once Hal returned to the office.

“I’m speechless.” Hal plopped into the chair. “How’d you do it?”

“When Einstein died, they removed his brain for an autopsy. We were able to isolate enough DNA to make a clone, several clones really. This one is Albert Number Four. We were never able to interest his predecessors in physics. Number One wanted to be a dancer; Number Two, a pianist; and Number Three, a romance novelist. He writes dreadful stuff. We keep trying to make the environment more like the original Albert’s in hopes that one of our clones will develop Albert’s genius. So far, it hasn’t happened. There’s only so much we can do. Once they get older than six or seven, they figure out what’s up. Of course, by then their personalities are mostly formed. At least that’s what the psych boys say. For Albert Number Five we’re going to have everyone speak German. It may not work out, but we’re learning tons about nature versus nurture.

“Anyway, that’s the game. We need extras to populate our little artificial worlds. Interested?”

“Absolutely!”

“Wonderful!” Alan said. “Let’s take you to staffing to get you a pass.”

Dressed in a blue policeman’s uniform, Hal drove five miles into the desert to the isolated Set T 23. The developmental psych team had briefed him on the protocol and its rationale, but Hal didn’t like it. He pulled up to the iron gate, surrounding a half-dozen traditional Korean houses with hipped and gabled roofs, and inserted his magnetic card into the slot. The dust his car had kicked up over the dirt road drifted over him. Hal coughed and spat while the gate opened.

When Dr. Ho-Jun Pak was four-years-old, a truck lost control and struck the car his father was driving in Pusan. The elder Pak lingered in a coma for two days before dying. As is customary in that part of the world, young Ho-Jun and his mother went to live with his uncle Ok-Kyun, a cold and distant man.

Hal cruised the tiny neighborhood and examined addresses until he found 6123. He pulled the prop department’s only black and white police car into the concrete driveway and walked up the front steps to the door. The woman who answered his knock, had hair dyed jet black and epicanthic folds that had been exaggerated by plastic surgery.

“Mrs. Pak?” Hal looked past the actress to the small boy standing in the hallway. Even though Hal accepted the existence of un-identical people intellectually, it was all he could do not to stare at the toddler. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pak. Your husband has been in an accident. You’ll need to go to Mercy Hospital right away.”

“Oh!” The woman put her hand over her mouth. “Is he all right?”

“I can’t say, ma’am. You need to speak with the doctors.”

Seeing the actress sag against the doorframe, the boy began to cry with big tears of sympathy rolling down his cheeks. He ran to his “mother” and rested his head against her back. Hal turned away from the psychodrama and walked back to the car where he checked off the first entry on his list. Before the day was over, he needed to bring devastation to seventeen more clones of Dr. Pak. It was like pruning a tree, the developmental psych advisor had said, it would hurt but make the boys stronger. Yeah, sure it was. Hal sighed, put the car in reverse, and backed down the driveway. If he hurried, he might finish before lunch.

A lost earring lay in the right lane of Commerce Way, the main thoroughfare for trucks hauling freight from the train yard to the city’s central warehouses. Enterprising businessmen had set up cheap eateries to service the hungry drivers during their lunch breaks. These drew other customers such as those transferring between buses to other townships. Few in the hungry crowd noticed the sparkle of sunlight refracted from the earring, but Hal did. He wasn’t the only one to spot the jewel. A familiar figure with a ponytail set his plastic bag on the sidewalk and stared at the gleam from the middle of the asphalt. A truck barreled past a few feet from where Mike stood transfixed. The wind of its passing ruffled his hair and clothing. Mike showed no more concern for the tons of rushing steel than he would a dandelion puff. He lifted his right foot and inched it toward the road.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hal grabbed Mike’s shoulder and yanked him out of harm’s way.

Mike looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. Hal noticed the black stitches crisscrossed the pink incisions on Mike’s shaved temples.

“Hey!” Hal patted Mike’s cheek. “Remember me? I’m Stan. We worked on Hope House together.”

“Stan, Hope House. Of course, I remember now.”

“Where do you live, Mike?”

“Amity Township.”

“Pick up your bag. I’ll take you home.”

They hopped bus 43 going east and took a seat near the rear door.

“So what you got in there?” Hal reached for the plastic bag on Mike’s lap.

Turning toward the window Mike pulled the bag away from Hal’s outstretched arm.

“Come on, Mike. I won’t take it from you. Let me see. Okay?” Hal pulled open the edge. The stench of rot from the dead cat inside escaped. Hal closed the bag and handed it back to Mike. “What happened? Did you hurt the cat?”

Mike shook his head.

“Did somebody else hurt it?”

Mike nodded.

“What happened?”

Mike turned toward the window.

“Mike, look at me!”

A passenger turned at Hal’s raised voice.

“Mike,” Hal lowered his voice. “Stop making me play twenty questions and tell me what happened.”

“Nurse Ruth said I couldn’t have a pet and that she’d find Butterscotch a good home with someone in the city. When I was taking out the trash I found her like this in the dumpster.”

“Nurse Ruth doesn’t sound like a very nice person.”

“She yells at us and calls us names when her boss isn’t around.”

“Can you report her?”

“No, Nurse Ruth would make us sorry.”

The other passengers got off long before the bus stopped at Amity Township on Resurrection City’s outskirts.

“This is it.” Mike stood.

They descended the steps and got off. Hal followed Mike to a large five-story building. He pulled open a glass door, and they entered an antechamber, separated from the rest of the interior by a reinforced glass door. A woman in floral hospital scrubs sat behind a thick window.

“Hi,” Hal said. “I found your patient a little too close to the highway and thought I’d better return him before he got hurt.”

“Thanks. They wander off sometimes.” The woman spoke into the P.A. “Orderlies to the front door please.”

“What do you do here, anyway?” Hal asked.

“In Amity?” she said. “We operate pilot programs aimed at reintegrating disturbed individuals back into society.”

The electric lock buzzed. Two orderlies entered the antechamber.

“Mike, we were worried about you.” They took Mike by the elbows and escorted him back inside.

After his stint as a policeman, Hal filled in as a janitor in Einstein Number Four’s boarding school. The students all seemed to be about seventeen. Hal wondered where they came from. Had they been gathered from all over the world or did they come from a local crèche? Hal quickly fell into the routine of cleaning the dormitories during the day when the students were in classes. These were three-story buildings with a half dozen single rooms and a common bathroom and shower area per floor. It was mindless work, vacuuming and dusting with no special role in the target’s psychological development.

One day after cleaning the toilets Hal pushed the mop over the bathroom’s tile floor and wrung it in the galvanized steel bucket. The dispenser had enough paper towels to last. He’d add more tomorrow. Hal poured the dirty water down a toilet, propped the door open, and wheeled the mop and bucket to the janitor’s closet in time to see Albert Number Four emerging from his dorm room with a woman in a dining-hall uniform. Her skin was flushed, and her unkempt hair had been tied into a hurried knot. Albert froze and stared at Hal. Then he smiled, waved, and escorted the woman down the stairs. It was the first personal interaction Hal had had with a non-identical.

After work, Carl and George stopped by Hal’s quarters.

“We’re going on a Sixteenth Street crawl,” Carl said. “Want to come?”

“Sure, let me change. I’ll meet you out front.”

Resurrection City’s leaders discouraged alcohol consumption. The town had no taverns, and restaurants limited their patrons to one glass of beer or wine per meal by law. Clever entrepreneurs on Sixteenth Street realized they could rake in profits by defining a thirty-cent bag of French fries as a meal so they cobbled shipping crates into cafes and went into business. Hal, Carl, and George started their evening at Art’s Grill. Hal ordered a burger and some of the local brew.

“So, how’s life been treating you since you retired from painting, Stan?” George gulped his watery lager.

“Pretty good. They had me dressed in an old, police uniform last week. Now I’m a janitor.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a promotion from painter,” Carl said.

“It’s interesting, though.” Hal set his glass down. “They have a bunch of different villages staffed with a cast of actors to maintain the right environment for Dr. Pak’s clones.”

“Why would they be so interested in making another Dr. Pak?” Carl asked. “We already have the genome he designed.”

“I hear they’re gonna start crossbreeding people with goldfish next.” George wiped the foam off his lip with his forearm. “That way they can build undersea cities and populate the oceans.”

“And why would they want to do that?” Carl asked. “Don’t we have enough room on land?”

“There’s all kinds of wealth down there, nodules of gold just ready for the picking. Plus, you got to admit, a human that can live in the sea and on land would be a superior being. Face it, gentlemen, we’re about to be replaced.” George downed his beer and belched. “Pay up, boys. Let’s move on to the next establishment.”

Greasy bags of uneaten French fries filled the trash can outside the Cock of the Walk next door. A bored cook, kept on staff for appearances, watched the patrons through the slot in the wall that separated the dining room from the kitchen. George ordered three beers and three fries.

When their orders came, Hal sampled one of the soggy fries and returned it half-eaten to the bag. They downed their drinks and left for the next stop. By now, men and women crowded the boardwalks. Some spilled into the unpaved road.

“Hey! Look over there.” George pointed across the street.

Mike leaned against the wall next to a restaurant’s plate glass window. He’d lost the plastic bag, and a cast covered his left forearm. George dodged the bicycle traffic and crossed. Hal followed but had to slow down for a passing truck.

“Hey, Mike!” George approached with his hands outstretched. “How you doin’, brother?”

Mike’s mouth curled into a dopey grin. He straightened and took a step toward George who broke into a sprint once he reached the sidewalk. When George reached him, he sank a fist into his former tormentor’s gut.

“It’s payback time!” George screamed. “Take that, fucker!” George caught Mike in the chin with an uppercut.

“Leave him alone! He can’t help himself.” Hal pinned George’s arms from behind and dragged him away.

Mike held his hand to his face and stared while blood sprayed from his nose onto his shirt. George took a few steps up the street until Carl and Hal relaxed their vigilance. Then he darted back to Mike and swung another punch into his face.

“How does it feel now?” George yelled as Hal and Carl dragged him away.

The following day when Hal was vacuuming the dormitory hallway, Albert Number Four stuck his head out the door and spoke. Hal switched off the vacuum cleaner.

“What?”

“I said, would you like some coffee?” Einstein wore a threadbare plaid robe over a wrinkled T-shirt and baggy gym shorts. The hair on the left side of his head was flat as if he’d slept on it wet and had forgotten to comb it.

“All right.” As Hal wound up the cord, he wondered if this visit was allowed. What if he started or said the wrong thing?

He entered Einstein’s dorm room. Charcoal drawings of female nudes hung from the cinderblock walls. Most of the women were reclining but a few sat in chairs. The pile of dusty physics journals lying in the corner testified to Einstein’s lack of interest in his studies. Einstein boiled water in the microwave, poured it into a French press, and withdrew a pitcher of cream from the small refrigerator.

“Sacher torte?” Albert Number Four handed Hal a cup once the coffee had brewed.

“Please.”

“About Mileva, the woman, yesterday.” Einstein sliced a layered cake with a silver spatula and put a piece on a dish for Hal. “Thank you for keeping her visit secret. I hire her as my model. The school barely tolerates my art. Another scandal would make things difficult.”

“No problem.” Hal cut a piece of cake with his fork and brought it to his lips. It was surprisingly rich.

“Many of my classmates come from outside. How about you?” Albert Number Four picked up a sketchpad and began drawing.

“Cincinnati,” Hal said. “I was on the run. When they caught me, they sent me here.”

“What’s it like on the outside?”

“Like here but bigger, looser.” Hal studied Einstein’s face. “Everybody’s the same.”

“I gathered that.”

“Must be hard being different from everyone else,” Hal said.

“On the contrary, I’m king of my little universe. All this is for my benefit.” Einstein swept his arm in a wide arc. “But I feel my masters aren’t getting their money’s worth.”

“I think you’re as much a developmental psych experiment as an attempt to recreate a genius in theoretical physics. There are others, you know.”

“It must be strange to meet yourself.”

“Even stranger to meet someone who isn’t,” Hal said.

Einstein drew a few more lines on the sketchpad and turned it around for Hal to see. It showed him sitting in overalls with a cup balanced on his lap. Einstein signed it with a flourish and handed it to Hal.

“Thanks for joining me,” Albert Number Four said. “I’d better get to class before that calculus teacher yells at me. Let’s do this again.”

Hal returned home after work. He’d barely stepped out of the shower when George knocked on his door. Carl stood behind him.

“Did you check your mail yet?” George held up a paper. “Got our monthly vouchers for the brothel. Yes, sir, some nice young ladies just waitin’ to help us work off that sexual tension. Get dressed. Let’s go.”

“Guys, I think I’ll stay home, tonight. I’m bushed.”

“Bushed?” George stepped past Hal and entered. “You bet you’ll be.”

“But isn’t that the whore house where they took Mike?”

“Naw, it’s legit,” Carl said. “Couple of guys on the painting crew went the other day.”

Hal babbled excuses.

“Use it or lose it, son. If you don’t turn in your voucher, they’ll drop you from the program. It’ll take months to reapply.” Carl clapped Hal on the shoulder. “I know you got a little lady at home, but it’ll be years before you get back if ever. What harm can it do to sit in the room with the woman? You don’t have to do nothin’. Just keep your options open.”

Hal gave in and after a short walk they entered a brothel that looked like a Miami hotel complete with turquoise walls, palm trees, and lobby. George led the others to the front desk.

“May I help you?” a woman in burgundy polyester asked.

“We’re here for some, um, female company.”

“Do you have reservations?”

“Yes, ma’am.” George removed a rumpled voucher from his tunic pocket and held it out. Carl and Hal did the same. The receptionist took them to a terminal and clacked on the keyboard. After an interminable wait, she printed three tickets and handed them to Hal and his friends.

“George, you’ll be in room 322. Carl 401, and Stan 537. Elevator’s down the hall.” She pointed. “Be sure to check out the mini bar.”

They walked to the elevator. Carl pushed the button on the brushed steel panel. Moments later the doors slid open, and two laughing men exited. Hal, George, and Carl entered and pushed the buttons for their respective floors.

After his friends got off, Hal rode the elevator to the fifth floor and searched the carpeted hallway for room 537. He hesitated at the door until a man exited a room and came his way. Hal knocked.

A woman with a sickly green bruise over her left eye opened the door and stepped aside for Hal to enter. She wore matching pink camisole and panties. Hal held out the ticket. She took it from him and placed it in a card reader on the refrigerator.

“Would you like something from the mini bar?”

Hal shook his head after glancing at the shot glass filled with a few millimeters of amber liquid on the nightstand. The woman took Hal’s hand and led him to the bed where he sat on the rumpled covers. Evidently, there hadn’t been time for maid service between clients. The woman sashayed to the other side of the bed and peeled her camisole over her head as she went. A fist-sized purple bruise covered one shoulder. Wicked, partially healed scabs lined her back as if she’d been slashed with a rake.

“What happened to you?” Hal asked.

“It’s nothing. Some of you boys don’t know your own strength.” She sat beside him and fumbled with his belt buckle. “Don’t you want to party?” She unzipped his pants and lowered her mouth to his groin.

“Wait!” Hal reached for her and turned her face upward. His thumbs brushed the surgical scars on her temples. “I just want to talk for a second. Okay?”

“Don’t you like me?” she stroked Hal’s erection through the fabric of his underwear. “’Cause if another customer complains, my supervisor won’t let me watch movies.” She took him in her mouth.

Her tongue tickled and delighted. Hal’s conscience hung from the meat hook of guilt as the choice at hand swung between a moment’s pleasure and his future self-respect. The sensations grew more intense and a pleasurable tickle exiled Hal’s conscience to a dark corner of his mind, right behind a repressed memory of wearing Norma ZX1923’s underwear when he was six. The prostitute made a choking sound, withdrew her lips, and let Hal spill his shame on the sheets. Afterwards the woman lay next to him like a doll made of flesh. It was as if she wasn’t there. She neither returned his embrace nor pushed him away. Forty minutes later, a bell chimed.

“Time for you to go,” she said.

Hal dressed.

“You had a good time. Didn’t you?” She held Hal’s forearm. “You’ll tell my supervisor you had a good time?”

“Sure, I had a great time.” Hal stepped out the door into the hall.

One morning when Hal arrived at work, Alan was sitting at his desk and pouring over a stack of papers.

“Oh, he’s not going to like this.” Alan shook his head and stuffed the papers back into a battered manila envelope. He turned and smiled when he became aware of Hal’s presence. “Stan, do me a favor and take this over to Site Twenty-three. You can drop it off with Maggie at the front desk. Thanks.”

Hal took the shuttle to the site, a small fenced area containing a tiny office building and a few homes, showed his pass at the gate to gain admittance, and entered the office. Another Einstein clone, this one in his mid-twenties, chatted with an older woman seated at the desk. Like Albert Number Four, Three had horrible fashion sense. He wore lederhosen with leather slippers.

“Excuse me,” Hal said. “I have something for Maggie.”

“There it is.” Albert Number Three swept the envelope from Hal’s hands and removed the papers inside. His face grew flushed. “Idiots! They wouldn’t know literature if it bit them on the ass!”

“Now Albert,” the woman crooned.

“Listen to this. ‘The plot twists and characters with multiple names make your story incomprehensible. Concentrate on developing a few strong characters and pare the plot down to its essentials. Novels by Jane JN2727 or Kelly OQ2955 are good examples of how to do this.’ The name changes represent my characters’ spiritual growth. Any idiot can see that,” Albert Number Three said.

“Well, maybe they have a point,” the woman said.

Hal turned to go.

“Why don’t we get an objective opinion? You!” Einstein held out the stack of papers to Hal. “Read this and tell me if you understand it.”

“I need to get back to the office.” Hal reached for the door handle.

“It’ll only take a few hours,” Albert Number Three said. “Maggie will clear it with your boss.”

Hal sat on a chair next to the wall. Almost instantly, his sweaty back stuck to its fiberglass surface. Maggie phoned Alan who gladly assigned Hal to Albert Number Three for the day. The stack of papers was a manuscript of Hamstrung by Desire by Anne AQ3191.

“Who’s Anne AQ3191?” Hal asked.

“My pen name.” Albert Number Three said.

It was a hot, hot day, too hot for Linda EZ4343 to bother with a bra and panties. After graduating from the Lapping Brook Crèche and escaping the clutches of the jealous lesbian matron, Gretchen, Linda had only one goal, to make up for lost time. She stretched a tight tube top over her perky breasts, squeezed her firm buttocks into a short stretch skirt, and set out to see what adventure the day would bring. . . .

“Have you gotten to the scene with the rodeo cowboy and the alligator yet?” Albert Number Three asked.

Hal shook his head and went back to reading but it was hard to concentrate with Einstein hovering over him. Maggie set a tray of cookies beside him. Albert Number Three grabbed one and looked over Hal’s shoulder. A few crumbs dropped on the manuscript. Hal brushed them onto the carpet. After nearly forty pages, Hal set the manuscript down and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d rather have his skin removed with a belt sander than read more.

“Well,” Albert Number Three said, “what do you think?”

“I don’t understand the part about the Tinker toys.” The novel was so horrible Hal didn’t know where to begin.

“They represent Linda’s longing for connection.”

“Still it sounds painful,” Hal said. “Listen, I have to meet a friend for lunch.”

“Why don’t you invite her here? Maggie could fix something.”

“Albert!” Maggie rested her hand on his shoulder. “Let the young man go on his date.”

“Why don’t you take the manuscript with you?” Albert Number Three asked. “That way you can finish it and get your comments back to me.”

“Uh, thanks.” Hal regarded the manuscript as he would fried-liver dusted with rat poison. He decided to leave it on his nightstand for two weeks and return it, once Albert Number Three had forgotten about it. Then he had a better idea.

“You say my clone wrote this?” Albert Number Four sat in his dorm room chair and removed the manuscript from the envelope.

“That’s right, Albert Number Three,” Hal said. “He wanted me to suggest improvements but I thought you might like to take a look.”

“Interesting.” Albert Number Four read the first paragraph and chuckled. “Linda Easy. This guy’s pretty good!”

Hal sipped his coffee and set the cup gently on the saucer so as not the disturb Albert Number Four.

“I like the bit about the Tinker toys,” Einstein said. “So how long can I keep this?”

“That’s the problem,” Hal said. “I need to make comments and get it back to him soon, unless . . .”

“Why don’t you let me make the comments?” Albert Number Four stood and walked Hal to the door. “Thanks, Stan. I appreciate you letting me in on this.” He smiled and pumped Hal’s hand.

20

Hal grew more comfortable in his new home and even decorated his wall with a poster of the Kandinsky he’d seen in the director’s office. His liked his job and, although aspects of Resurrection City disturbed him, sometimes he thought of abandoning his escape plans. What they’d done to Mike and the zombie prostitute was horrible but he wondered if it was any worse than what Genome Assurance was up to on the outside. Maybe he’d buy an aquarium. A few weeks later Hal stopped at Alan’s office for his next assignment, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sank into the chair across from Alan’s desk.

“Have a nice weekend?” Alan asked.

“Not bad. I went to the concert at the . . .”

The phone rang. Alan held up a finger for silence.

“Hello.” As Alan listened, the joy drained from his face. “I see. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up and rested his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” Hal asked.

“Dr. Pak.” Alan stared at the chaotic mess of papers on his desk. “The only one who made it to adulthood is in a coma, and it doesn’t look good.”

Throughout his life, the historical Dr. Pak struggled with cystic fibrosis. Though most sufferers die in their thirties, he survived until fifty-four. Few of his clones lived past twenty. The biologists at Legacy Township could have modified his DNA to fix the genetic disease, but then the clones would no longer be Dr. Pak’s replicas.

“It’ll be all right,” Hal offered. “We still have the children.”

“Listen, I’ve got to run.” Alan grabbed the jacket off the back of his chair. He scribbled a note, tore it off the pad, and handed it to Hal. “Do me a favor. Get to Site Fifty-Three and secure Dr. Pak’s quarters. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He rushed out of the room.

Hal took a shuttle to the site and showed his ID along with Alan’s note to the guard at the gate. Despite the security perimeter, Site Fifty-Three’s interior had a relaxed campus-like atmosphere. The large complex contained a lab, pens for lab rats, and housing for the staff. After passing security, he followed the wide boulevard that curved between multistory concrete buildings. Personnel in overalls or white lab coats strolled the sidewalks. Some rode golf carts. Following his Xeroxed map Hal found Dr. Pak’s home, a two-story structure set back from the road. He walked the cement path through the xeriscaped yard to the front door. It was locked. Hal circled the building and checked the other entrances.

Once satisfied that the house was secure, Hal followed the map to Dr. Pak’s lab and entered the air-conditioned building through a large glass door. Hal walked the tiled corridors, their cinderblock walls painted gloss yellow, and looked into various rooms filled with test tubes, computer screens, and electronic equipment. The staff in white lab coats did not challenge him.

He passed a safe with a combination lock and several offices before entering the one labeled “Dr. Ho-Jun Pak.” A worn beige sweater hung on the back of the chair and a mug half-filled with coffee lay on the desk as if the occupant had just stepped out.

Hal closed the door behind him and opened the desk drawers. He found only pens, paperclips, aspirin, and a nail clipper. He paged through a few of the notebooks on the bookshelf. They contained biochemical data in Dr. Pak’s characteristic green ink and neat handwriting. Next, he opened the file cabinet. A dog-eared pamphlet stamped “Top Secret” lay in a folder near the front. It was titled, “Legacy Project Justification and Initial Investigation Plan.” Notes in pencil had been scribbled in the text’s margins. Hal read a quote in the introduction.

I can only conclude the Eta 3 genome that I’d placed so much hope in is a failure. Human prototypes do not exhibit the hoped-for reduction in their penchant for violence. I see no other course but to halt the production despite the cost and start over.

Dr. Ho-Jun Pak

17 July, 2268

Something was wrong, really wrong. 2268 was the year Dr. Pak died right after the first crèches began in Korea, North America, and Europe. A noise came from the hallway. Hal searched the room. His eyes settled on the hole-punch. He perforated the pamphlet and slipped it into one of the three-ring binders on the bookshelf. Alan walked in the door.

“Ah, there you are. Have any trouble?”

“No.” Hal let his hand slide down the notebooks’ spines on the shelf. “It’s been pretty quiet. Dr. Pak’s house is locked. As near as I can tell nothing’s been touched here. How is he, by the way?”

“He didn’t make it.” Alan ran a hand through his hair. “His death sets us back five or six years until the next set of clones reaches adulthood.”

“I don’t understand why it’s so important.”

“Resistance to disease.” Alan looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. “If everyone has the same genome, a plague could wipe out humanity. We need to blend in enough variation to guarantee survival but not so much that it disrupts society. The original Dr. Pak had a plan but died before he could carry it out.

“Well, let’s get some boxes for these papers. I’ll have them stored in the archives until the next generation’s ready.”

They found some empty boxes and returned to the office. Hal helped Alan pack file folders and notebooks. When Alan took a break to use the bathroom, Hal slipped the notebook, with the secret pamphlet inside, into another office. They worked a few more hours, packing and labeling, before they sealed the boxes with tape.

“Guess that’s it,” Alan said. “I’ll get somebody to move these. Thanks for your help.”

Hal emerged from the lab into the dry heat and squinted in the bright sunlight. At the gate, he stopped behind a line of workers waiting for the guard to inspect their belongings. He stopped a woman at random and searched her purse but waved Hal through. As Hal waited for the bus to take him back to Legacy Central, he wondered if he’d made the right decision. Although he could have smuggled the pamphlet out, Hal convinced himself that leaving it behind had been prudent. He’d return for it when an opportunity presented itself. The bus pulled to a stop, and its doors sighed open. Hal boarded with the others.

Hal played the part of a kind stranger who helped a lost seven-year-old Ho-Jun Pak return to his mother, for a few weeks and then returned to being the janitor at Einstein’s boarding school. Albert Number Four often invited him for coffee and pastries. On one visit, Hal was disturbed by a paperback romance novel on Einstein’s desk and prayed Albert Number Four wouldn’t trade in his paintbrush for a pen. Letting two horrible romance novelists loose on the world would be a worse calamity than the invention of nuclear weapons. Hal darted his eyes to one of the watercolors on the wall so Albert Number Four wouldn’t guess what he was thinking.

“You know?” Hal took a bite of strudel. Its fragile crust broke and showered his shirt with flakes. “My girlfriend is an artist.”

“A painter?”

“Yeah.” Hal swallowed. “I’m not sure how to describe her work. She puts modern humans into scenes from mythology.” Hal gave a few examples of the paintings in Aeval’s studio.

“Did she ever take you to any museums like the Getty or the National Gallery?” Einstein lifted his coffee cup from the saucer balanced on his lap, took a sip, and frowned. He set the cup down and spooned in more sugar.

“No, I mostly saw what her neighbors were doing. We went to an art museum in Indianapolis, though. They had lots of pre-Columbian stuff.”

“That’s what I miss most being cooped up here. I’ll never get the chance to see the Louvre, the Prado. . . .” A wistful look filled Einstein’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Hal said.

“I guess I have to make do with the pictures in books and with tormenting my teachers to amuse myself.”

“What do you do to them?”

“Oh, the usual,” Albert Number Four said. “Put dye in their wine to make their urine turn red. Late at night, I moved one’s office furniture into the men’s room. When he moved it back, I installed a paper towel dispenser by his office door.” Einstein twirled a lock of his hair. “As I recall, he never came back the next semester. Still, what I wouldn’t give to see the outside world!”

“You and me both,” Hal said. “You and me both.”

After work, Hal stopped at a bookstore, got home late, and consequently missed George and Carl. They’d left a note on his door.

Stan,

We went to the new soma bar on Prosperity Boulevard. It’s right down the road by Equanimity Park. If you’re up to it, meet us there.

George

Hal still lugged an anvil of guilt over his complicity in the brothel worker’s abuse and had thrown away the rest of his brothel vouchers. His conscience felt too sapped to deal with Carl and George’s shenanigans. He crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash.

In the following weeks, soma caught on with the rest of Renewal Township. Soma humor spouted from everyone’s lips. Soma fashions appeared on bodies. Governor Kyle even mentioned soma in his monthly televised address. If you didn’t drink soma, you didn’t belong.

Despite his misgivings, Hal often sat with George and Carl during dinner, but they’d started skipping out early since the soma craze. One night Hal placed his tray at a table where a man held three women’s rapt attention.

“See,” the man gestured with his hands, “the thing about soma is it’s the perfect recreational drug. Those scientists finally made a way to feel good without side effects.”

“How did they do that, Alex?”

“Brain chemistry,” Alex replied. “They figured out how to flood the brain with neurotransmitters without the rebound effect.”

“But where does the name come from?” a woman with long straight hair and a ring on her thumb asked.

“Oh that,” the soma enthusiast said. “It’s from some book and further back from Hindu mythology, the drink of the gods.”

“How come they only let us have it once a day?”

“Ah, that’s the beauty of it.” Alex smiled. “See, what we got now is red soma. Pretty soon we’re gonna have green soma. The high will be the same but after that a buzz will stay with you all day long.” Alex set down his knife in fork. “Damn, all this talk about soma is making me want some. Let’s go.” He turned to Hal. “How about you? Wanna come too?”

“No, I don’t take soma.” Hal bit into a dried date and chewed.

Alex snorted. The women sneered.

“Yeah man, whatever.” Alex stood and led his admirers out.

Hal wanted to return to Site Fifty-Three and retrieve the pamphlet but doing so without orders would arouse suspicion. He performed a few bit parts for the four-year-old Ho-Jun Pak clones and spent the rest of his time as Einstein’s janitor. He’d learned not to wake the young genius before noon. Then when it looked like mopping and sweeping would become his permanent gig, he got his chance. In his journals, Dr. Pak described a visit to a laboratory in his youth as part of a field trip. One of the technicians had spilled chemicals on himself. Hal was assigned to play that technician.

From the moment Hal got off the shuttle, things felt wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on anything out of place. The guards greeted him professionally and he spotted nothing out of the ordinary on his walk to the lab but something below the level of his consciousness triggered an internal alarm.

Hal’s contact, Peter KU3323, showed him to the locker room to change. After putting on a lab coat that smelled faintly of sweat, he headed for the lab. For safety, all the harmful chemicals had been removed. In their place, water dyed brilliant colors filled the glassware. A few minutes before the first group of children was to arrive, Hal busied himself transferring fluid to several tiny vials with a pipette and jotting numbers into a logbook. A dozen laughing children entered.

“Class, this is Dr. Peter. He’s going to tell you about chemistry.”

“Do you know what makes things sweet? They’re chemicals called sucrose and glucose. . . .” Peter jabbered.

Hal kept his head down during the spiel. “Peter” wasn’t even a real chemist. Hal tried weighing some yellow powder but couldn’t turn on the balance’s digital display. Instead of searching for the power switch, he kept a calm facade and hoped the children wouldn’t notice.

“Hey! That man doesn’t have the scale turned on!” one of the brats yelled.

“It’s broken.” Hal’s face felt hot. He turned his back on the class and pretended to work.

“No, it’s not. The switch is on the side,” the child said. “Here, I’ll show you.”

“Jimmy, that’s enough!” the teacher said. “Leave that man alone and pay attention.”

Hal listened for his cue. When Peter said, “carbon dioxide,” Hal stood and walked into a woman carrying a tray of test tubes. The liquid spilled on his lab coat.

“Quick! Use the emergency shower!” Peter shouted.

Hal ran to the corner and pulled the chain under the nozzle. Cold water soaked his hair and clothes. The children laughed.

“Remember,” Peter admonished, “safety’s the most important thing in the lab. Watch what you’re doing, know the emergency procedures, and always wear your safety glasses.” He turned to Hal. “Why don’t you go dry off, Stan?”

Shoes squishing on the tiles, Hal walked down the corridor to the locker room where he toweled off and changed. He had a few hours before his next performance, enough time to slip into the office and retrieve the secret pamphlet.

As he yawned and stretched, Hal spotted something in the ceiling vent. The object was cylindrical, about the width of a ballpoint pen refill, and had a lens on the front. That was the reason he felt on edge. He was being videotaped. Hal took deep breaths to keep his growing panic from clawing out of his calm exterior. Perhaps they hadn’t seen him take the document and had merely set a trap to catch whoever came for it after they’d discovered it in the office. Hal played the part of the bumbling lab assistant all afternoon. The hand he expected to drop on his shoulder and drag him off never fell. He’d have to bring Dr. Bill some other proof of what was going on in Resurrection City. Hal smiled. He knew just the thing. At day’s end, he showered, changed, and caught a bus home. The sun was shining, and he had a few hours before dark.

21

“Well, judging from the sun’s elevation, I’d say we’re somewhere south of the Tropic of Cancer.” Einstein set down his cup. “You say you crossed some mountains before entering the desert?”

“That’s right,” Hal said.

“After you passed the Straits of Gibraltar, how long were you at sea before making port?”

“Maybe a day and a half.”

“And did the train turn much?”

“Only going through the mountains. Once we got into the desert it went pretty straight.”

“Let’s see, thirty-six hours at ten or fifteen knots . . .” Einstein twisted a lock of his hair as he looked at the map in the atlas. “I guess we must be somewhere around here.” He put his finger in the middle of the Sahara. “We can either head a thousand miles north to the coast.” He traced a line to Algiers. “Or a thousand miles southwest to Lagos or Accra.”

“Security was pretty tight at the northern port,” Hal said. “And hopping the train would be tough. Even if we got past the fence, it goes too fast, and there are guards.”

“So you’d rather cross a thousand miles of desert. I suppose we could do it if we had a four-wheel drive vehicle.” Einstein twisted his hair. “Assuming ten miles per, hour that would take four days. Two gallons of water per person per day makes eight gallons per passenger. . . .”

Why can you see someone every day and never find him when you want him? Hal searched up and down Sixteenth Street, but Mike wasn’t there. He tried some of Mike’s other haunts: the street corner near the bookstore, the alleyway behind the record shop, and the bus stop by the thoroughfare—all with no luck. After searching for hours, Hal finally found Mike in front of an abandoned, fire-gutted market. The window glass was missing and soot darkened the walls. Mike sat in an open doorway with his back leaning against the frame. Hal approached.

“I found a new home for you, Mike. Someplace where Nurse Ruth won’t bother you anymore. Would you like to go there?”

Mike nodded.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“That’s right, Mike. It’s Tuesday. I need you to be outside Legacy Township Friday by 6:00 p.m. Then we’ll go to your new home. Can you do that?”

Mike nodded.

“And Mike if Nurse Ruth finds out, you won’t be able to go. So, don’t tell anyone.”

On the way to the cafeteria after work, Hal walked past George’s quarters. Hal’s former workmate sat on one of the large boulders that flanked his front door. He wore a bright green T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “The New Soma” and his pores exuded the drug’s nutmeg and allspice smell. As always George looked at the world with a quizzical expression due to the scar over his eyebrow. However, his stare was so unfocused that looking into George’s eyes made Hal dizzy.

“Hey George, how’ve you been?” The setting sun cast Hal’s long shadow over George’s front step.

“I’ve never been better, Stan. Never been better.” A mosquito landed on George’s cheek, drilled into his flesh, and began gorging on his blood. George made no attempt to brush it away.

“Looks like you’ve tried the new, green soma. How is it?”

“It’s everything they said it would be and more. The red gave me a taste of the peace I searched for my entire life, but the green delivers.”

“What do you mean?”

“With soma all the things that used to be important don’t matter. I’m content with whatever’s in front of me.” George pointed to Hal. “You need to get on the list, Stan. You can’t have green soma unless you get on the list.”

“You want to go to the cafeteria and tell me more over dinner?”

“Can’t. Carl’s coming. I have to wait for Carl.” Another mosquito landed on George’s arm.

“All right, George. I’ll be at the cafeteria in case you change your mind.”

“Stan!” George called when Hal was halfway down the path. “It’s just hunger, Stan. Once you accept it and make it your friend, it won’t control you.”

The days passed slowly. Hal stayed busy to keep his anxiety in check. Finally, Friday came. He went to work in the morning. Then wearing the police uniform he’d gotten from wardrobe, Hal walked to Legacy Township’s motor pool in the afternoon.

“I need the police car.” Hal handed the authorization form he’d stolen from Alan’s desk to the attendant who wore a pale blue shirt with “Martin” embroidered over the heart.

“How come nobody ever tells us in advance? I’ll pull it out front.” Martin scratched his ass through his grease-stained polyester pants as he walked through the doorway to the garage.

Five minutes later, Martin pulled the black and white Chrysler Chromosome to a stop in front of the building, got out, and removed the plastic sheet protecting the seat.

“Here you go, officer.” Martin handed Hal a clipboard. “Sign here.”

“Thanks.” Hal took the proffered pen and scribbled his signature.

He drove to Einstein’s boarding school, parked out back, and changed into the janitor’s uniform that he’d carried in a plastic bag. The dormitories didn’t need much. Hal gave them a quick once over before smuggling the plastic bottles he’d hoarded out in a garbage bag. He spent the afternoon filling them with water and stashing them in the desert.

Then Hal drove to an isolated stretch of road between Sites Fifty-Seven and Fifty-Eight, parked, and popped the hood. Stepping out of the car, he took a pack of gum from his breast pocket, removed two sticks from their foil wrapping, and popped them in his mouth. Once the gum softened, he removed the chewed mass, and used pieces to foul the spark plug cables. He returned to the driver’s seat and turned the key to check. The car wouldn’t start. The walk to the garage took an hour. He arrived slightly before closing time.

“How am I supposed to get any work done when the damn car dies on me?” Hal slapped the keys on the desk. “I missed my 3:45, and it took an hour to walk back here! Don’t you guys check these cars before you send them out?”

“We check everything we send out.” Martin sighed. “Where’d you leave the car?”

“On the access spoke between Sites Fifty-Seven and Fifty-Eight.”

“All right.” Martin jotted the location on a work order. “Someone will be there first thing Monday morning to take a look.”

Hal held his breath to make his face look apoplectic and then exploded. “That won’t do! Alan will have my ass if I don’t finish up on Monday.” He looked away and turned back. “I’m sorry. Look, I know it’s Friday afternoon, but couldn’t you tow it back tonight? That’ll give the mechanic an early start on Monday. If I hustle Monday afternoon, I can keep Alan off my back.”

The attendant looked at the clock. “All right. Let’s go.”

Hal followed Martin into the garage. They passed cars suspended on lifts, their pistons resembling a forest of silver tree trunks.

“Hey Martin, where you going?” asked a mechanic washing his greasy forearms in a dirty sink.

“The police car stalled. I’m going to tow it.”

“Funny,” the mechanic said, “I just tuned it. Want me to stick around and look at it when you get back?”

“Don’t ruin your weekend because of me,” Hal said. “I feel bad enough about making Martin late for his date. If you can give it a look first thing Monday, that’d be great.”

Martin led Hal to the truck parked out back. As was typical for a vehicle that size, the raised suspension made it hard to enter. Hal put a foot on the step and hoisted himself into the leather bench seat. Martin turned the key. The motor caught. Its cylinders’ staccato firing shook the truck’s cab. When he let out the clutch, the truck jerked forward and bounced back and forth on its stiff suspension. It took ten minutes to drive to the stalled car. Martin pulled in front, rested his arm over the seat back, and backed the truck close to the police car’s grill. Hal got out and watched him attach the hooks to the frame. Martin manipulated the levers on the truck’s side. The winch whined and lifted the car’s front wheels off the ground.

Everyone else had left by the time they returned to the garage. Martin dropped the car in the lot. Hal fingered his nightstick and followed Martin back inside. Although Hal was prepared to use it, he’d hate to give the innocent attendant a concussion merely for doing his job. Instead, Hal withdrew a flask containing a week’s ration from his hip pocket, unscrewed the cap, and let the spicy aroma fill the room.

“Do you like soma?” Hal offered Martin the flask.

Martin took a long swig and licked the red liquor from his lips before passing the flask back to Hal.

“I’ve got a few friends who’ve tried the green.” Hal put the flask to his lips, plugged the opening with his tongue, and tilted his head back. “They say it lasts a whole lot longer.” He handed the flask back to Martin. The two sat on the fiberglass chairs across from a tool calendar on the opposite wall.

“Lucky bastards!” Martin took another hit off the bottle. “I’ve been waiting for almost a month to get a hold of that stuff. They must know somebody.”

“Yeah.” Hal feigned another drink. “They mentioned something about a waiting list.”

“Buzz lasts a lot longer with the green.” Martin took another swallow. “Maybe they’re making sure the green won’t mess up our work assignments. You tell your friends to keep their noses to the grindstone so they don’t ruin the chances for the rest of us.” They passed the flask back and forth until Martin got a far-away look in his eyes and leaned uncaring or uncomprehending against the wall.

“Come on, Martin. We’d better get you out of sight so the boss doesn’t see you.”

“Boss?” Martin mumbled.

Hal helped him to his feet, slung Martin’s rubbery arm over his shoulders, and guided the stumbling man into the rear office.

“Just rest there, Martin.” Hal let Martin collapse to the floor. For good measure, Hal handcuffed Martin’s wrists behind his back and covered his mouth with duct tape.

Hal took the silver key chain from Martin’s belt and searched the parking lot until he found the vehicles he wanted: two four-wheel drive Toyota Telomere SUVs with tinted windows, luggage racks, and winches on the front bumpers. Hal returned to the garage and scavenged as many jerry cans as he could find. He spent the next hour filling them with gasoline and lugging them to the parking lot.

The sun set. Hal retrieved three sets of keys from the safe: two for the SUVs and a third for a nondescript sedan, which he drove out of the lot. He locked the gate behind him and drove to the first rendezvous in the middle of the desert. A figure in dark clothing stood by the side of the road. Hal pulled over and reached across the seat to open the door.

“Hop in.”

Albert Number Four entered. “I believe this is yours.” He handed Hal the key he’d left in the bushes by the boarding school’s exit.

Hal took the spoke back to the ring road, turned off on a deserted access road, and followed it to the second rendezvous point where Mike waited not far from the end of the Legacy Township fence. The three picked up Hal’s hidden water bottles before returning to the garage. They spent the next several hours gassing the SUVs and loading them with food, water, the jerry cans, tools, and spare parts. When they finished, Hal tossed Albert the keys to the second SUV.

“But I don’t know how to drive,” Einstein said.

Hal gave him a pained look.

“I never had a reason to learn,” Einstein said.

“All right.” Hal sighed. “Transfer the water to the first car. I would have liked to take two, but I suppose this is the best we can do.”

“What about him?” Albert Number Four pointed to Mike.

“The backseat will be cramped but he’ll manage.”

“No, why not let him drive?”

“Hey Mike,” Hal said. “Can you drive?”

Mike nodded. “I stole cars before they sent me here.”

“Okay, follow me in the second SUV. Albert, why don’t you ride with Mike?”

Hal took the lead through the back roads between Legacy Township’s scattered remote sites. They were deserted except for a lone bus going the other direction. Hal hoped the sight of two expedition-laden vehicles didn’t arouse the driver’s suspicion. It took an hour to reach the eastern edge of the complex. Once the roads ended, Hal turned south into the open desert.

To avoid detection, he kept his lights off as he skirted Resurrection City. Fortunately, the gibbous moon provided enough illumination for him to steer clear of sand drifts and large rocks. The cloudless sky radiated the day’s heat. Soon Hal needed the heater to keep the chill away. He turned the fan on high and it blew dry, overheated air into his face making his eyes tear up. Hal inched along occasionally turning on the dome light to glance at the compass and check the rearview mirror for the other SUV. About three hours after they’d left, Hal broke into a grin and started humming a tune. His fingers drummed the steering wheel to let the enthusiasm, bubbling through his shoulders, escape. He was really doing this! He was fighting a whole city and winning!

Hal wanted to get as far away from Resurrection City as possible before the authorities discovered their absence, so they drove all night stopping only for brief bathroom breaks. When the eastern sky began to get light, Mike flashed his headlights to signal Hal to stop. The odometer said they’d traveled ninety miles. Einstein got out of the second vehicle, looked at his watch, and jotted down the time the sun rose above the horizon.

“Of course, I can only figure longitude relative to that of Resurrection City since we don’t know the time zone. The hills and my watch’s accuracy will also add uncertainty to the results,” Albert Number Four said. “I’ll take a sighting of the sun at noon and get our latitude.”

They took a break for breakfast. Hal sat with his back against the car door, drank tepid water, and chewed dates and a granola bar. He reminded the others to drink more than they felt they needed. The sun burned off the night’s chill. Hal stripped off his jacket. A northeast wind blew grains of sand against his face.

Buoyed by the excitement of the escape, Hal felt too wired to sleep despite his exhaustion. Mike agreed to drive a few more hours so Hal got back in his SUV and took the lead heading southwest. It was slow going. The SUV rumbled and shook over the rough surface. Blowing sand blurred the ground and made it hard to stay on the gravel. Hal did his best to steer clear of rocks. When he felt optimistic, Hal got the big vehicle up to twenty miles per hour. Then a ditch or rock would jar him back to reality and he would slow. By 9:00 a.m., even the full blast of the SUV’s air conditioner could not hold back the desert heat. Hal mopped sweat from his eyes and began to feel groggy. He needed to pull over. Something dark stood out from the landscape ahead. When Hal got closer, he realized it was a wrecked van, turned black by the desert sun. He stopped behind it and stepped out of the car.

Heat hit him like a wave of lassitude. Without Resurrection City’s shade and vegetation, it was at least twenty degrees warmer in the open desert. He walked to the wrecked vehicle. The van wasn’t familiar to Hal. Its styling looked fifty years old. His footsteps crunched on the gravel as he moved closer. Mike stopped behind Hal’s SUV, got out, and spat the dust from his mouth. By the time Albert caught up, Hal had already circled to the opposite side of the wreck. The corpses of a woman and a child sat half-buried in sand next to the wheels. Their skin had dried and darkened like unsulfured apricots.

“It’s the dryness.” Einstein approached Hal from behind. “It mummifies them.”

Hal plodded back to the car and drove, with Mike and Albert Number Four following, until the gruesome wreck was out of sight. They stopped in the shelter of a sand dune, stretched a tarpaulin over their vehicles, and sat in the shade underneath. Before dozing off, Hal stripped a granola bar from its foil and ate it. While Hal slept, Albert Number Four sighted the sun at noon. Around one, Hal woke and scanned the horizon. A helicopter combed the sky in the distance.

“They’re looking for us,” Hal said. “What should we do?”

“Wait,” Albert Number Four said. “It’s a big desert. As long as we don’t kick up a dust trail by driving, they won’t find us.” He paused. “We could heap some sand on the tarp as camouflage. It won’t be perfect but might make us harder to spot from a distance.”

Hal and Mike shoveled a few scoops of sand on the tarpaulin hanging over the SUVs, and Albert Number Four smoothed it with his hands.

“That ought to do,” Einstein said.

The helicopter never came close. After an hour, their last contact with civilization disappeared.

“Might as well risk it,” Einstein said. “We won’t be any less conspicuous at night if they have infrared imaging.”

They packed up. Once again, Hal took the lead and made good progress for an hour. Then he felt a loss of traction. Instinctively he pressed down on the accelerator but his wheels spun, digging the SUV deeper into the soft sand. Hal shifted into neutral. Mike stopped. He and Albert Number Four helped Hal place the sand ladders, sixteen-pound aluminum planks, under the wheels. Hal tried to drive out of the loose sand but the car’s tires were buried too deep. In frustration, he retrieved a shovel to attack the sand trapping his car.

“Wait until evening.” Albert Number Four put a hand on Hal’s arm. “We’ll use too much water digging in the hot sun.”

Hal threw the shovel to the ground and glared at the SUV. Einstein was right. There was nothing to do but wait. Hal slept in the SUV’s shade and dreamed of plastic bags of mummified corpses lining store shelves. He woke feeling no more rested than before. If only he could have a beer or even a glass of cold milk! The bottle of tepid water he drank filled his belly with queasiness. Albert Number Four amused himself sketching Hal, Mike, and the desert landscape. At sunset, the three dug Hal’s car out. The sand moved easily but there was a lot of it. After an hour and a half of work, they resumed their journey.

This time Hal risked the headlights. They drove five hours before stopping to sleep. Hal stayed in the car and made a bed by tilting his seat back and bundled himself with jackets and blankets against the cold. He woke before dawn with a backache, hobbled out of the car, and dug grains of sand from his scalp with his fingernails. His skin itched. The gob he spat was dark with dust. After two days, they’d gone less than one hundred fifty miles. At this rate, he wouldn’t have a shower for eight days. Hal made do with a few wet wipes and changed from the policeman’s uniform into his janitor’s overalls. The others were already eating. When Hal approached, Mike passed a box of granola bars.

“Did you sleep well?” Einstein asked.

“Not very. You?”

“Adequate.”

“Albert snores,” Mike said.

Hal unwrapped a granola bar and bit into it. In the optimism of planning, he’d opted for prepackaged food. Now he regretted not taking more variety. The dry sugary block did not satisfy but he forced himself to keep chewing. Even though his stomach kept growling, Hal didn’t want to expend the energy chewing another one. Maybe he’d break out the canned chili for lunch.

After breakfast, they set out into the wasteland of sand and rock spreading out before them. The air shimmered with heat, camouflaging the hundreds of miles of emptiness behind that contained nothing but slow ways to die. Once again, Hal took the lead. He hoped to get a solid eight to ten hours driving but he bogged down in the sand after only an hour. The sand ladders got him out but Mike and Albert got caught an hour later. They had to dig. By the time they stopped for lunch, they’d only traveled two hours. The afternoon was no better. They made up some lost time driving at night before stopping to sleep.

Hal approached Albert Number Four after breakfast. The brutal sun had burned Albert’s Teutonic skin crimson and his forehead was beginning to peel.

“It’d be good for you to learn to drive in case of an emergency” Hal said. “Why don’t you ride with me, today? I’ll teach you.”

Hal demonstrated how to start the engine and shift gears. After driving for a few miles, he stopped to let Einstein take the wheel. Albert Number Four’s legs didn’t reach the pedals. His hands scrambled over the seat cushion’s edge in search of an adjustment lever.

“Here, let me.” Hal reached over.

“No, I’ll get it.” Einstein sprung the latch and scooted his seat forward.

“Don’t forget to adjust your mirrors,” Hal said.

Albert Number Four gritted his teeth and nodded but did not raise a hand.

“Okay, now push in the clutch, shift into first, give it some gas, and let the clutch out slowly.”

The gears made a painful grind, Hal winced, and Einstein popped the clutch. The car lurched forward and jerked to a halt, pitching Hal’s forehead into the dashboard.

“Shit!” Einstein turned the key to restart the stalled engine.

“That was good.” Hal rubbed the bump on his forehead and buckled his seatbelt. “This time, give it a bit more gas and let the clutch out slowly.”

Albert Number Four revved the engine and let out the clutch. The tires spun and peppered Mike’s windshield with gravel that left little stars on the glass, but the SUV was moving. Einstein smiled and shifted into second.

“Watch out for that patch of sand,” Hal said. “Turn left!”

The SUV came to a stop. Einstein stepped on the gas but only dug them in deeper.

“Stupid thing!” Albert Number Four climbed out and slammed the door.

Hal and Mike got out the shovels while Albert stewed with his arms crossed over his chest. It took an hour of digging to free the stuck vehicle and resume their journey. Einstein chose to ride with Mike. Hal focused on driving to put his failed attempt at teaching out of his mind. He managed a few hours before hunger and a stiff neck forced him to stop for lunch. It was only when the second SUV pulled to a stop that Hal noticed Albert Number Four was behind its wheel.

The next morning before breakfast Hal hauled a jerry can off the roof and poured its contents into the SUV’s bottomless gas tank. As the red liquid swirled down the steel neck, Hal calculated their fuel consumption. They were using gasoline faster than Einstein had estimated. Hal screwed on the cap, secured the can to the roof, and walked to where his partners sat.

“Listen,” Hal said. “If we keep burning fuel at this rate, we’ll never make it out of the desert.”

“What do you propose?” Einstein asked.

“Leave one of the SUVs behind. Drain its gas tank and take all its jerry cans. That’ll give the other one enough fuel to get out of here.”

“But we’d be done for if we broke down,” Einstein said.

“If we run out of gas in the desert, we’re done for too. How are we supposed to make it out of here, Albert? How?”

“Well,” Albert Number Four twiddled his hair. “As we use fuel and water, the cars get lighter. That will improve our mileage. And if we happen onto a road, things will get even better.”

The two men glared at each other.

“I’m with Albert,” Mike said.

They ate breakfast. When they were ready to leave Albert Number Four said, “I’m getting a better feel for where we are. Why don’t you let Mike and I take the lead?”

“Fine!” Hal got into his SUV.

Following wasn’t as easy as he expected. Dust from Mike’s car clung to Hal’s windshield. He used the washers but the worn wiper blades only smeared and streaked. With Mike in the lead, they made better progress, covering seventy miles in a little over four hours. Although Hal felt relieved, the termite of inadequacy gnawed at his composure. How could feeble-minded Mike have done a better job both teaching and driving than he had? As was their habit, the three stopped at midday. Hal finally got his canned chili but without a fire to heat it, the meal tasted like dog food.

After lunch, Hal donned his hat, wandered alone under the azure sky, and stared at the tan and ochre vista scattered with volcanic black gravel. His motivation to continue soon evaporated in the heat. He sat in silence and felt the sweat slide down his sides. A gentle gust of wind ruffled his hair. After twenty minutes, footsteps crunched behind him.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Mike squatted beside him.

Hal nodded. Taking Hal’s acknowledgment as an invitation, Mike sat.

“Out here I can almost feel at peace with only water and food to care about. If only . . . If only the desert offered a way to live.” Mike stared at the horizon and brought this water bottle to his lips. “You think I’m stupid ‘cause of what they did to my brain.”

“Sorry, Mike. I . . .”

“It’s all right. The city was too much: all those people looking to take things, the bosses, the nurses. It was all too confusing.” Mike looked at the horizon while his thoughts percolated. “Here, things happen more slowly. Here, I can keep up.” Mike stood and brushed the dirt off his pants. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”

They continued that afternoon. Mike got stuck but the sand ladders got his car out. They traveled fifty more miles before dinner. A set of massifs was visible from where they stopped.

“I know where we are,” Einstein said. “Those are the Aïr Mountains.” He pointed to the map. “We might run into some roads soon.”

After dinner, Einstein jotted notes in the navigation log. He was right. The next day they found the roads. They were nothing but broken asphalt interrupted by drifting sand. Still their presence lifted Hal’s spirits. They might get out alive after all. Occasionally they passed a wrecked vehicle but didn’t repeat the mistake of stopping.

The road degenerated into a set of braided tracks in the dirt. Hal drove with one hand on the wheel. Periodically he steered to the side of the dust plume, raised by the lead car, in order to get a better view of the road ahead. The heat, boredom, and lack of sleep lulled Hal into a stupor. He often came to behind the wheel of his moving vehicle and wondered where he’d been. Hal woke from one of these micro-sleeps when Mike suddenly swerved. Hal didn’t have time to react before his car jolted to a halt jerking him against the shoulder strap. Dazed he opened the door and stepped out. Mike and Albert Number Four rushed to his side.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, a little shaken up. That’s all.” Hal stared at his SUV.

Its front wheels hung into a rut so the frame rested on the ground. Steam issued from under the hood. Hal started the motor but was unable to free the vehicle. Mike checked the suspension.

“Front axle’s broken,” he called from underneath. “It’s finished.”

“Guess you were right after all,” Hal told Albert Number Four.

They salvaged what they could from the wreck: gasoline, fan belts, the spare tire, and even the radiator fluid. That evening they continued their journey. The back seat was cramped but with only one vehicle, Hal and Mike could alternate driving. It was too hot and bumpy to sleep. The best Hal could manage was a series of five-minute naps interrupted by teeth-shattering jolts. Still they made good time. Albert Number Four contented himself with gazing out the window at the barren landscape. Something about the desert’s harsh geometry fascinated him.

They fell into a rhythm with Mike driving in the morning and Hal in the afternoon. When they got stuck in the sand, Hal and Albert would push while Mike drove forward. Rather than risk getting bogged down again Mike kept moving. Hal and Albert Number Four had to collect the sand ladders, run after, and jump in the moving vehicle.

But the desert would not be easily defeated. Determined not to repeat his past mistake Hal kept a sharp watch for ruts and soft sand when he drove. He contented himself with only occasional glances at the instrument panel and ignored the faint smell of gasoline. On one of these glances, he noticed the gas gauge near empty. He stopped, got out of the car, and looked underneath. Liquid dripped from an inch-long crack in the gas tank.

“Damn it!” Hal yelled. They’d dropped twenty gallons in the sand.

Mike patched the crack with chewing gum. Not trusting the fix to hold a full tank, they partially filled it from the jerry cans and drove on. The trip became a contest between the desert and the red needle. Hal stared at the fuel gauge and willed the needle to the right but it wasn’t enough. Even with the fuel salvaged from the other car, it wasn’t enough. Eventually the SUV’s motor sputtered and died. Mike let the car roll to a stop before setting the parking brake.

The three escapees sat uncomprehending in the stalled vehicle as if refusing to believe the universe would play such a dirty trick on them. The temperature in the car’s interior rose. Eventually Albert Number Four pushed open the door and stepped outside. Hal and Mike secured one side of the tarpaulin to the car’s roof and the other to the ground. The three rested in the shade and considered their options.

“Now, what do we do?” Mike asked.

“We have enough water to last at least a week, maybe more if we drink radiator fluid,” Hal offered.

“So we can sit here for a week before dying.” Albert Number Four glared at Hal. “Why didn’t you pay attention to the gas gauge?”

“Even if I had, do you think an extra twenty gallons would have gotten us out of here? Face it. You miscalculated. All those mathematical genes didn’t help us. You should have stuck to painting.”

Albert Number Four got into a crouch to lunge at Hal but Mike held him back.

“This isn’t helping.”

Hal walked away from the others and let the desert stillness evaporate his anger. When he returned, Mike asked, “What are we going to do?”

“We could either wait for someone to come by or try to walk out,” Hal said.

“I’m for walking,” Mike said.

“But how do we take our water with us?” Albert Number Four asked.

They decided to use one of the SUV’s axles to make a wagon and roll their water supply with them. The next morning Hal hiked up the road on the off chance he might spot a wreck with some gasoline in its tank. He came up empty. When Hal returned, Mike crawled under the SUV and banged metal with a wrench. An hour later, he emerged with bloody knuckles.

“Help me get the body off.”

They rocked the SUV increasing its tilt each time until it turned on its side. The rear axle and drive shaft stayed behind. By the time Mike used the luggage rack to fashion the wagon’s floor, the sun made it too hot to work. They rested. Hal woke in the late afternoon, scanned the horizon, and spotted a plume of dust on the horizon.

“We’re saved!” Hal shook Mike and Albert Number Four awake.

It never occurred to them to run. Where would they go? They stood beside the SUV and watched the two pale blue trucks approach. The lead truck pulled to a stop, but the dust cloud it trailed continued forward, enveloping the three escapees. Hal heard yelling in a language he didn’t recognize. When the dust cloud had drifted past, he stared into the mayhem threatened by several assault rifles’ wicked barrels.

Hal and the others raised their hands. The gunmen wore faded green uniforms and had wound their heads and covered their faces with strips of white cloth so only their eyes showed. The officer barked an order. Two of the soldiers began picking through the escapees’ belongings. When one reached for Einstein’s sketchpad, Mike made a move to stop him. Soldiers yelled. One thrust his rifle butt into Mike’s stomach, doubling him over. Drawing his pistol from his holster, the officer strutted to where Mike knelt and pressed its barrel to Mike’s temple. Mike looked at the other soldiers as if his impending death were of no more interest than yesterday’s crossword puzzle. A laugh issued from deep in the officer’s belly. He holstered his pistol and gave an order. The soldiers herded Hal, Mike, and Albert Number Four into the back of the lead truck. Hal helped Mike up and sat next to him on the wooden bench.

“You okay?” Hal whispered.

Mike held his midsection and nodded.

The soldiers eyed their prisoners warily from across the wooden crates that separated them from the other side of the truck bed. Others loaded supplies they’d looted from the SUV into the second truck. The driver ground the truck into gear, and they set off. The direct sun and lack of ventilation made the truck’s interior stifling. The air smelled of diesel fumes. Hal longed for the SUV’s air conditioner. Every time they hit a bump, Mike winced. When they drove up a hill, the driver gunned the motor but the truck slowed almost to a stop.

Mike fell asleep and leaned on Hal’s shoulder. Rather than interrupt his friend’s rest, Hal put up with the dead weight. The soldiers quickly grew bored with watching their prisoners. After all, there was nowhere for them to run. Several closed their eyes and slept cradling their rifles like newborns. The cloth covering one’s face came undone. Hal stared. The soldier was not one of Dr. Pak’s clones. He had aquiline features and golden skin covered with stubble. Hal could understand eccentric clones, like those of Einstein and Dr. Pak, but this man could not exist. Where did he come from? Well, Hal had a pretty good idea of where he came from, but natural human reproduction was not supposed to happen anymore. The truck hit a bump, and the uncovered soldier woke.

“Hey,” he said to Hal, “you ever seen anyone else like me?”

Hal nodded and pointed to Albert Number Four. The soldier smiled and replaced his face covering.

Hal got more chances to see natural humans when the truck stopped that evening. The soldiers yawned, stretched, and motioned the prisoners to exit. Hal helped Mike down and looked around. The village where they’d stopped was nothing but a group of mud-walled huts clustered around date palms and a few acacias that grew next to a stream filled with raw sewage. Berbers and Black Africans strolled the dirt streets in burnooses and sandals. These people shouldn’t be but they were right in front of Hal’s eyes.

The soldiers shepherded their captives into the largest building where a dark-skinned man in a white robe greeted the officer. The two spoke softly and periodically glanced at the prisoners. Following the soldiers’ example, Hal found a place on the sand floor, leaned against the mud wall still warm from the day’s sun, and waited to eat. Dinner consisted of dates, flat bread, and a lentil stew with gristly bits of goat meat, all washed down with sweet tea. Between bites, Hal brushed away flies.

Next morning the trucks continued south. The occasional spiny plants became more numerous until grass covered the rolling landscape. The roads improved. Hal spotted vehicles from time to time from the back of the truck. They crossed a shallow river using a bridge that looked like it had been repeatedly destroyed and rebuilt.

22

They followed the road that paralleled the waterway and entered a city of cinderblock buildings stitched with bullet holes. People clustered on the street corners. Most of the traffic consisted of tan military vehicles. The soldiers hooted and pounded the ceiling when they passed trucks towing missiles. The camouflage cloths covering the nosecones did little to disguise their deadly purpose.

The trucks rolled past a gate and stopped inside a fenced compound. The officer ordered everyone out. Hal, Mike, and Albert Number Four followed the soldiers and waited while they jabbered and unloaded the wooden crates. Suddenly a half-dozen rockets streaked into the air, raking the sky with their vapor trails. A concussion shook the ground. The soldiers dropped. Hal followed their example. When he got back to his feet, he spotted a plume of black oily smoke rising from the west.

Someone nudged Hal from behind. He turned to face a soldier pointing across the courtyard with his rifle barrel. The soldier and his companion marched Hal, Mike, and Albert Number Four past the flagpole, from which a limp red and blue flag with a yellow insignia drooped, and into a dreary square cement building. Naked light bulbs hung from ceiling wires and lit peeling pale green walls. They descended two flights of stairs into a basement that stank of urine. The soldiers turned their prisoners over to the guards in charge.

The guards pointed at Albert Number Four and debated in their guttural language. In the end, they put him with Hal and Mike into a fifteen-by-fifteen cell already occupied by two clones in tan military fatigues. The rusty cell door clanged shut, and the sound of jingling keys and footsteps receded down the corridor. Hal examined his new surroundings. A sink and brown-streaked toilet without a seat occupied the corner. Thin gray blankets covered two sets of bunks next to the walls. Although two of the five inmates would have to share, Hal supposed the accommodations were good for this part of the world. He sat on a free bunk.

“Is that who I think it is?” the soldier in sergeant’s stripes asked.

“That,” Hal said, “is classified.”

“Where you guys from?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified too.” Hal glared a warning at Mike and Albert Number Four not to say they were escaped prisoners. “I’m Stan, this is Mike, and that’s,” Hal paused, “Albert.”

“Staff Sergeant James DT2303 and this is Corporal Rick MB3322. The SLF ambushed our convoy outside Niamey. As usual they looted the supplies, left the wounded to die, and took the healthy ones hostage. We’ve been here for three weeks. Probably be here for three more before SOCOM pays the ransom. I just hope they get their asses in gear before our captors start mailing us back one piece at a time.”

“What do you mean?” Albert Number Four asked.

“Encourages our side to pay quicker. These mules are nothing but thugs in uniform. SLF’s not so much an army as an organized-crime ring.”

A sense of gloom descended on Hal, Mike, and Albert. Not only was their ship not coming in but Adolf Eichmann and Vlad the Impaler were on the docks with razor-sharp machetes and an army of followers.

“They caught us three days ago. Our car broke down in the desert and two of their trucks filled with soldiers and wooden crates came by.” Hal said while watching a cockroach crawling in the corner.

“Yeah, you were probably on one of their smuggling routes,” Corporal Rick said. “SLF trades Dakar brown for weapons at our bases on the Med and ferries them down to the front. They used to confine their attacks to the south but they’ve been getting bolder lately. A friend of mine said they’ve staged a few raids up there.”

“Can’t we do anything to stop them?” Albert Number Four asked.

“We try.” Sergeant James ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “But it’s not easy. If the Naturals agree to be sterilized, we let them live in clean modern cities like Lagos, Nairobi, and Brazzaville. Despite all we do to get the word out, many remain in the bush and breed.

“It’s a stubborn problem. I’ve been here for ten years. It’s been slow going but I’ve seen progress. In the past whenever we found a nest, we’d wipe them out. Recently we’ve changed strategy. We’re developing a whole host of new crop diseases. Destroying their food supply will force the Naturals into the cities. Then we’ll control all human reproduction on the planet and this war will finally be over.”

Albert Number Four’s complexion turned ashen.

“Let’s hope that day comes soon.” Even though Hal was used to deception, the words left a fetid aftertaste.

“Hey Buddy!” Corporal Rick turned to Albert Number Four. “You feeling okay?”

“I’ll be all right,” Einstein moaned. “I must have eaten some spoiled goat last night.”

Sergeant James and Corporal Rick quizzed the three about their favorite sports teams and then mocked Hal’s choice of the Cleveland Cloners in favor of their own Seattle Sequencers. The talk degenerated into a discussion of what they’d do if and when they got out of there. The guards unlocked the door a few hours later. Rather than trust their cover story to Mike or Albert Number Four, Hal stood. On his way to the interrogation room, he passed a half-dozen cells filled with uniformed clones. The guards ushered him into an office that stank of sweat, fear, and acrid cigar smoke. A man with dark skin sat behind a steel desk. Tarnished major’s oak leaves adorned the collar of his uniform.

“Sit!” he ordered.

Hal sat in the chair opposite the desk. Its legs had been secured to the floor to fix it in place. An electric fan moved the sweltering air around while the major examined the cigar he lifted from the ashtray and turned his yellowed eyes to Hal.

“What were you doing in the desert?”

“Minding our own business.” Admitting they were escaped prisoners would probably get them shot and dumped in a ditch. Hal thought up a story on the fly. “We were servicing weather transponders when our vehicle broke down. Rather than helping, your people took us prisoner and brought us here.”

“If you are technicians, why were there no instruments in your vehicle?”

“We had two cars. When the first broke its axle, we left it and the instruments behind. This whole mission’s been a real screw up. I have a mind to bill SOCOM double for this.”

“I don’t believe you.” The major puffed his cigar. Its tip glowed malevolent red. “I think you are spies.”

“Really? And what is there to spy on in the Sahara?”

Even with his paranoid frame of mind, the major couldn’t think of anything. He changed tack. “Your companion, the one who is different—who is he?”

“A prototype of a new clone,” Hal said. “Our people will pay a great deal to get him back unharmed.”

“Give me your arm.” The major sighed as if bored by the whole exchange and scanned Hal’s barcode with an optical reader. “Private Amadou!” he called.

The guard entered and escorted Hal back to his cell. Later, the jailers brought a dinner of coarse bread and watery soup.

“Get used to it. They serve it three times a day,” Corporal Rick said.

“At least there aren’t any bugs in it like in Gangora,” Sergeant James replied.

“What do you mean?” Corporal Rick said. “I liked the bugs. Added variety.”

After dinner, a guard slipped Einstein’s sketchpad and pencil through the bars. Albert Number Four sat on the bunk and drew Corporal Rick dipping a spoon into a bowl containing a gigantic cockroach. Since there were four bunks and five prisoners, two had to share a space. Mike and Albert Number Four were chosen by lot, which prompted sniggers about the “love nest” from the soldiers. The lights went out and the five prisoners slept. Gunfire and explosions woke Hal in the middle of the night. Neither the sergeant nor the corporal stirred so he went back to sleep.

The guards let Hal, Mike, and Albert Number Four out the next day. An SLF soldier with a rifle slung over his shoulder stood by and looked bored while they sat in the courtyard. Trucks came and went. A group of dark-skinned children in dirty shorts and torn T-shirts clustered around Albert Number Four while he sat on a stoop and drew their portraits. When he finished one, he tore off the sheet and handed it to his subject who ran away leaving others, clamoring to be next. After a few hours, the guard shooed the children away and returned the prisoners to their cell.

When the guards came that afternoon, Hal thought they’d take Mike or Albert Number Four. Although he’d briefed them on the story he’d told the major, Hal worried. To his surprise, one of the guards pointed to Corporal Rick and said, “The major needs to verify your identity.”

“No! Don’t let them take me!” The corporal’s eyes darted between the two guards. He wrapped his arms around the bunk’s support.

A guard yelled. A half-dozen others rushed the cell. Sergeant James began to stand, but the sound of a round chambered into a rifle made him sit back down. The guards pried Rick’s fingers loose and carried him writhing and screaming out of the cell. The door slammed.

“Fucking barbarians!” Sergeant James yelled through the bars. “Have you no decency?”

A scream came from the corridor.

“It’s started.” Sergeant James hung his head in his hands.

“What did they do?” Hal asked.

“They usually start with the little finger. Fuck!” Sergeant James pounded his fist into the wall. “I thought we’d have more time.”

The guards returned the corporal an hour later. Blood stained the dirty bandage wrapped around his left hand.

“They took my pinky, Jim.” Corporal Rick sank onto the bunk.

“It’s not so bad.” Sergeant James sat on the bunk next to his friend and put his arm over his shoulder. “You’ll get by fine without it. A war wound to impress the girls. When we get out of here, you’ll get more tail than anybody we know.”

“Those bastards at SOCOM!” Corporal Rick’s voice broke. “Our ransom authorization’s probably sitting in some bureaucrat’s in box while the SLF slices us up and mails back the parts.”

“Rick, we’ll get out of here. You’ll see. Just be strong and hang on.”

Corporal Rick hung tough. Each day, the guards sliced off another finger and mailed it to his masters. Each day, Sergeant James consoled him. Once they’d turned Rick’s hands into useless stumps, his captors sliced off his ears. Hal tried not to stare at the flies gathering at the open sores on Rick’s head but he couldn’t help it. Who would the guards choose when the escapees’ turn came? Hal or Mike probably. They’d most likely leave Albert Number Four till last.

One afternoon, Albert Number Four drew a caricature of the bored guard struggling under the weight of an oversized rifle. Soon other SLF soldiers lined up for their portraits during Albert Number Four’s recreation period. In just days, he became the most popular figure in the camp and was never without a cluster of SLF admirers. One young soldier became Einstein’s protégé. The boy didn’t look older than fifteen or sixteen. His skin was so black it was almost purple and his head seemed too huge for his starvation skinny neck and torso, but he had shining eyes and laughed easily. The two would sit side by side on a rock and pass the sketchpad back and forth. When Hal asked Einstein why, Albert Number Four said, “The only way to fight barbarism is with culture.”

Captivity proved productive for Einstein. Dozens of his drawings covered the cell walls. He even managed to trade a few to the soldiers for bananas, but the idle couldn’t last. The guards took Hal to the major for another interview. He sat across the desk while the officer’s yellowed eyes calculated the size and likelihood of Hal’s ransom and weighed it against the bother of keeping him alive.

“Your superiors have not responded to our ransom demand.” The major puffed his cigar and exhaled toward the fan. Its blades cut the stream of blue smoke into the air.

“Sometimes it takes them a bit of time,” Hal said.

“Perhaps we should send them a token to hurry things up.” The major yelled. “Private Amadou!”

Hal gripped the armrest. The whole story of their escape threatened to spill from his lips.

“A few more days, then.” The major laughed. “Take the prisoner back to his cell!”

The situation was untenable. They would have to make a run for it. During the breaks, Hal examined the walls and guards to come up with an escape plan but nothing looked promising. He prayed for rescue. On a hot afternoon when he, Mike, and Albert Number Four were in the courtyard, he got his wish. A handful of SLF soldiers broke into smiles when they saw Albert Number Four. The pink palms of black hands slapped his back as the soldiers mobbed him with requests for drawings. Einstein took his customary place and began to sketch a young man with a beret tucked into his shoulder strap and a stiff formal pose. His comrades laughed and joked. Einstein’s protégé chased the others away once the drawing was complete. The two began passing the sketchpad back and forth.

Hal found a spot in the shade to do some stretches. He held his foot in his hand and straightened his leg until the muscles in his calf tightened. He couldn’t quite lock his knee like he used to. A boy in a stained striped shirt ambled to where Hal struggled. The child puffed his cheeks and bugged his eyes in a parody of effort, sat in the dirt, and began stretching his legs like rubber bands. A few friends joined the fun. Laughing and giggling they stretched their limbs with an ease that put Hal to shame. Soon the boys grew bored and began kicking and screaming in a pantomime of a kung fu movie.

Suddenly yelling and sporadic gunfire came from outside the fence. Children ran. Hal crouched and looked for cover. The forty-millimeter antiaircraft cannon surrounded by sandbags opened up at a pair of unmanned aerial drones that approached from the west. One burst into flames. The other fired back and stitched the gunner with a burst of mini gun rounds. The cannon fell silent. A shoulder-fired missile traced a parabola of smoke and detonated next to the second drone. A collection of wings, control surfaces, and metal parts rained to the ground.

A rocket streaked into the courtyard and exploded raising a shower of dirt. A second hit the fuel dump. A soldier with burning clothes ran like a comet from the orange fireball. SLF troops scattered like ants under a garden hose. One of the children lay dead. Einstein’s protégé shielded Albert Number Four with his body and held his arms out as if he could stop bullets with his hands.

A concussion knocked Hal flat. The ringing in his ears hushed the sounds of gunfire and explosions. He sat up and touched the wetness on his thigh. His hand came away bloody. The battle took on an air of unreality like a movie played in slow motion without sound. Clone troops poured through the hole they’d blasted in the wall and aimed their rifles at SLF fighters coming down the steps. As they fired, empty brass somersaulted into the air from the recoils. Bullets arched to their target and choreographed the SLF fighters in a ballet of death. A rocket flew into the building and blew out the windows in a spray of smoke and shattered glass. One of the clones dropped to his knee beside Hal and drew a bead on Albert Number Four and his guardian. The scene’s details burned into Hal’s mind: sweat stains on the soldiers back, the motion of his chest in respiration, dust on desert boots, the rifle’s gunmetal finish, and the slow squeeze of a trigger finger. Hal could not hear his scream.

Who knows what determines survival in battle? Hal once heard of a Japanese martial arts master who wrote life on one side of a piece of paper and death on the other. He held the sheet edge on and said, “In combat the difference is this much.” Perhaps the cumulative weight of past good deeds saved him or maybe the clone recognized Einstein’s face from a book. Whatever the reason the soldier lowered his weapon. Einstein’s guardian dragged Albert Number Four through the gate and out of harm’s way.

“You’ll be all right, man! You’re gonna make it!”

The medic’s words were the first thing Hal heard when his hearing returned. He felt a needle stick his vein as the medic set up an intravenous drip to replace his lost blood. A syringe of morphine dulled the pain and floated Hal’s consciousness out of his body as if he were watching the scene in a movie. The blades of a MEDEVAC chopper shook the air. Soldiers loaded Hal on board. The helicopter lifted him away from the smoking ruins and carried him home.

Someone touched Hal’s shoulder. He woke in a ward where hospital beds lined up like soldiers in formation. The only illumination came from dim blue lights that gave the man with a ponytail standing by Hal’s bed an eerie glow.

“I came to say goodbye.”

“Mike?”

“I can’t go back, Stan. I’m returning to the desert.”

“Mike, you’ve got to go back. If you don’t, I can’t prove what they’re doing in Resurrection City.”

“Do you really think they don’t know already? Thanks for all you’ve done for me.” Mike squeezed Hal’s hand and turned.

His rubber soles squeaked on the linoleum as he walked away. Whether he was real, a ghost, or only a drug-induced hallucination, Hal’s only remaining proof of Resurrection City’s mind-control surgery vanished like a vapor at dawn.

“You’re lucky the medic got to you in time. Shrapnel clipped your femoral artery.” The doctor pointed to Hal’s bandaged elevated leg. “You would have bled to death if he hadn’t acted fast. After you recover, we’ll set you up with some physical therapy. It should restore your full range of motion.

“There’s one thing I need to ask. Who are you? We checked your ID. The database said you died in an auto accident three months ago.”

Hal told him to call Dr. Bill and recited the Indianapolis G.A. branch’s phone number from memory.

23

“What can you tell me about the Race Wars?” Hal looked at the classroom full of young faces and pointed to a boy waving his hand from the front row.

“The Battle of Uttar Pradesh was the biggest tank battle since Kursk.”

“Right,” Hal put his hand in his pocket and jingled his change. “What else?”

“More people died in the New York bombing than in Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined.”

“I was thinking more about what started the Race Wars.” Hal paced to the other side of the room.

A girl in back raised her hand. “’Cause of the Southern Coalition’s sneak attack on Suez?”

“Right, but why did they do it?” Hal walked to the front row. “I mean, is it normal for people to start wars?”

No one ventured an answer.

“In this class we’ll focus on the years before the Race Wars. I think we should spend at least as much time learning why the war happened as studying the battles and military strategy. That way, maybe we can prevent another war.”

Oblivious to Hal’s words a boy in the third row doodled on his paper.

“You, in the third row!” Hal called. “What’s your name?”

“Byron LX3737.”

“This doesn’t interest you, Byron?”

“It’s stupid,” Byron said. “Everyone knows Dr. Pak fixed it so there won’t be any more wars. I wish I were in Mr. John’s class.”

“Really? What do you want to be when you grow up, Byron LX3737?”

“I want to be an undercover G.A. agent like Cody XX3000 on TV!” The child’s face lit up.

“I used to work for G.A.”

“What?” Byron scrunched his forehead. “You gave that up to teach at Lansdale? You must be crazy!”

“Tell you what, pay attention in class, and I promise to tell you all about it at the end of the quarter.” Hal turned to the whiteboard. The marker squeaked as he wrote a date on its surface. “Now, in 2074 a group of diplomats met in India and signed an agreement called the Bangalore Protocol. . . .”

Hal stayed an hour after the last class and graded papers. When he finished, he closed the classroom door, nodded to the janitor mopping the hall, and left the building. His two-year-old Honda Sequence was one of the few cars left in the history building’s parking lot. Hal drove along Old River Road toward home. A blue Hyundai Dolly pulled in front of him. The new electronics plant had attracted workers and made traffic heavier than in Hal’s student days.

“Today, the Peoples’ Congress appointed new members to the Ruling Council,” the news anchor announced. “As expected the RDP picked up three seats. With us today is Martin KU1796 from the political science department at Benevolence University. Professor Martin, what kind of changes will we see now that the RDP has a majority?”

“I think we’ll see some aggressive new tactics to stem the lawlessness in major cities. . . .”

“Politics!” Hal changed the channel to a music station playing the Grafters, a hot new band from the east coast. A public service announcement followed. “A world without envy and violence where we’re all brothers and sisters. We at KXDCT urge you to keep the dream alive.”

After Hal’s testimony, the Council made a show of replacing Resurrection City’s Governor Kyle for what it called, “his shocking abuse of authority.” The latest G.A. director, Malcolm MM3873 died in a “tragic automobile accident.” Dr. Bill filled Hal in on the details. During the house cleaning at G.A., investigators discovered that Doris had been Scorpion’s lover. She and a few friends from his tenure at the agency had remained loyal helping him avoid capture. Now that they had been “retired,” it appeared that Scorpion’s days were numbered.

No matter how much people criticized the RDP, everyone admitted the party took care of their friends. Since Hal’s testimony helped them form a ruling coalition, the RDP owed him big time. His superiors reminded him of the Secret Act’s penalties and offered him a choice of assignments. Although Scorpion was still at large and his designer clones continued their lunatic raids, the real fight was elsewhere. Hal chose to become a teacher. The wheel of suffering rolled on. Momentum carried the thought control experiments and Central African war of genocide forward, their axles lubricated by apathy and disinformation. The only bright spot in world events was a mysterious duplicate of Albert Einstein’s appearance in Vienna.

Hal turned onto Columbine and parked in the driveway of his modest stucco home. He took the mail from the box and unlocked the front door. A gray rabbit bumped its head against his shoe.

“Max!” Hal picked the rabbit up and ruffled the fur between her ears.

After transferring hay and dried food pellets into Max’s bowl, Hal sorted the mail. He tossed the advertisement and set aside the bills. A colorful European stamp caught his eye. Hal slit the envelope open and removed a postcard of Aeval’s naked body decorated with Albert Number Four’s caricatures. He read the back.

Hal,

Business at the gallery has really taken off. Albert complains the interviews keep him so busy, he hardly has time to paint but he loves the attention. My own work is going well. There’s even talk of a show at the Maria Theresa Museum. If you’re ever in Vienna, we can put you up. There’s a wonderful community here. I think you’d like them.

Love,

Aeval

Hal kissed the postcard, stuck it to the refrigerator door with a magnet, and removed the vegetables from the crisper. The cauliflower looked a little brown on the edges. Hal salvaged what he could and then sautéed onions, garlic, ginger, spices, and tomatoes. The mixture could simmer for forty-five minutes; before he added the rest of the vegetables. Time enough to get a start on the next day’s lesson.

About the Author

Jon Wesick’s face appears in photographs from physics labs, martial arts dojos, Zen centers, and cities all over the world. He earned his Ph.D. at the University of Maryland and has worked doing cyclotron experiments, communications, medical physics, and systems engineering. He’s studied aiki jujutsu, aikido, karate, judo, and a little kendo. Martial arts and a fascination with the mind led him to meditation. He lived in Vancouver, Canada for three years during his postdoc and has traveled to five continents so far.

Jon hosts Southern California’s best ice cream parlor poetry reading and is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He hopes that he’s passed on some of what he’s learned from his pursuits in the hundreds of poems and stories he’s published in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Metal Scratches, Pearl, Slipstream, Space and Time, Tales of the Talisman, and Zahir. The editors of Knot Magazine nominated his story “The Visitor” for a Pushcart Prize. His poem “Meditation Instruction” won the Editor’s Choice Award in the 2016 Spirit First Contest. Another poem “Bread and Circuses” won second place in the 2007 African American Writers and Artists Contest. Jon is the author of the poetry collection Words of Power, Dances of Freedom as well as several novels.

To learn more about Jon, visit http://jonwesick.com/

Also by Jon Wesick
(Available on Amazon)

Novels

The Department
Hunger for Annihilation
A Butterfly for Zhuangzi
Yellow Lines

Poetry

Words of Power, Dances of Freedom

The Disillusionment of Hal LK2154

Copyright © 2016 by Jon Wesick

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise— without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States copyright law. This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Jack Lungu
www.jackdphotos.com

Version 001
ISBN-13: 978-0-9980844-3-5 (Paperback)

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