Chapter 10 – Decisive Recall
It took Von Kalt almost twenty minutes to cut the skin from Ross’s shoulder, using his clumsy left hand. He hadn’t been careful. He’d peeled back the skin of the arm and shoulder back and removed it, laying it flat on a nearby countertop.
Ross realized he must have passed out at some point, but his senses were coming back. He could hear Stanwood arguing with someone outside.
It was Croswell! Stanwood was arguing with Secretary of Defense Croswell. Ross laughed, “he’s come to rescue me, oh my god, how adorable.”
One of Stanwood’s deputies was yelling now too. Ross heard a sharp crack and a stifled cry. “This is between me and the director. If you get in my face again, I’ll shoot you,” Croswell said.
Holding a position usually reserved for civilians, Croswell was a heavily muscled veteran of three wars. He was gruff, surly and couldn't be rushed into anything. He was known for going against the grain, just for the hell of it. He helped the little guys, kicked the big guys in the shin, and laughed about it all the way to the bank.
Stanwood was Croswell's complete opposite, both physically and personally. He was lean and wiry, he tended to strike as soon as conditions became favorable, and the concept of mercy was alien to him. He was Caesar to Croswell's Pompey, the embodiment of ambition, as opposed to natural talent. A former lawyer and non-vet, he’d come up straddling the grey area between the political and intelligence worlds. After school, he’d been employed by all the strategic think-tanks, at one time or another. For the second half of his career, he’d served as Senator Miller’s right hand. That had led to the pocket of the last intelligence director. Now, only five years later, he found himself serving as the interim director, and he was excelling at the position.
Stanwood and Croswell had known each other since grammar school. It was public knowledge that the two of them had an agreed upon ceasefire since their first fight in the third grade.
It had always been the three of them, really, Croswell, Stanwood and Fox. They had been the very top of their class, but Croswell was valedictorian and a gifted athlete. Croswell and Fox had been closer, while Stanwood stood alone.
Fox had plenty of natural ability but no interest in athletics, and could have beaten Jim's GPA with his eyes closed. Instead, throughout high school, he’d been tackling world changing medical breakthroughs. He only stayed in school because it was easy and the girls were beautiful.
Von Kalt moved over to the door, peering out through the small tinted window. The agent with the taser was also distracted, curious about what was going on outside.
Ross knew there was no way his old friend would get Stanwood to back down. If Stanwood got caught interrogating Ross, there would be hell to pay, and for Ross as well. He’d have to explain kneecapping the agent at the taxi stand, and who he had dinner with at Noodles. An official report simply would not do.
Ross snapped the cuffs upward, splintering the arms of the chair and knocking the agent next to him backward. Using the arms of the chair as batons, he beat Von Kalt and the other two agents stupid, driving them from the safe house.
Once the feds were outside, Ross bit down and cracked his rear molar, exposing the failsafe trigger. Another bite and the safe house exploded.
The heavy metal door buckled outward, ripping from its hinges, killing the closest agent, while knocking the man with the taser, and deputy Von Kalt senseless.
Croswell and Stanwood’s argument was silenced for a moment.
“Is this what you wanted, Joe?” Croswell asked.
“What the hell,” Stanwood muttered.
“Now he’s dead, you idiot. Now what are you going to do?”
The Secretary of Defense gestured to his men, who headed back to their idling vehicles.
“Jackass,” Croswell muttered, stepping into the waiting transport.
Across town, Chief Warrant Officer Reid helped a naked Major Ross climb from a decanting tank. This was the same middle-aged Kelton Ross, but he had no scars or tattoos, though his skin did have an odd bluish tint.
“This is it for a while, last legs” Reid said. “If you mess this one up, your out of the game for six months.”
“We could always drop one from orbit.” Ross coughed up blue syrup.
“No, we can’t, actually. The Intel desk has activated an orbital-breech quarantine. They have a dozen rapid response teams for every time zone and both hemispheres. If we drop anything, he’s going to have it covered like flies on a duce. We’re cut off for a bit.”
“We should have been running dubs. Snow’s got the right idea.”
“Should’a, would’a could’a,” Reid replied.
In his study, Dr. Andrew Fox sat before the monitor bank. He'd observed the events of the evening, as they happened, from security and satellite feeds, as well as from the Micronix directly.
After everything that happened at Epsilon, the loss of the scientists and convicts, Fox was still reeling. He’d been as present for that as he was for the rest of it. The same man who had argued with his daughter at dinner had been well aware of the implosion that had taken place some three hundred miles way.
What he couldn’t explain was why he’d felt the need to call Doctor Te in the first place. It was his fault all this had happened… Well, at least Ross’s capture and the attack on his home. Actually, the problems at Epsilon were his fault too. The entire thing, the mess of his life, was entirely his responsibility.
It had been years since he’d spoken to Lao. Why had he called him? Had he really known the facility would be destroyed?
Now it seemed to be the only logical outcome, but he hadn’t wanted to believe that, just hours ago. He hadn’t believed it could happen so fast.
And who sent a team of mercenaries to attack his home? Why hadn’t they just taken out warrants against him?
Fox looked down at his hands. The Micronix rested in his right palm and the new, Metachron, rested in his left. He’d tried to re-synchronize them, but it hadn’t worked. He tried again.
His hands could get no closer than a fist’s distance apart.
He tried and tried to press the black metal rectangles together, but the devices repelled each other. The devices would not merge; they refused to even make contact with one another.
The Micronix had never had a problem producing or reabsorbing clones before, but in the presence of the Metachron it could not. Fox hadn’t fed it metal in years, and the command to expose the feed tray did nothing.
Movement on the security and satellite feeds distracted him. Back up security units had arrived and were tending to Lee and Buckner, as well as the smoldering residence.
Fox regretted the fact that he’d missed Bell killing the first guards. If he'd been more alert, maybe he could have warned Faulkner.
Soon Lee and Buckner were moved to a safe location for debriefing, while the fire and police departments dealt with the larger scene up the hill.
The back up units remained vigilant, discretely parked around the neighborhood. Fox forwarded his usual protocol and the local media was officially suppressed, in the interests of National Security.
He put the monitors to sleep, went to the bathroom and vomited.
On his way to bed, he checked on the children. Ashley's room was first. Fox felt a flash of concern, seeing that her bed was empty. Ashley's window faced the canyon. It was possible the fire had awakened her.
Fox crossed the hall to Geoffrey's room. Brother and sister were curled up together, sound asleep. Satisfied on several levels, Fox closed the door.
It was a full hour before sleep finally took him, his wife beside him. He held the Micronix nestled in his palm. The second prototype, the Metachron, lay on the nightstand.