Dues of Mortality (54 page)

Glenda
remembered again Jones's glassy eyes, how he looked at her with not
so much as a hint of recognition or emotion, like a machine.

“
I’ll
be damned,” Xavier said keenly. “They’re right. All
the conspiracy theorists people like you label as nuts and radicals—
they’re right. You
are
making a master race.”

Wallace
laughed at him. “I can see now, why this is all you’ve
amounted to in your life, Hawkins. You think simplistically, like all
the rest of them. This isn’t about racial or genetic
superiority. Who gives a shit about that anymore? In fact, if there’s
one thing I have learned in this business, it’s that we really
are all the same under the skin. I don’t give a damn whether
the master race is black or white, gay or straight, short or
tall...as long as they don't
fucking
get in my way
!”

“
Well,
damn if that don't sound familiar. What kind of sick-ass playbook are
you people reading from?”

Wallace
ignored the comment. “This is about the power to decide one's
fate, Mr. Hawkins. It’s about all the things ordinary people
like to pretend don't have as much control over their pointless lives
as they think.” Wallace paused with a pout. “However,
it’s mostly about good business. Eventually,
I
will
have the process perfected. I’ll be able to
insert clones into any and every position of influence I wish; board
rooms, judges’ chambers, congress...and dare I say it...The
White House.”

“
Live
long enough and you'll eventually bump into yourself, fresh out of
the test tube, huh?”

Wallace
just shrugged. “I don't expect a cretin like you to understand
how things get done in this world. In fact, the only thing people
like you
need
to
understand is that people like
me
are the only reason we're
all not still draped in buffalo skins and bashing our dinner or our
women over the head with a big stick.”

“
Uhhhh!
I knew it,” Glenda hollered abruptly. Her face was in knots.
She absolutely couldn't believe what she was hearing. “I knew
it! I knew it! It always boils down to more of this macho,
male-domineering bullshit! What...is...
wrong
with you people? You never quit!
It’s not enough that you already have
all
the power and
all
the money; there’s always
more to be had! You always find something more! And the ends always
justify the means to you! If you happen to take the whole world down
with you, then so be it! Jesus, just
one
man
! Give me
one
man
in
the world
who
thinks about someone else before himself! I swear to God, it’s
a miracle that every time a man takes a shit, he doesn’t suffer
irreparable brain damage!” When Glenda finally stopped yelling,
it felt like the only thing missing in the entire room was the
ambient chirping of crickets.

Xavier
would
need a
juice press to get his eyes back in their sockets. For some reason,
he couldn't help feeling
himself
as part target of that little outburst. And he was certain that any
chance he and Glenda had at a painless execution had just ridden off
into the sunset.

Wallace,
on the other hand, hadn't budged. In fact, he appeared almost
entertained
by Glenda's explosion.
“
I
can see now why Simonton wanted you so much,” he said. “I’m
practically getting an erection from here. Although, I’m at a
loss to understand what
you
ever saw in
him
.
If I know anything about women, it’s that you people can’t
stand a wimp. And Peter Simonton was the biggest coward I'd ever met.
Quite indicative of most of my clientele. They were scared
out
of their minds
of
everything from terrorists to toilet seats; afraid of growing old or
getting sick or having no legacy. Some of them even invested with me
on the chance that one day I'd be able to plug their worthless brains
into a brand new body. And all because they just wanted
so
badly
to be
relinquished from their dues of mortality, from the inevitable tax
for being human.”

“
And
everybody knows to what lengths guys like that will go to avoid
paying taxes,” Xavier said.

“
Oh,
people have killed, wars have been fought, and nations have fallen.”

“
So
why go to all the trouble? Why not just make a clone of Beaumont and
be done with it?”

“
The
good senator’s suspicious nature wouldn’t allow it. He
travels under
very
tight security. Any bloodwork his
doctor's order is done by high-security private labs. And he has far
too many hangers-on to risk the imperfections of a prototype clone.
Of course, this is all beside the fact that the entire process can be
quite tricky. By the time we'd have gotten enough of the senator's
DNA to even start, the voting in Washington would have been over.”

Xavier
knew the answer to his next question, but threw it out there anyway.
“Why did you drag us down here?”

“
Oh,
you’re here to die,” Wallace answered. “I was just
trying to save myself the hassle of hauling around heavy corpses.”
He sauntered over to the dimly lit row of incubators. “It’s
all just a preventative measure. Your bodies will provide all the
tissue necessary to make decent replicas. Of course, they'll have
certain built-in destruct mechanisms designed to activate at specific
time intervals. Just a little added measure to discourage suspicion
about your deaths. No one knows you’re here. It won’t
even occur to anyone to suggest murder, let alone, come looking for
your killers.”

Xavier
bowed his head, thinking back to barely a week ago...to that missing
bullet. He should have ended it when he had the chance. But he
didn't. All he had done was eek out a few more days and bring an
innocent person down with him. Shit. To have gone through life
without being of any use to anyone, to have caused nothing but pain
and sorrow to the ones he loved the most.
That
was the worst, he thought. Those were the
real
dues of...

The
huge lab doors abruptly slid open and once again, the distinct,
clackity-clack of Miles Gabriel’s Italian shoes provided a
soundtrack for his entrance. The doors hissed closed as he walked
forward, his Armani coat flowing behind him like a cape.

“
Miles,
you’re just in time,” Wallace shined. “I was just
telling our friends here that they’re about to die.”

“
About
to?” Gabriel asked perturbed. He wondered just what in the hell
they were all doing
down
here
and the
obvious answer was threatening him with a stroke. Wallace was
indulging in some fun-and-games B-movie bullshit.
He
was “feeling” himself as the villain.
Idiot!
Hawkins
and Jameson were nothing! Just small time, insignificant scraps. It
wasn’t like prying information out of them would be difficult.
They should've have been purged by now and ready for the furnace.
Damn him!

Wallace
moved into the area illuminated only by small steady lights and
ambient flashes from the incubation monitoring equipment. He pressed
his palm against a wall panel and a dozen tanks were flooded with
soft unobtrusive blue light. The tanks were filled with gestating
clones in various forms of development, starting from the farthest
end with youngest to oldest. They were all from the same male
subject, of course, and some were already registering defects and
would have to be scrapped.

Wallace
looked surprised. “What...” He had expected the
incubators in the row to be empty. He certainly didn't
recall
a recent commissioning of any male replicates. He scanned the lot
carefully, starting from the youngest and moving up. The clones'
crescendo ended with the figure of an average looking man of about
thirty-five lying dormant in his capsule. He looked as if he belonged
on a morgue slab. Ironic, he should be encased in a tube constructed
to produce life...or something like it. Wallace crept closer.

That
face!
he thought.
“Dad?”

The
lab's steel doors ceremoniously parted again and a man with
slick-back hair and wearing a black leather jacket entered the room.
He was holding Glenda's stocky bovine of a guard at bay with the
guard's own gun. The guard was bleeding profusely from the nose and
the man in the leather jacket was using his stout physique as a human
shield.

“
Is
this everybody?” the man asked.

“
What
is this?” Wallace shouted. “Who the fuck are you?”

“
You're
right on time, Calvin,” Gabriel said. “Though it was
supposed to be just the two of us.”

Ross
shot the guard in the base of his spine and a helping of blood and
gore exploded from the front of his shirt. The overpaid lout
collapsed in a heap with an audible crack of his skull against the
floor. “Now there's one less,” Ross said.

Wallace
stuck a thumb at the gestating clone. “What the hell is going
on here?”

“
What’s
the matter, Jerome, not a good likeness?” Gabriel blustered.
“The maturation process isn’t complete yet. It’s
you in about your mid-thirties. So far it’s come up clean for
defects. In another forty-eight hours, it should look exactly like
you are now—a dried up sack of bones, who’s far outlived
his greatness.”

Wallace
threw a look hotter than a solar flare in Gabriel's direction.
“You’re making a clone of me?” he asked, as if
Gabriel's insult meant zip. “It’s not possible! I know
how the process works! There's no way in hell you got a sample of my
DNA large enough for this!”

“
You’re
absolutely right. You keep a tight lid on your own DNA, to avoid
becoming a victim of what you push on others. That’s why it
cost me a pretty penny to get Mai Ling to fuck your tired old ass.
She wanted extra afterward, for being able to keep her breakfast
down.” Gabriel paused with a smirk. “Didn't you wonder
why a woman who suddenly couldn't keep her hands off you insisted on
protection?”

Wallace
thought back to his recent in-office romps with his assistant, Mai
Ling Chow. She had said she liked giving head just after a man...
oh,
shit, she was the one who removed the condoms!
She must
have bagged them when he went to the bathroom.

“
Why?”
Wallace asked.

“
Business,”
Gabriel said. He stepped closer to Wallace and covertly worked his
wrist inside the sleeve of his coat, until the tiny two-shot
Accelerator pistol—the MAG version of a Derringer—was
half-cupped in his palm. “You're going to retire, Jerome.
You're going to step down as head of Millenitech and transfer total
control of all your holdings to me.”

Wallace
was speechless. Breathless. All he could do was stand there and look
deep into Gabriel's eyes for
anything
that said this was all just a bad joke.

“
You're
dreaming,” Wallace finally said. “You don't honestly
think...”

“
You
have no family, Jerome...no friends, no one close enough to you to
question your motives or your sanity. There's only me. We've been
joined at the hip for years. I know where all the bodies and, more
importantly, your
treasures
are buried...offshore and
otherwise. Your clone will have the memories of your passwords and
have no trouble at all getting past those annoying little biometric
scans you packed on top of one another for added security.”
Gabriel shook his head slowly. “Everything you own, and
everything you’ve worked on and
pretended
to work
for
your
entire life
...
will
belong to me.”

Wallace
lilted backward, lightheaded. Whether ten seconds or a year went by,
he didn’t know. “You fucking...No one will believe you!”
he declared.

“
I
think you meant to say no one will believe
you
.
And
yes
they will. The Jones prototype
had a few glitches, that's true...but your clone won't be burdened
with the intricacies of the soldier software; all I need do is
program it to sign a few papers and smile wanly.” Gabriel
nodded genially. “No, it’ll work. You’ve made sure
of that.”

Calvin
Ross let out a rift of laughter. “Well, goddamn! Fucked in the
ass by your own technology! I couldn’t have planned it better!
Ha, ha, ha, ha...”

Without
warning, Ross’s arm exploded in a burst of blood and his gun
spit out a stray blast as it clanged to the floor. Ross's own
laughter had provided the perfect gap of attention for Gabriel to get
off the shot he was hoping for.