7th Son, page 13
Caine gazed down at his right thigh and rubbed it absently.
“Jesus. I can remember when he was shot in Okinawa. I can feel it.”
Sanjah shook her head. “Later. Let him stay near the surface. It’s better that way; takes care of most of the unconscious stuff. Body language, signature sayings, accents, that sort of thing. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past three days, it’s this: Don’t try to be the host. Just let it flow. Caine’s in there. Pillage when no one’s around.”
“Got it.”
“Hold still now.”
Mira Sanjah reached out and plucked a strand of gray hair from Caine’s scalp. She slipped it into the test tube, then replaced the rubber cap.
“Thank God you only need one. I don’t have many to spare.”
Sanjah glanced at her watch again. “So, quick. Do the FBI, CIA, NSA, know anything about us?”
Caine closed his eyes. They rolled in their sockets like a madman’s.
“No.”
“Do they know anything about our family reunion?”
Caine smiled. “No. The bastards are apparently keeping it quiet, running it in-house.”
“So I was right,” the nurse said, grinning.
“No, I was right.”
Sanjah laughed, ripped the latex gloves from her hands, tossed them into the shimmering wastebasket. She then picked up the black device and tucked it under her arm like a textbook. “Time to go.”
“You know what to do from here,” Caine said. “Give my best to Devlin.”
Sanjah grinned. “It’s Devlins now. Hordes, really. It’s all on schedule. Unit One is already learning how to drive the trucks, and learning to love vodka. Unit Two is freezing its balls off, while Unit Three is having fun, fun, fun till their daddy takes their T-birds away. And speaking of daddies, I’m off to find the prodigal. I’ll probably need some Devs for that.”
“Make as many as you need.”
“That’s it, then. You know when to report, of course.”
The vice president nodded. “Report.” It rolled off his tongue in a romantic gush. “I can’t wait to talk to myself.”
Mira Sanjah walked to the door and winked at him before she opened it. “You just did.”
Charles Caine grinned during Dr. Jared Blackwell’s predictably bland synopsis of his health during the press conference thirty minutes later. Aside from a touch of hypertension—well within normal limits for a man of Caine’s age and position, Blackwell emphasized—the man was more than fit to lead the country. The Pack voraciously gobbled every syllable . . . its flashbulbs, zoom lenses, and clown-red-lipstick smiles said as much. Caine smiled through it all, too, nodding at the appropriate moments.
When he took the lectern after Blackwell’s briefing, the questions overflowed from the Pack. All of them inane.
All of them perfectly, deliciously inane.
Vice President Charles Caine answered every last one. Just before he left the stage, he delivered his sound bite that would indeed be edited into the evening’s newscasts: “I feel right as rain and am ready to help President Hale and this great nation in any way I can.”
As he departed, no one asked the vice president why he was waving with his left hand instead of his right, as he had done for the forty years he’d been in politics. The Pack simply didn’t notice.
Which made John Alpha—who was now lurking and controlling Caine’s psyche from the depths of the old man’s hippocampus—smile even more.
THIRTEEN
It was good to be back in the Common Room, John thought. Not because it made the day’s revelations any easier to swallow, or because he was closer to his bed, which he desperately wanted to dive into. It was good because it was the closest he could get to being outside. As John sat on the circular couch in the center of this circular room, staring up past his cigarette smoke, he could spot birds swooping across the skylight above him . . . and far, far up into the blue, misty contrails of airliners. Or fighter jets, more likely. In these parts and in these times, you could never be too sure.
After Durbin had played the audio file in the Operations room—deee dee deee dee deeeeee—the group had taken the express elevator up here for lunch. Warm sandwiches and cold sodas were waiting for them, but only Michael felt like eating after the ride. John had made a beeline for the couch and his smokes—just need to sit down for a sec . . . just a sec . . . process this shit—and the others had found some similar solace in looking up into the sky, into the great freedom above.
John exhaled and watched the smoke rise. This place they were in, it was a tomb, dangerous. He didn’t trust it, and he didn’t trust Kleinman, Hill, or Durbin. It was a feeling, just a feeling tugging at his brain, like a sliver of popcorn shell trapped between your teeth. It nagged, insisted.
Nearly all of the clones sat on the couch. Jay and Jack sat beside each other, conversing in conspiratorial whispers. John had no idea what they were saying, but it was clear Jack was steamed about something. John smiled at the exchange. Toss them in Star Wars T-shirts and they’d look like kid brothers up to no good. Now, John smiled at the irony.
Kilroy2.0, however, was not at the couch. He pored over a motley collection of computer monitors, keyboards, and CPUs humming away on a folding table placed in the far end of the room. The lunatic had nearly shrieked with joy when he’d spotted the setup. John suspected these were the computers that had been taken from Kilroy’s home when the spook squad had kidnapped him. Just as they had kidnapped John. And Dr. Mike. And Father Thomas. And the rest, here on Gilligan’s isle.
Kleinman was with them, sitting on a section of the couch. He appeared tired, yet wired. The constant polishing of his glasses tipped his hand. Right now, with that quiet impatience radiating from him, Kleinman reminded John of a boss he once had in Georgia a few years back—during what John now called the Road Work Years. Roy Fielder was his name. He owned Athens Rock N’ Roll, a paving and cement company. No matter how early John would show up to prep the mixer, the roller, or the work site, Roy Fielder was there. First to arrive, last to leave. Fielder would pace and cross his arms, silently waiting for the crew to get that first mug-o-joe in their bellies and get to work. Roy Fielder never said a word, but his eyes implored. There’s sweat to be spilled and profits to be made.
Restless, Kleinman clapped his hands on his knees. John took another drag and looked at the old man.
“So now we’re supposed to decode the message our evil twin left for us,” John said. “We find Mom and save the day.”
Kleinman nodded. “Something like that.”
“And you’re depending on seven semi-average Joes instead of superbrilliant government folk because . . . ?”
Kleinman fidgeted with his glasses. “Twofold. The first should be obvious: secrecy. To contact outsiders about Alpha’s plot, whatever it may be, would reveal the existence of 7th Son. The world doesn’t know about us, Alpha, or you. I wouldn’t think you’d want to share a face—much less fingerprints and DNA—with a political assassin. Every post office in America would have your mug shot on a bulletin board. Instant fugitives. And I don’t think any of you are ready to out yourselves as human clones.”
“Got that right.” John took another drag. “But it seems shortsighted. You’re taking us seven whippersnappers over whatever brainiacs the feds have at their disposal. Not to mention sheer manpower, or gunpower. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t worry about the resources,” the old man replied. “General Hill can get you whatever you need. Trust me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Listen. Over the past three weeks, Durbin, Hill, and our team tried to decode that Morse-code message—if it’s even Morse code—and came up with file after file of gibberish. They’re stumped, which makes me wonder about using government ‘brainiacs.’ Alpha sent two messages with this kidnapping: ‘You can’t decode this’ and ‘Get the Betas—they’ll be able to do it.’ The label on the CD-ROM said as much.”
“And since we have the same memories as Alpha—to a certain point in his life—we’re suddenly very useful,” John said, and smirked. “I see what you’re going for. If anyone could get into Alpha’s head . . . really get into his head to stop him . . . it’d be us. Seven heads are better than one.”
Kleinman smiled. “You’re good.”
“Better hope so.”
Across from the pair, Jack and Jay concluded their mini-conference. Jack leaned forward, face flushed, and tapped his index finger on the round table. “Kleinman, we want to talk to our families. They’ve got to know what’s going on here, where we are. Jay and me. We’ve gotta talk to our wives. No bullshit.”
“You can’t, Jack,” the doctor said. “Not right now. There’s too much wo—”
Now Jack’s knuckles rapped on the Formica. “No, I said. No. They need to know we’re okay. You’ve got us by the balls, but at least give us a phone call.”
Across the room, Kilroy2.0 clapped his hands and gave a small hoot. The five monitors were powered up now. A small webcam rested on one of the boxy CRTs. Kilroy2.0 leaned his head over the keyboards—stacked almost atop each other, like keys on a cathedral organ—and began typing. John and the other clones stepped over to see what was happening.
“Are you up and running?” Kleinman called. He stood up, grateful to escape Jack’s ire. The bearded, bespectacled clone remained on the couch, knuckles still on the table. His shoulders sagged. John felt a pang of sympathy. Hell, he’d left his girl, Sarah, on a balcony in Miami, where she’d promised sex and breakfast. It was a fucking mess, all of it.
Kilroy2.0 didn’t look up, but nodded his head furiously. The monitors glowed with Web-site windows, strange programs, and streaming text, numbers and graphics. John, whose computer experience was limited to the occasional visit to the public library to buy an amp on eBay, was amazed. He’d never seen anything like this: Kilroy2.0 was like an orchestra conductor on speed, his fingers already rak-a-tacking across the keyboards, his hand flipping to the computer mouse to double-click a winking icon. The computers hummed, beeped, and whirred . . . and apparently did what Kilroy2.0 told them to.
It’s like he’s come home, John thought. Like none of this, none of us, matter.
“What operating system is that?” Jack asked, squinting at the screens.
“Home-brewed,” the hacker muttered as he typed. “Called K2.”
“Our tech team installed the audio file onto your hard disk,” Kleinman called. “When you’re ready, go ahead and play it.”
Kilroy2.0 clicked an icon on one of the monitors, which activated the sound file. It played through the computers’ attached speakers and into the circular room. No one spoke. John thought of a roomful of army telegraph operators wearing their arcane headphones, hunched over their little electric noisemakers, pumping messages to wires suspended over burning battlefields.
Dee deee . . . deee deee dee . . . dee deee . . . dee deee . . . deee dee deee dee . . . dee deee . . . Dee deee . . . deee deee dee . . . dee deee . . . dee deee . . . deee dee deee dee . . . dee deee . . . dee deee . . .
There was more, but Michael spoke up over it. “Stop playing it for a minute.”
Kilroy2.0 clicked an on-screen button that resembled a STOP button on a tape player and looked up at the marine.
“Gimme a sec.” Michael closed his eyes; a line of concentration formed over his eyebrows. Near him, Jay did the same. “Play it again,” Michael said.
Kilroy2.0 clicked the rewind button and played the file again. It was creepy: dee deee dee deeee, like a message from an alien race.
The hacker stopped the message when Michael opened his eyes.
“Someone grab a piece of paper,” Michael said. “It’s definitely Morse code.”
Nearly all of the clones had dashed back to the couches when Kleinman tore a page from a pocket notebook and waved it at them. Kilroy2.0 kept his post at the computer. They crowded around the circular table at the center of the room, peering down at the letters as Michael wrote them. Even now, John couldn’t help noticing the marine’s handwriting.
That’s my handwriting, he thought. Jesus Christ. His A’s look like triangles. Just like mine.
Michael had written three rows of capital letters; the first two had six letters . . . the last, seven letters.
AGAACA
AGAACA
AGAACAA
Dr. Mike snorted. “What up, Da Vinci Code?”
“What does it mean?” Father Thomas asked, shaking his head.
“No idea,” Michael said. “I didn’t edit for content.”
“Are you sure you translated it correctly?” Kleinman asked.
“Yeah, he did,” Jay said. “It’s the real deal.”
Dr. Mike looked at him suspiciously.
“I had to learn this stuff to work in the field for the UN,” Jay said. “When you’re in the middle of the mountains of Pakistan and the satphone’s on the fritz, you gotta communicate. It’s usually reserved for emergencies.”
“Well, this is an emergency,” Dr. Mike said, and picked up the piece of paper. “But I’m with the priest. Agaa-caa? What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“That’s basically what Durbin’s team said,” Kleinman replied. “They decoded the same letters, have been puzzling over it since.”
The clones stood in silence, staring down at the letters written in Michael’s handwriting—in their handwriting. They glanced at one another, that same worried expression pinching their faces.
And here we are, together at the starting gate, John thought. That’s what we’re all thinking. If we get this ball rolling now, we’re admitting some truths, aren’t we? We’re admitting that we believe. That it’s all true. Can I trust these me’s? Can I trust them like I trust myself?
Then, as Jay began to speak, the moment passed. John’s mind flitted to cigarette smokers, instant conversation. A freak is not a freak if all are freaks, Frank Zappa once said. Too true. The seven were in for a penny, in for a pound.
“Agaa-caa. Is it an acronym?” Jay glanced at the marine for a reply. “Maybe for a company or an agency?”
Michael shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. Even if you say them phonetically: ‘Alpha, Golf, Alpha, Alpha, Charlie, Alpha.’ That’s no code I’m familiar with. It could be some kind of instruction or command—like some kind of GPS coordinates for latitude or longitude—but we don’t have any kind of context. If it’s an answer, we don’t have the question. If it’s the lock, we don’t have a key. There’s plenty of Alphas in there, for what it’s worth.” He shrugged. “I just don’t know how much it’s worth.”
“Me neither,” Dr. Mike said, clearly intrigued now. “Maybe it’s not an acronym. Maybe it’s a . . . ah, shit. What’re those words you rearrange to make other words?”
“A palindrome?” Father Thomas said.
“Anagram,” Kilroy2.0 said, still staring at his computer screen. The others looked at him in that strange amalgam of morbid curiosity and amazement. The oracle speaks and the faithful listen, John mused. Then the lunatic added, “Anagrams are your best friends in online Scrabble.”
“Swell,” Dr. Mike said. “Anagram. Is it one of those?”
They looked over the letters.
“Cagaaa? Aaacag?”
“Those aren’t words,” Jack replied.
“I’m just trying to help,” Thomas muttered.
The clones continued to look at the slip of paper.
“CA. GA. Those could be abbreviations for states,” Michael said. “California and Georgia.”
“Yeah, but what about the other two A’s?” Dr. Mike flashed a brilliant smile. “Is John Alpha telling us that he’s in a twelve-step program?”
“Be serious, Doc,” Michael said.
“I’m just sayin’. Maybe it’s a cry for help.”
“Hush,” Jack said, and squatted down. His knees popped, two little thundercracks. “Of course,” he said, tapping the letters with his index finger. “These are code letters for nucleotides. Nucleotides are the building blocks of DNA.”
Dr. Mike grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere. The twisted fuck. Appropriate message for a bunch of clones.”
Jack picked up the paper and held it. It quivered slightly in his hand. Across the room, Kilroy2.0 was already finger-pecking on his keyboards.
“So what do those letters mean?” Father Thomas asked. “Does it spell out a gene or something?”
The geneticist shook his head. “It’s not that easy. Nucleotides are like little biological code words. They talk to cells. Depending on the code word, which is defined by the order of the nucleotides, the cells produce special proteins. That’s how traits are passed from parent to child . . . or clone to clone. It’s all about A’s, T’s, G’s and C’s.”
“Mendel and his peas,” John said.
“And Q’s,” Dr. Mike said. “I’ll get the Cliff’s Notes later. So what’s the problem?”
Jack sighed. “Instructions for protein manufacture are composed of hundreds of nucleotides, not six or seven. This might be a part of a protein code, but it’s certainly not—” Suddenly, Jack stood and whirled around. He looked at Kilroy2.0, then pointed at the computer screens. “Hey. Where can you go with those?”
Kilroy2.0 grinned. “Anywhere.”
“Good. Do a search. Genetic databases. For AGAACA.”
Kilroy leaned over the keyboards. His fingers tak-tacked. John heard the distinctive double-click of the computer mouse.
“Working,” Kilroy2.0 said. Dr. Mike rolled his eyes. John watched lists of data simultaneously stream across the five monitors. The mouse clicks almost became a cadence.
“Numerous hits,” Kilroy2.0 said. “It’s part of a wheat genome. It’s also part of a sequence for an anticoagulant. Also found in some mouse and rat hormone receptors.”
Michael frowned. “Okay. So what do wheat, rat hormones, and blood clotters have in common?”
Silence.
John stared at the letters. Stared past the letters.
AGAACA. AGAACAA.
