Sullivan's Gift: Hegemony, #3

CHAPTER ONE

THEY CALLED HIM TODD whenever they did not want to use his formal designation. He suspected there was a joke in that, though the humor remained a mystery he was unlikely to ever unravel.

Alpha-Prime, as he was called, had been brought to the room again. The dim, empty room where they asked him questions or took samples of his blood and skin and hair. Fifteen feet per side, four blank gray walls, a metal floor, and a ceiling twelve feet above his head. There was nothing else in the room; there never was. Nothing he could use as a weapon or steal for a later attempt at escape. He stood before the door, waiting. When it opened, he would leap for it and try, as he had so many times already, to escape. Depending on who came through the door, his chances would vary between ‘not impossible’ and ‘highly unlikely.’

Something about this time felt different. His first clue came when nobody had drugged or restrained him. Upon all the other occasions he had been bound hand and foot and secured to a ring in the floor. Today he was completely free to move about. Why, he could not say. He assumed a failure of leadership or discipline to be the culprit, as he was dealing with unwashed terrorists and not real soldiers. He would make them pay for their poor attention to detail as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Even with his hands mysteriously unbound, Todd hoped it would not be the giant who opened the door. The giant was formidable. He did not think he could beat the giant in a fight, though he would be happy to match his speed against it in a footrace. If it was the scientist, this would be easy. She was small and weak, and she stank of fear every time her quivering body got close to his. The old woman would not be a problem, either. She was crafty, but frail. He could kill her with a single blow.

The sound of movement outside the door galvanized Alpha-Prime into a tense crouch. The steel rectangle swung open, and he leaped without hesitation. Muscles like steel cables contracted, hurling two-hundred and thirty pounds of hardened bone and sinew forward like a cannonball. He cared little for the body framed in the doorway. As he closed the distance, he only acknowledged in passing the relief he felt when it became clear he was not dealing with the giant this time. His arm extended palm out, the heel of his hand driving ahead of his body to strike the man under the chin. It was a blow designed to kill or maim the figure as he passed on to the freedom of escape.

It never landed.

An explosion of light behind his eyes robbed Alpha-Prime of his senses. He recovered his bearings in time to feel his body strike something hard and unforgiving. Still confused,  gravity spun on its axis before he struck something else with force. It took Alpha-Prime a full second to re-orient and comprehend what had happened. The man in the doorway had struck him hard enough to send his body tumbling into the far wall, whereupon he had dropped to the floor. His head swam. That was simply not possible. He was too fast, too strong, too skilled for that to be the case.

The figure in the doorway stepped clear of the shadows and into the light of his cell. Alpha-Prime rose to a crouch, wary.

First one is free, the man said. The next one will cost you.

Alpha-Prime surged to his feet again. This time he charged to the side and spun to slide around the man. He broke for the open door beyond with all the speed he could muster. The stranger twisted as Alpha-Prime passed, a small smirk evident on his grizzled face. A leg snaked out faster than Alpha-Prime had ever seen a man move before. It swept both feet from beneath the fleeing prisoner. Alpha-Prime struck the wall and floor again, and more lights danced before his eyes.

Come on, man. You can do better than that, right?

Alpha-Prime rolled, rising with an uppercut aimed at the man’s chin. It missed, and Alpha-Prime’s frustration ignited into fury. He threw punches in wild combinations, his fists snapping through the air like twin bludgeons. The man dodged and parried with a contemptuous ease. Wearing a wry scowl akin to a bored teacher with a remedial student, the big man slapped the blows away with practiced efficiency. When a punch finally clipped the man’s chin, Alpha-Prime’s reward came in the form of a counter left hook to the body that blasted the air from his lungs and dropped him wheezing to the floor.

He tried to rise, but his muscles were no longer taking commands from his brain. The man’s derisive chuckling penetrated the sound of his own pulse in his ears like ice water seeping through clothing.

Holy shit, Todd. You managed to land one! I just lost a bet.

Alpha-Prime looked up to see the man rubbing his chin with a chagrined look on his face. He wanted to smash the contempt from that smile, to gouge the condescension out of those ice-blue eyes. He forced himself to stand, furious at the ataxic stumble he was powerless to prevent. He need not have bothered. The big man’s fists sent Alpha-Prime to the floor once more. This time, the enemy followed him down and pinned him to the cold metal deck with a forearm across the throat.

I had them leave you untied so we could talk like men, Todd. I can fight you all day if you want. You can’t beat me, and I don’t get tired. It’s okay with me either way. I’m happy for the exercise. Broad shoulders rose and fell. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m going to let go of you now, and you can either stand and talk to me, or you can keep trying to get out that door. I’ll even leave it open.

The pressure on his neck evaporated, and Alpha-Prime exploded into motion once more. This time he rolled away, planted a foot, and dove for the door. It was a move born of desperation, a trapped animal’s frustration and determination drove Alpha-Prime to new heights of athletic expression. For a fraction of a second, he thought he had done it. The door loomed before him, the shadowed maw beckoning to him with the promise of escape. Then something like a vise clamped onto his shoulder and spun him to the side. A fist struck him in the guts, another just beneath his bottom rib. Before he could fall, the big man seized his arm. Again, Alpha-Prime found himself airborne. With a hollow thud and a cymbal crash of pain he struck the floor for the fifth time in twenty seconds. A deep unreasoning anger began to thrash in his belly. A boiling and unfocused rage that he seized and redirected toward a more appropriate target than the cold metal deck beneath his cheek. When he stood this time, he saw his captor’s head shaking in disappointment. Alpha-Prime did not care. Deep inside his brain, a neurochemical feedback mechanism crossed a critical threshold. A storm of electrical activity realigned itself. The winking energy across Alpha-Prime’s frontal cortex dimmed like a city in brown-out, and his medulla oblongata lit up like a forest of Christmas trees. He no longer cared to escape. Now he just wanted to kill.

He charged again. Punches like grenades arrested his assault even as he began. The heavy blows spun him in alternating directions before an uppercut lifted his feet from the floor. He did not fall this time. He felt no pain, no fear, no despair. Nothing existed save the searing heat of homicidal fury. He attacked again. This time his opponent tangled his arms in a wrestler’s clinch. Twisting and pulling, Alpha-Prime’s powerful muscles nearly tore his joints free of their moorings trying to escape. The enemy proved far too strong, his grip too secure, his skills too perfect. A chopping foot sweep forced Alpha-prime to stumble, then the crushing pressure of a forearm across the neck followed. Alpha-Prime thrashed, he bit, he struggled. Then the flow of blood to his brain slowed to a pathetic trickle, and his body went limp.

The floor rushed to meet him when the man released his choke. Alpha-Prime’s vision and cognizance returned just in time for his face to bounce off the deck with a dull thump. The pain of a split lip pierced his mental fog, informing the downed man that his brief journey into hypoxia had extinguished his berserker rage. Sensory data flooded past his defenses, speaking eloquent volumes about the state of his body. Ribs severely bruised, a strained calf muscle, a torn rotator cuff, and multiple lesser contusions all signaled their displeasure across his nerves. The chorus of pain elicited sharp recriminations for the magnitude of his defeat.

He wanted to fight still. With cold calm reasserting dominance of his mental state, he rejected the idea. This man had wanted him to fight, to try, and to fail. This whole fiasco was a message delivered, or possibly a point made. It made no difference. Alpha-Prime sat up without rising. He let his eyes find the enemy’s, and he said nothing.

With escape no longer an option, he took a moment to actually look at the man. Now he had time to make the assessments he should have before committing to his ill-fated attempt at escape.

The man was taller than him, broader as well. The muscles under his plain blue shirt bulged and pressed at the cloth like live animals trapped in a sack. His thighs strained at the seams of his gray dungarees. The face was broad, the narrow eyes sunk deep under his heavy brows. There were scars on his upper lip and over his left eyebrow. His hair was sandy and very short. Not cut to any style, it looked like he had simply shaved the head bald and left the hair to grow back in. He wore what almost resembled a beard. Scruffy and untrimmed, the hair on his face barely amounted to a five-day stubble. It emphasized the squareness of his slab jaw. His nose had been broken more than once. The kinks remained uncorrected, perhaps left as a warning to ambitious contenders. If his unassuming dominance in their fight had not made it clear, the battered visage provided all the information one might need to get the point. This was a fighter, and not just any fighter. Alpha-Prime should have known. His pre-mission briefing mentioned this possibility, and only now did he remember the details.

You are the Sullivan.

This proclamation stretched the scarred lips into a smile. The Sullivan, huh? I suppose I am the Sullivan. How’s a nice little super-soldier like you know about me?

Alpha-Prime said nothing.

Not much of a talker, are you? Sullivan sniffed. It’s cool. You can just listen. He shut the door behind him without turning. The lock snapped tight with a loud clack. You are Alpha-Prime, right? You know why they called you that? Sullivan waited for a response. Receiving none, he continued. Alpha means you were developed with traits making you suited to command. You are the ‘alpha’ of your company. The others are programmed to listen to you. ‘Prime’ refers to your genetic pedigree. You were the best of your creche, with the highest metrics across all tested parameters. The big man clapped softly. Congratulations.

Alpha-Prime remained silent, as he had been trained to do.

Doctor Platt says you are biologically twenty-one, but chronologically about twelve or thirteen. Sullivan looked up. That has to suck. Anyway, you are also illegally genetically modified. He stopped for a second and pointed. You know what that means? You’ve heard of the Genetic Equity Act?

Alpha-Prime did not and had not. But he still said nothing.

Well, the good news is that as a twelve-year-old you are not legally responsible for your actions or your condition. If we released you right now, you would be picked up by the Genetic Equity Enforcement Department and assigned a career in public service. I assume they’d stick you in a military role, but these days who knows, right? Sullivan stopped to read the prisoner’s face. You’re not getting any of this, are you?

He was not.

The point, Alpha-Prime, is that your life is over. I know you have probably been trained and programmed to follow your mission brief no matter what. I know you have been altered for desirable traits like determination and ferocity too. As soon as you think you have a chance, you’re going to try to get past me again. I know it. What I’m telling you is that if you do manage to escape, there is nowhere for you to go. Camp Zero is gone. Your creators and masters will have to disavow your very existence. They’ll go to great lengths to kill you if you turn yourself in too. There is no base to return to, no command structure to appeal to, and only death awaits if you try to find either one. Sullivan held out his hands. You failed the mission, Alpha. Your unit is burned.

Alpha-Prime felt prickling nails of anxiety crawl up his spine. The thought of having no commanders to report back to for orders set his heart racing. Command structure was everything. It was the difference between order and chaos. He needed it.

Sullivan continued without mercy. This is why we are having this chat, Alpha-Prime. The rest of your men have limited intellect...  It looked like saying those words out loud left a sour taste in Sullivan’s mouth. ...but Doctor Platt says you managed to retain both neuroplasticity and creative thinking. Doctor Cartwright... Maris, that is, says you have demonstrated the capacity for emotional attachments to your men, as well. In short, Alpha, you are almost a real human person underneath all the shit they did to you. So it’s you who I am going to appeal to. He paused, inhaling a large breath before continuing. Your unit is illegal, and you were complicit in an attempt to kill a lot of people. Your masters will not tolerate your continued existence, as you are basically proof of their guilt. Corpus Mundi will kill you on sight, and the Global Republic will either kill you or enslave you. You and your men are completely in the wind, Alpha. Dead men walking.

Alpha-Prime struggled to process this information. He knew enough of his failed mission to see threads of plausibility in Sullivan’s narrative, though his understanding of the other forces in play remained quite limited.

Sullivan was not finished. Your men will die without your leadership. Your masters made sure of that. They are just smart enough to shoot straight and follow your orders. If you want to keep them alive, then you have to make a decision about the future. Because right now, you do not have one.

The prisoner tried to fish for information. I do not believe you.

I can prove it all. Sullivan spread his arms out to his sides. You seem to know who I am. I assume you know I was built in a lab just like you were. Except they did not start with a healthy fetus like with you. Nah. They built me from the ground up, soldier. They built me to do a job just like they built you to do yours. We were both bred to be slaves from day one. Tools. Products. Calloway didn’t even consider us to be human.

The mention of Doctor Brendan Calloway sent a twitch across Alpha-Prime’s cheek. Sullivan saw it and nodded. That’s right. I’ve met the prick. Do you know what he did when I went to visit him? Sullivan’s face darkened. He sent fifty prototype GMP killers after me. I had a Hudson H10. They were naked. He watched me kill them all and never batted an eye.

Men died in training all the time. Alpha-Prime had no feelings for that. Though it was evident Sullivan did, and this intrigued him.

Maybe you don’t care about that, Sullivan said. But imagine that it was your men in there with me, dying by the handful while I cut them down like animals. You know about me? Then you know Calloway sent them to die just for the data.

Imagination was not Alpha-Prime’s strongest suit, but something about that image struck a chord. He nodded. They never had a chance.

Exactly. But you do. Your masters sent you here to die. I’m giving you the opportunity to live. I’m asking you to save the two hundred men of your company, Alpha. You are the sole remaining officer. The chain of command begins and ends with you. The responsibility is yours. You will make the command decision that either dooms or saves your men.

What do you want?

I want to offer you a job... Then, after a pregnant pause he added, ...Todd.

CHAPTER TWO

THAT WENT RATHER POORLY.

Maris intoned the bland observation with an arid drawl conveying both disapproval and condescension in equal portions.

Sullivan shrugged. You’ve been at them for nine months, Maris. It was time to try something else.

These things take time.

Time we do not have.

That’s the thing with hardcases like you, John, Maris fired back. There’s never time to do the job right, but always time to correct it later. We’re not fixing a broken machine, John. We are trying to find a human being underneath many layers of genetic and behavioral manipulation.

What if there isn’t one?

There is. For him at least. Maris shuddered. His men... I just don’t know.

Sullivan nodded. Yeah. That is some dark shit.

Their cognitive functions are so primitive. Frontal cortex activity is there... Maris tripped over her words. It’s been I don’t know... blunted? Muted? They have to be directed to do anything.

Sullivan was not sure he understood any of it. It’s some goddamn messed up shit, he said by way of agreement. Calloway is a monster.

Even so, I’m not sure beating the crap out of Todd was the best way to accelerate his rehabilitation, Maris said.

He respects and understands military supremacy. By letting him have a go at me, I close the door on the fighting option.

You think you can force him to see things your way by shutting down his other options?

He’s a soldier and an officer. He will make the right choices for his men, but we need to narrow those choices down to get him to pick the path we want him to. I’m creating a scenario where helping us is not only inevitable, but desirable too.

A devious sparkle touched the corner of the old woman’s eyes. That sounds very familiar, John.

Do not fucking go there, Maris, Sullivan grumbled.

As long as you recognize it, I don’t have to, she said with a soft smile.

Mickey is a prick, but he’s very good at getting people to do what he wants. I’m not too proud to learn from his example. Sullivan pointed to the beaten soldier on the screen. Right now, Todd knows he’s stuck. His brain wants him to try to complete his mission. His conditioning is telling him to keep fighting until he receives new orders. But the part of his brain they enhanced for creativity and problem solving is already doing the math on that. We need to prove that the only way to save his men and survive is to turn on his creators. We have to establish trust, and we have to prevent him from building a narrative in his head where we are the bad guys.

And beating him up is how you start?

He needed to know that fighting me is futile. He waved off the woman’s incoming rebuke with a snort. No. Not for some macho bullshit biggest-dog-in-the-yard stupidity. He needs that door closed, that path cut off. He needs to be certain that violent resistance is a non-starter.

Maris frowned. So he’ll consider another strategy?

Exactly. He’s creative and smart, but he is programmed to take the direct approach first. I’m shutting that road down.

When did you get so insightful?

When I’m dealing with things I recognize in myself.

Sensing agitation in his voice, Maris waved off the rebuttal. Fair point, John.

He’ll come around. Sullivan tried to instill his voice with confidence, with only middling success. I don’t know what else to do. We can’t keep them all locked up in a warehouse forever.

Does the responsibility make you uncomfortable?

Come on, Maris. Do we have to do this now? Sullivan shook his head and turned away from the old woman. I’m trying, okay? But I hate it.

You are doing very well, John. Maris took a clinical tone, knowing full well Sullivan was more likely to respond to that than her own feelings of genuine concern. You are displaying both sympathy and emotional investment, which is excellent progress. I’m sorry if it comes with discomfort, but no one can stop that. If it makes you feel better, I agree and share your frustration. We have two hundred GMP soldiers locked in a storage facility. A whole damn army of modified killers that can only be commanded by Todd. They are alternately robotic and feral, and they have little ability to think or direct themselves. She let her eyes drop as if resignation was a physical weight she could no longer bear. They are dangerous. They kill without compunction, and they will never understand why that is wrong. The best we can probably hope for is training them to fake their way through what’s left of their lives. She stopped again, and her eyes came back up to meet Sullivan’s. By the way, Platt says other than Todd, none of them will live much past thirty. They will start to decline after their twentieth birthdays, and most will be dead within a decade or two. It’s written into their very DNA, and it cannot be reversed. The clock is ticking for them all, and I can’t make it stop. Maris held out her hands in surrender. It’s a bona fide nightmare in there, John. I’m a doctor, and I don’t want to... she choked on the words ... do anything awful to them. I am not stupid, however. I know that if we can’t find a way to reach them that the prudent choice is to... she stumbled again ...euthanize them all.

I won’t do that, Sullivan growled. Calloway made me do it once. I won’t repeat that bloody fucking horror.

There is that emotional investment, She said with a small smile. That is why I still have hope. She exhaled and rubbed her face. We will need answers and a plan before we see the Council about all this. And soon, John. They are becoming very insistent.

I know how to handle your stupid Council, Maris.

That makes me even more nervous.

Probably appropriate. But there are many things we know now that they don’t. They’ll come around.

And what about Todd?

Let’s try again tomorrow.

Let’s.

Sullivan left the old woman in the observation room. He stalked the corridors of the Lenexa section of the KC Complex with his jaw set in a tight frown. His head hurt. He was angry, but that was to be expected. His brain had been fundamentally altered at his creation to ensure he remained in a perpetual state of aggressive irritability. For most of his life, the confounding variables of fear or guilt never intruded upon his baseline aggravation. His designers kept his psyche free of affection by limiting his ability to experience empathy or sympathy. He was meant to be a fighter like no other. Brutal and mean, focused and angry. He was all this and more for most of his existence. Or at least he had been until something in his brain changed. The shift occurred slowly, a gradual sense of unease and dissatisfaction invading his everyday life. No, he amended himself. It was not dissatisfaction that itched in his brain like an insect bite, but rather unsastisfaction. He lacked the emotional sophistication to explain this emptiness he could not fill, this hunger he could not sate. Whatever it was, he managed to avoid it for a long time. Nevertheless, the feeling gestated behind the curtain of his anger for several years. The strange void needled and niggled at his emotions until even John Sullivan’s legendary obtuseness could no longer obscure the truth that something was very wrong with his mind.

His walk took him to a nondescript gray door in a dim corridor. He turned the handle and dragged it open by hand. He could have palmed the switch, but Sullivan was feeling physical. It slid to the side, revealing a large open chamber. It was bright inside. The sounds of several children in various states of physical exertion met his ears and it almost made him smile.

Ten children between the ages of eight and twelve were engaged in boxing, wrestling, and conditioning exercises under the watchful eyes of a giant.

Patrick Fagan was a SOAP. One of the rarest genotypes in the world, the Selectively Optimized Acromegaly Package created a terrifying figure. Born with congenital acromegaly, Fagan’s parents had violated the law by having his gigantism optimized for physical performance instead of curing it. The result was suitably impressive. Six inches shy of eight feet tall, he towered over his tiny charges like a jovial oak tree. His beard, black and thick, washed over the front of his T-shirt like the waves of an obsidian waterfall. His hair was shaggy, his brows brutal crags over deep-set brown eyes. His muscles were partially obscured by the hair on his arms, but even so their size mocked Sullivan’s. A man of nearly superhuman strength himself, Sullivan grudgingly acknowledged that his giant friend was far stronger. In truth, Sullivan suspected Fagan might be one of the strongest people on earth.

The giant would have been terrifying to behold if not for one detail. He wore an enormous, bright, and evocative grin of pride on his face. He pushed the children to higher levels of physical prowess with bellows of encouragement. He joked, he laughed, he handed out hugs and high fives with irrepressible paternal warmth. The children loved him, and desperate for his approval, they performed for him.

Sullivan found the sweat-slick blond head of Emilie in short order. The nine-year-old girl stood across from an older boy on a large red mat. Her knees were bent slightly, her posture leaning in but balanced between her feet. Tiny child’s hands were in front of her face, elbows tucked in tight, and she circled with wary steps to the boy’s left side. The boy mirrored her posture, circling with her and breathing hard. Sullivan saw the tiny twitch of his upper body, the small dip of the right shoulder a dead giveaway. Even without enhanced reflexes, the attack would have been easy for Sullivan to spot. The boy dropped low and lunged for Emilie’s legs, missing cleanly when she threw her feet backward and brought her weight down on the back of his neck. His chest hit the mat, and the little girl spun to drop her full weight onto his back. The boy pushed up to his hands and knees, his superior strength overcoming the insignificant mass of one little girl. This mistake proved his undoing. A thin arm snaked across his throat, and spindly legs wrapped around his waist. The boy, having been here before, did not wait for the choke to cinch tight before frantically tapping at the offending arm. Emilie released him and rolled off his back.

Mister Sully! she yelled when her eyes found the granite face of her primary instructor. Her corresponding wave vibrated with childish exuberance.

Sullivan walked over to her mat and nodded solemn approval. Nice roll, he said. To the boy, he added, Don’t dip your shoulder first. If you’re going to shoot the double, just do it. You have size on her. If you commit and beat her to the sprawl your chances are good. When you give her the opportunity to see it coming? He dragged a finger across his throat for effect. It’s lights out. The twitch gives you away. Stop doing it.

Yes, Coach, he replied.

Go grab Tom and get another round in. He’s bigger than you. Go see what happens when you can’t force it. He looked back to Emilie when the boy had left. Derek is fast, Emilie. I know he is as fast as you. I saw his tell, but I know you didn’t. You also started your sprawl before he even dropped his hips. You were defending before he even knew what he was going to do. Sullivan scrunched his brow. How’d you know he was going to shoot the double when he did?

Emilie shrugged. He always does that when he is tired. He takes either three steps to the side and shoots the double, or he takes two and goes for a tie-up. When he didn’t tie-up on the second, I knew it was coming after the third step.

Always?

Like ninety percent of the time, yeah.

Do they all have patterns like that?

Emilie frowned. Mostly. Laura likes to pummel for underhooks when she doesn’t know what else to do. Sanjay can’t do seoi nage right but he always tries it when you get a good Georgian grip on him.

So you get an easy tani otoshi?

Every time.

Sullivan shook his head. There were Olympic wrestlers and judoka who spent years developing the kind of insights he was hearing from a mere child. He himself had trained for most of a decade to acquire the strategies this girl was spouting off as a matter of course. On the surface, he understood the reason for this. Emilie, like Sullivan, was a chimera. The rarest form of GMP, each had been assembled from hundreds and even thousands of individual genotypes, carefully selected and modified over successive iterations, and then grown in an artificial womb until ready for what amounted to their birth.

Sullivan had been gifted extra strength, extra speed, and lightning reflexes. He had the bone and muscle density of a gorilla. He could not feel fear or pain like a normal person. His aggression had been cranked up and his compassion turned down. All of it done to make him a furious and unrelenting fighter. Emilie had been built with enormous neuroplasticity and recall. Doctor Platt had grown her brain with extra mirror neurons, allowing Emilie to duplicate the feelings and even predict the thoughts and behaviors of the people she interacted with. The child was a preternatural empath, and in the last year her powers of reductive reasoning had begun to blossom into something truly amazing. Emilie learned more, she learned it faster, and she remembered it all. She could think about more things at once and organize