[Secret Project] Chapter 6

Dupes Chapter 6: Blue Murder

Bugger! I should have expected this.

More than three minutes had passed since the enforcers’ ultimatum, and they thought I was working for Quick-Load, or whoever those criminals really were. Alright, technically I—or rather, Fred—had been working for them, but that was beside the point. Rochamble’s armed responders had notoriously itchy trigger fingers, so I should’ve known I’d be liable to end up in a body bag alongside Moh’s goons.

I raised my hands so they could see them through the shattered canopy of the service mech cockpit. “I can either climb out, or put my hands in the air—not both at the same time,” I called out. “This thing doesn’t have an exit ramp.”

“Get out of the vehicle, smartarse!” shouted the voice on the loudspeaker.

Taking that as permission to lower my hands, I slithered out of the cockpit as carefully as I could. This was one situation where falling on one’s arse could result in an exploded skull.

Once my feet were firmly on the ground, the enforcers surged forwards. A fist slammed into my stomach. I doubled over, wheezing. Rough hands seized my arms, spun me around, and clapped handcuffs around my wrists. I thought that would be the end of their brutal treatment, but oh no, they were just getting started. As they led me back towards the patrol skimmers, one of them swept my legs out from underneath me, and several sets of hands drove me face-first into a blood-slicked puddle.

“Whoops,” said a female enforcer as I sputtered and choked. Someone held my head down in the shallow muck. “Gotta watch your step there, boyo.”

A boot connected with the side of my face. Another cracked into the small of my back. I kinda lost track of what happened after that. At some point, barely audible over the ringing in my ears, I heard another blue finally come to my aid. “Jesus. That’s enough, lads. And lass. You’ve subdued the bastard.”

Someone pulled me to my feet. My legs felt like jelly beneath me—or perhaps tenderised steak would be a better description. Either way, it was all I could do just to stay upright as they hauled me the rest of the way to the skimmers.

Once inside the vehicle, they drove me back to the enforcement centre for processing. I don’t remember much of the journey—only that everything hurt.

As a pair of enforcers led me through the door, I spotted Lucie and Jaheem sitting nervously in the waiting area. Their expressions changed from relief to outrage at the state I was in.

“Why is he in handcuffs?” Lucie demanded, leaping to her feet. “Can’t you see he’s hurt? You should have taken him to a clinic!”

“Stay back, Miss,” warned one of the blues. “This is a dangerous criminal.”

“Dangerous…?” she spluttered. “You. Fucking. Morons. This is our friend—the one I told you about! The one you were supposed to protect from the dangerous criminals!”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. I half expected them to slap handcuffs on Lucie as well, but the other enforcer just sighed and led me away.

“Hang tight, Fritz!” Jaheem called out. “We’ll convince them to let you out.”

Good luck with that, I thought wryly. Fred had unwittingly been working for some pretty dangerous criminals. They’d think I was Fred. So yeah, I could be here a while. And I’d need an advocate to speak for me.

They took me to a holding cell, where they cuffed me to a chair. Then they hurried out, leaving me there with nothing but my thoughts for company. I took advantage of the alone time to carry out the vital task of wallowing in self-pity. My body felt like a sack of raw meat, and I probably looked the part as well. I couldn’t sleep, partly because I hurt too much, and partly because I’d never been able to sleep this early in the morning. In the past few weeks after Fred’s appearance, my biological clock had shifted back a few hours, but I had a long way to go before I could consider myself a daywalker.

Light began to seep in through the narrow slits of the high windows. I’d been here at least a couple of hours, then. Were they just gonna leave me here to rot?

The door swung open, and in stepped a blue whose name tag read Secundus L. Wilson. A secundus is a relatively high-ranked enforcer, well above the pay grade of the common centurions who had rough-handled me earlier. We sat regarding each other silently for some time, before finally the secundus spoke. “I…apologise for the rough treatment you received.”

“Rough?” I gave a bitter chuckle, then winced at the pain in my chest. “They nearly beat me to death.”

The secundus coughed. “Yes, well, our centurions can be a little…zealous, but it’s their job, and their lives are on the line. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a war out there.”

“Oh I noticed when the bullets started flying,” I said. “But I’m not your enemy, and I didn’t deserve to be your punching bag.”

He regarded me silently again, before seeming to change tack. “I have to say your actions don’t paint you in a favourable light Mr Baine. Mechular assault of an enforcer is punishable by firing squad. So I suggest you cooperate fully with our investigation. Do so, and I’ll try to persuade the judge be lenient with you.”

I stared at him. My battered brain was having trouble processing his words. “Mechular assault…? What are you talking about?”

“You charged at us in a dangerous machine during an active combat engagement. One of our centurions was wounded in said engagement. What do you think it looks like to us?”

“I didn’t wound anyone!” I objected. Well, my clone had squished one of Moh’s goons who had been about to kill me, but surely they wouldn’t fault him—or rather, me—for that.

“No, but your buddies did,” he said. “They have been dealt with.”

“They weren’t my buddies. Did you kill them all?”

Secundus Wilson gave me another long look. “A few managed to escape in a boat. The coastguard is searching for them.”

“Dammit!” I growled. “As I said, they’re not my buddies. Those arseholes at Quick-Load tried to kill me. Why’d you think I was running away from them and towards your behemoth tank?”

He sighed. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning. Tell me, in your own words, your relationship with this company that calls itself Quick-Load.”

The interrogation that followed…well, it’s not important. Knowing that anything I said could be used against me, I gave him just enough information to help them catch the real bad guys without incriminating myself. Or so I hoped. He pressed me for more details, I asked for an advocate, yadda yadda yadda.

He left the room looking irritated, which I took to be a good sign. A happy or triumphant expression would be more cause for concern.

After another unbearably long wait, a new pair of enforcers entered the room. To my surprise, they told me they wouldn’t be laying any charges. Lucie and Jaheem’s testimony, combined with what they found at the harbour, had convinced them I’d been speaking truthfully. But for my own safety, they were going to escort me home and keep guards outside my apartment.

“Then the coastguard didn’t catch the bastards?” I asked.

“Not all of them,” said one of the men, whose name tag read Centurion E. Taylor. This guy was built like a brick shithouse. His partner, Centurion Cole, made for a pretty intimidating sight as well. “M3’s boys are like cockroaches. Now that you’ve exposed them to the light, you do not want to be alone tonight, believe me.”

My heart skipped a beat. “So they really are M3?”

Centurion Taylor laughed at my expression. “You seriously didn’t know who you were working for?”

I groaned. “As I already told Secundus Wilson, I thought they were a legit business.”

“Sucks to be you, kid,” he said. “Now come with us.”

Next thing I knew, I was in a skimmer being whisked to a clinic. Under the watchful eyes of the centurions, the nurse probed my face and body with needles, and I felt a warm tingling sensation suffuse my skin as swarms of nanites began to knit my torn and bruised flesh back together. By morning, there’d be little evidence of enforcer brutality written on my body. I was lucky they hadn’t broken any teeth or bones. Those weren’t so easy to repair.

From there, we went straight to my apartment. As I reached for the door, I silently prayed I wouldn’t come face-to-face with myself—and wilted as a familiar feeling of…duality washed over me. Dammit, if that was what I thought it was…

“Gimme those,” Centurion Cole said, snatching the keys from my hand.

Before I could object, the enforcers pushed inside the apartment ahead of me. They did a quick search, before ushering me in after them.

A floorboard creaked in the direction of the kitchen.

“Stay sharp,” Centurion Taylor said. Drawing his pistol, he peered through the doorway. “I don’t see—”

Pop!

He dropped like a ragdoll, landing face down on the carpet. I stared at the hole in the back of his head; the rapidly spreading pool of blood. It didn’t take a forensic expert to know that he was done for. Or that he’d been shot from behind.

I spun about to face Centurion Cole. Smoke wafted from the barrel of his pistol, which was now aimed at me.

“You shot him.” I felt the need, in that moment, to state the obvious.

“No, you shot him,” he said. He clicked on his radio and spoke in urgent tones. “Centurion down! Requesting backup. The witness—Fritz Baine—he just turned on us!”

“He’s lying!” I shouted. “He—” The centurion clicked off his radio. “—fuck!”

The centurion had already clicked off his radio.

“You snatched the pistol from my holster and used it to gun down my partner in cold blood,” he said dispassionately. “I had no choice…”

“You’re with M3,” I deduced. An icy calm settled over me. Slowly, I began to circle around so he stood between me and the kitchen. If he was going to frame me for his partner’s murder, he wouldn’t want to shoot me with the same gun. No, he’d switch to the rifle in his back holster.

Sure enough, he reached down to stow his pistol. And that was when I made my move. I darted forwards, reaching for—

His fist smashed into my jaw, sending me reeling backwards. Dizziness washed over me, and not just from the blow to my face. Blinking away the metaphorical stars in my eyes, I saw that Centurion Cole already had his rifle out.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, raising the gun barrel to my face. “It’s nothing personal.”

“Yep, I get it,” I said. “Neither is…”

I dove for the floor. A resounding crack filled the room. Plaster rained down from the wall behind me. A moment later, his body followed mine to the floor. I looked over at my clone, who knelt over the man with a bloody knife in hand. The knife descended again and again.

“…that,” he finished for me, offering a grim smile. “What would you do without me?”

“Live a much more normal life?” I said.

“Touche.”

Centurion Cole—if that was his real name—wasn’t quite finished yet. Despite having been stabbed nearly a dozen times, he was still struggling to lift his pistol. I snatched up the guns, while the other Fritz finished his grisly task. We couldn’t leave the centurion alive. I was under no illusion he was the only enforcer on M3’s payroll, but his death might weaken their influence.

“Two dead enforcers in my apartment,” I muttered. “I am so screwed.”

“You’re not gonna just give yourself up, are you?” my clone asked.

“Of course not. We do have one thing in our favour, as you just demonstrated. They don’t know what I can do. They don’t know there’s two of me.”

“Three,” another voice spoke from the bathroom. A familiar figure stepped into the light. Same clothes. Same dashing good looks, marred only by the bruises and split lip that no doubt also adorned my face.

Feeling only a little surprised, I nodded at my second clone. “Welcome to our band of misfritz.”