It was the bald kid, the one that had ridden on the back of the jet carrier in Boise all those years ago. The one that haunted his dreams, giving him false hope and spoon feeding him lies. The corridor between him and the telepath crawled with Programmed guards. The soldiers seemed torn, unsure of who or what to kill first. The female scientist pushed the other to the ground as the bullets started to fly. Connor dodged the first volley with a sidestep. The next thudded into Connor, knocking him off his feet as it blew chunks from his stomach, arms and jaw. He laughed maniacally through the gaping wound in his mouth, his pain receptors long dampened, body writhing impotently on the floor.

So close yet so far. He hated to die within arm’s reach of his goal. Colours bled together in his darkening vision. The blood he had taken from the dead Pro was spent. The collection of toxins and acids leaked from their fleshy housings inside his chest. They wouldn’t kill him, but they would slow him down. He could seal the wounds but for what? He’d get shot up seconds later by a platoon of Mark Threes.

He closed his eyes, the gurgling laughter dying on his mutilated lips. He wasn’t religious. Denise had been staunchly atheist, her views on organised religion poisoned by the fanaticism that swept through central Asia and Eurasia which precipitated World War Three. At that moment, he wanted to believe in something. He wanted to apologise to someone for what he had done. He wanted them to know he wasn’t evil, that his terrible acts were simply a desperate boy simply trying to save his family. Hell frightened him. So did nothing. He gulped down his dying laughter and waited for the shadow of a towering soldier to signal the end.

Connor craned his neck up a fraction. A gunfight raged out of sight. He checked his body. The blood loss had stopped but his body was in such a dire state, he doubted he could stand. If he cannibalised his own body, could he continue to fight? His left arm was hanging by a thread. He made the decision to sacrifice it, transferring the material to the vital parts of his body. Guns roared beyond the barricade and Pros cursed in their deep, primal voices as he worked. What were they shooting at? Why had they left him alone?

Cruel laughter distracted him.

“That’s all you’ve got? That?! To think I was ever scared of you raging Neanderthals… Fucking lapdogs is what you are, not the wolves you play at…”

The guns fell silent, one by one, brief, bone-chilling screams of agony and throaty gasps of the dying replacing them. Connor didn’t understand what was happening. Had the telepath turned on the company? If he could kill his own like that, what would the telepath do to him? An icicle of fear slipped down his spine.

“You are right to be afraid, Hill,” said William. He hovered above the ground, moving bodies and sandbags out of his way with a wave of his hands. The two scientists huddling on the ground were pushed aside also, eliciting a scream from the woman.

“Shut it!” hissed William.

She hugged the other tight, burying her face into his chest.

Connor tried to scrabble backwards, to put some distance between himself and the telepath. He slid on his own spilt blood, his lame arm dragging feebly beside him.

“Running won’t help,” said William. “You of all people should know that.”

Connor stopped. His fear turned to disgust at his own weakness. That disgust fell to anger. He shook his fist at William and spoke through his ruined mouth. “I’ve done nothing to you. Why do you hate me? Why must you torture me? Haven’t you done enough?”

William paused. The anger drained from his face to be replaced with fatigue. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was the way my predecessor felt. I look at you and feel hate, but honestly, I don’t know why. The memories I have, I cannot trust… In some ways, I should thank you. Without you I wouldn’t have been made. I would have had no purpose to exist. The means to create me were born with you.”

“I don’t get it,” said Connor.

“I’m a clone, just like you,” responded William.

Connor held up a hand, entreating William. “Then help me, please. All I want is to free the original Connor and find my family. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I have no beef with you.”

William chewed a lip as he thought. Finally, he looked at Connor, the anger having returned to his eyes. “I have had enough of this company. This building. You,” he said gesturing at each item on his list. “I had thought I’d kill you outright, if you ever crossed my path. My goal has changed, ever so slightly. I want to see the destruction of Kemprex, once and for all. You may be able to play a part in that. To that end, I will give you two gifts. Rather than kill you, I will spare your life, but you will bear my mark…”

Connor shook his head. “Don’t…”

William latched onto him with his mind. He imprinted a command, one that Connor would be unable to resist; to do everything in his power to fight Kemprex and David Kurniec. The boy was already open to the idea, so it was easy to do. His own set of morals were conflicted regarding murder, but again that was nothing William couldn’t override to his needs. William tied off the commands and returned to his own mind.

Connor lay on the floor, mouth gaping like a fish.

“I’ll see you around, Hill… If you succeed. There’s another telepath downstairs. My original. I’d avoid him if I were you and just run away. Continue to fight another day.”

Connor focused on William. He didn’t feel any different. It was as though time had skipped ahead several moments to the end of the conversation. “I have to at least try.”

William shrugged. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Though it would be funny to watch you try. That elevator will only take you as far as level four with the clearance I stole. You’ll need to find the central, manual access point to level five and find your own way in. Your original is in there.”

Connor blinked. “Wait… Why are you helping me?”

William turned around and hovered away. “Because you may prove useful to me,” he called back “I’m learning to not lash out and instead utilise the resources around me. Why do everything when I can share the load? Maybe I’ll see you again… Probably not though.”

He watched the telepath float away, around the corner.

The woman’s crying startled him.

“Dan! Dan! Where? Oh god… No!”

Connor shuffled to his side to get a better look. The woman cradled a bleeding man in her arms. Both wore non-descript laboratory clothing, the stark white fabric stained red by the man’s blood. The woman looked up from the dying man to Connor. She screamed and tried to drag them both away. Her lower body seemed to be paralysed, however, and all she managed to do was fall backward.

“Help! Help us!”

Connor sighed. Maybe he could help these people if nothing else. He rolled onto his belly and crawled toward them, trailing his limp, cannibalised arm behind him. She screamed louder and started to thrash about, as if she was trapped in a terrible nightmare. Connor held a finger in front of his ruined face to shush her.

“Shh…” he mumbled, blowing chunks of teeth and gum from the hole in his mouth.

“No! No!”

Connor held out his hand. A tendril shot out from his wrist, impaling the man’s chest near his heart. A nerve slithered out from the tip of the tendril and burrowed deeper to establish a connection. Connor latched on and took over, commanding the other body to heal. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the ground as he concentrated. Shards of shrapnel dotted the man’s chest and neck, likely from mini-ex that had exploded on Connor. The shrapnel in his chest was fairly minor. The injury to his neck had pierced a main vein and he was slowly bleeding to death.

“Leave him alone, you bastard!” growled the woman, as she leaned forward and gripped his tendril.

Connor grabbed her wrist in return and turned his head up to hers. “No… Helping…” he mumbled.

She fought back, slapping him and wrenching with her arm to free herself. “Stop! Stop!”

“Look…” urged Connor.

He pushed the small but deadly shard out of the wound in the neck and sealed up the cut then moved onto the chest, removing the life-threatening jags of metal and leaving the rest for a surgeon to fix. He retracted the tendril slowly, fixing the small hole he had made on the way out.

The man coughed and groaned but his breathing was stable if quite shallow. Connor let go of the woman’s hand and pushed himself to his feet. He took in the carnage beyond the barricade. Programmed bodies lay torn to pieces on the floor, blown apart by mini-ex or telekinetic forces, their blood and viscera dripping from the walls and ceiling. Connor shook his head. Was the cost of saving himself and his family worth it? Could anything redeem himself after this? He wasn’t sure. He looked down. The woman clutched the man, body shaking in fear, tears streaking her blood splattered face.

“I’m sorry for this…” he said, forcing his damaged mouth to enunciate the required sounds.

“It’s too late for apologies. Just go away. Leave us alone. Please,” she said, her voice hardening to stone.

Connor nodded to her. He stood up and sought his sword and sheathed it on his back before he stumbled to the lift, armoured feet sloshing through blood and bits of body. He left the bodies alone, already shamed enough by the scientist’s gaze to dare feed upon them for sustenance. It felt parasitic. It felt wrong in the eyes of man and god. He could do it in private, just not in front of anyone watching. He hit the call button. The bullet riddled doors opened on one side. He edged sideways through the narrow opening and hit the button for the basement. He leaned against the elevator wall and rested his eyes. It felt surreal to have survived this far. Was there another army of guards waiting for him below? He was surprised he had made it this far. Dumb luck, not skill had played the defining factor in his survival. All of that could change with one squeeze of a trigger.

“Final boss time…” he muttered to himself.

The elevator engine whined to a stop. Connor pushed himself into motion as the doors slid ajar, hand reaching for the sword strapped to his back in precaution. The halls and laboratories were dimly lit with emergency lighting. Not a soul stirred. The labs seemed to have been abandoned. What was he to do first?

“I better find him first. Mom will have to wait,” he said to himself, understanding the mangled words even if no-one else did.

Connor stalked down the corridor looking for the access to the lower level where his body was stored. The air tasted bitter and acrid, as if they had pumped it full of poisonous gas moments ago. It made him dizzy, but his healing ability fought the effects. As he moved through the eerily silent floor, he found evidence of violence both old and new. Bullet holes, cracked wall panels, shattered glass and messages scratched in the walls. He checked the windows in search of his brother-clones. The beds were vacant or held black body bags. Connor felt a pang of guilt mixed with a surge of anger. So many versions of himself had died in the escape attempt, gunned down like animals by Kemprex security. It made it worse that they didn’t care about his magnified suffering. He was a lab rat, nothing more. He grunted and carried on.

The corridor made a turn. A thumping noise radiated along the hard surfaces, regular in its bored tempo. Connor shifted his stance to walk on the balls of his feet and prepared to strike with the sword. As he inched closer to the source, he realised it was coming from one of the labs. Connor held his breath and approached the window. An operating table came into view with a topless clone strapped to it. The clone tapped a foot, again and again against the guard rail as he stared straight up at the ceiling. Connor rapped the window with the pommel of his sword hilt. He forced some saliva into his dry mouth, working it around so he could speak in a fashion.

“Hey, you in there.”

The tapping stopped. “Me?”

“Yes you.”

“I… There are so many… I’m not sure which one you are talking to,” said the clone crying. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in days…”

“I’m here to get you out.”

The clone paused. “What’s wrong with your voice?”

Connor growled.

“Is this real?” blurted the clone.

Connor shook his head in frustration. “Yes. I’m coming for you. Just wait where you are.” He tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “The door is locked.”

“Are you sure this isn’t a dream? I feel like I’ve had this one before. It doesn’t seem real.”

“I’m here. I’m won’t leave you behind.”

“But which one is real?” cried the clone. ‘There are so many!”

“I think you are downstairs,” started Connor.

“What does that mean?”

Connor shrugged. “In a tank?”

The clone paused. “That’s the worst one.”

“Why?”

“It hurts more there. And green. Everything is green. I think. I don’t like going there.”

“Well I’m coming,” said Connor, moving away from the window.

“Okay…” said the clone sleepily.

Connor shuffled past other laboratories with clones inside, some sleeping while some stared vacantly at the ceiling. He didn’t like the way the clone spoke. He sounded disconnected from reality. The telepath had done something to him, he guessed, to keep him compliant and docile.

Yelich’s memories, or rather the memory of Yelich’s memories guided him to another set of elevators and a security door. An engraved panel above the lift declared that the area beyond was restricted.

“This must be the right place.”

Connor tried to call the elevator, but the buttons did nothing.

“Security coded…” he said to himself as he spied the R.F receiver built into the control panel. He tried the door. That too was locked. Connor did a stock take on his acid ducts. There wasn’t much left after a shot to his chest had splintered the armour, piercing the mucus lined sacs. Much of the muscle on that side had melted away until his body’s self-defences had kicked in and neutralised the spillage. Connor sheathed his sword and held out his right arm, aiming his wrist at the lock. He took a deep breath, chambering a blast of air and shot a stream of corrosive acid at the door’s lock. The clear fluid sprayed across the steel panel, sizzling and spitting as it melted the outer layer. Connor peered at the bubbling mess of metal, tilting his head curiously as it tracked, burning down the wall.

“I’ve got that crap inside of me…”

He stepped back and planted a heavy kick. The door’s lock tore out and the panel swung inwards, booming loudly as it bounced off the wall behind it. Connor caught it before it slammed back into the doorjamb. He descended a wide set of concrete stairs down several flights, the footfalls and shuffling of his bone armoured feet echoing in the lonely passage. Connor sweated from the effort. The extent of his wounds was taking a toll on his stamina. His good hand helped to keep him upright, clutching the handrail or pushing him off the wall if he swayed too close. He fought his way down the stairs, determined to make it to the original and save him. Connor reached the bottom and careened into the door, holding himself upright by the large pull handle. He found his composure before looking for the lock. An emergency release sat on the wall. He reached with his left hand…

It took him a second to remember that it had been stripped of its value and merely hung there like dead weight, supported only by a sliver of bone and the overlapping armoured segments. Connor steadied himself and pressed the button with his good hand. The lock clicked.