Mark Five
Martin Kane
A sci-fi/thriller.  An experiment in cloning.

---

Author's note:

Anyone wishing to contact me may do so via the DtV messageboard for 
Readers & Writers.  I invite anyone to send any comments, good or 
bad, should they wish to.  I'm always interested in what others think
of my little tales.

Copyright is mine.  I'd be flattered if anyone wanted to use this 
tale elsewhere, but please seek permission first.

Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters 
merely the products of an overwrought imagination

I'll abstain from the adult content warning, if you've got this far, 
you're certain to know what kind of thing to expect anyway.  

---



     And Jesus asked him, "What is your name?" He replied, "My name
     is Legion; for we are many."
                                          - Mark 5, verse 9


The warehouse was an unlikely front for the military laboratory, but 
that’s why it had been chosen.  It was adjacent to a waste ground to 
one side and a wreck-shop to the other and was known to only a few.  
The reason for such secrecy was that the experiments performed there 
were technically illegal.  Only technically illegal because according 
to all applicable records, the land, the lab, the staff and the 
operations that happened there did not exist.

Wilson was a tall, slim man, clothed, as ever, in his full military 
dress uniform.  His slick hair was jet black, his complexion bronzed 
from his previous assignment in South America, but rapidly fading to 
pale.  This latest job rarely allowed him to see the sun.

The base was underground.  A complex of burrows and tunnels linking 
the various compartments of the lab and facilities to the bare 
minimum staff and personnel quarters.  The only things above ground, 
housed within the warehouse camouflage, was the huge atmosphere 
processor, controlling the environmentals for the station, and the 
security station, monitoring the entrance and keeping the base locked 
down tight.

Wilson stood before the one-way glass, the observation room for one 
of the labs.  A woman was inside the room on a treadmill, running 
flat out, on the spot while a dozen machines took readings.  She was 
strapped to them by a dozen wires, pulse, brainwave, chemical sensors 
for every hormone she was secreting, a mouth and nose-piece.  A 
scientist, a young woman in white coat, kept a check on all the 
monitors.

An older man joined Wilson.  This was Shuman, a greying doctor, also 
wearing the obligatory white coat.  He checked the details of their 
subject on his clipboard, then glanced at the display before them, 
readouts from the machines the woman was working out on.

"She’s in incredible condition, these fitness levels are unreal."

"She’s a perfect subject," Wilson agreed.  "Highest physical 
standard.  Ex-army.  That’s why we picked her."  He seemed a little 
offended that the doctor would suggest she would be anything but.

"Of course," Shuman agreed quickly, placating the commanding officer.  
"I wasn’t questioning anything."

Wilson gave a low grunt; the older man took that to mean he was 
pacified.   He glanced at his notes.  "It says here she left with 
honourable discharge."

"That’s correct.  Under medical circumstances."

"But there’s no details.  It’s been sealed."

Wilson raised an eyebrow.  It was the most subtle of gestures but in 
the short time Shuman had known this man, he knew that such 
expression represented a sharp twist in mood - a mood that was never 
good at the best of times.  He gabbled on quickly, "I mean, I just 
think I should be aware of any condition that may affect the 
experiment.  I do have full clearance."

Wilson sighed and capitulated.  "It was a breakdown; shell shock.  
Post Traumatic Stress syndrome.  I can’t reveal the specifics but it 
was due to action, a mission that went badly.  She recovered fully, 
went through an in-house recovery program.  She has remained under 
our care and observation.  No recurring problems."

Shuman nodded.  "That’s fine.  If it’s nothing physical."

Wilson returned his attention to the woman in the adjacent room.  She 
was still sprinting, powerful muscles carrying her at speed.  The 
flex and stretch of thigh and calf muscles were quite visible in 
motion beneath her flesh.  Her arms were hard and toned; her belly 
was rippling.

"Yes.  Physically she’s perfect."

He glanced back to Shuman, noticing the hesitancy in the older man.  
"Was there anything else?" he asked.

"Just a curiosity," Shuman murmured, embarrassed.  He knew how 
irritable Wilson could get.  "About the head scientist on the program 
before me."

"Yes," Wilson said, drawing the syllable out.  This was a question he 
had been expecting.  "Your predecessor."

"I have asked around but either no one knows or no one’s telling."

Wilson smiled sardonically at this.  "Good to know," he remarked.  He 
caught Shuman’s confusion.  "This wasn’t a sealed file, you 
understand, as far as all records show, the incident did not happen."

Shuman nodded; he understood.  He knew the level of secrecy 
surrounding the whole project.

"As I’m sure you’re aware, this is our fifth attempt at cloning.  The 
previous experiments all failed in one was or another.  The Mark 
Four, or Debbie as the staff affectionately knew her, was our most 
successful.  She was fully developed, took to the implanted brain-
wave patterns and was functioning along all prescribed parameters."

"So what went wrong?"

"She had some sort of psychotic embolism.  In total she killed 
sixteen people before we were able to neutralise her.  Your 
predecessor, Professor Reane, was one of the casualties."

"My God.  What happened, how did she kill so many people."

"When you create the ultimate fighting machine, you’d better make 
sure you can control her.  You can imagine the kind of damage she 
could have caused if she’d made it outside the station.  Or worse, 
got hold of some sort of weapon."

Shuman nodded, scared.  He knew this project had a level one cover - 
no one outside of the top brass military could access the files, not 
even the Prime Minister.  Now he was beginning to appreciate why.  
"That’s why most of the staff here are new to the project?"

Wilson didn’t reply.  Watching the woman in the adjacent room.  She 
was still going just as strong.  "Let’s get to work," he said.  "I 
want to begin growing the new clone within the week."

He left the room and Shuman followed.

                              * * *

Six Months Later.

A blinding light woke her.  She heard a voice murmur an instruction 
and it dimmed.  Her eyes slowly came into focus and a fixed upon a 
nurse looking down at her.

"She’s awake," the nurse stated, then smiled sweetly down at her.  
"How are you feeling?"

She tried to speak, to ask what was happening, what was she doing 
here?  Her voice seized in her throat.  Her vision blurred.  She saw 
a man step up to her bed, look curiously down at her.  He was dressed 
in a military uniform, impeccably smart.  His face was young but his 
expression severe.  And then she passed out again and when she awoke, 
she was alone.



It was a small room, a single bed.  Various machines and hospital 
accoutrements.  No windows, no pictures.  Only a large, bright mirror 
almost the entire length of one wall, doubling the apparent width.

She tried to remember what had happened, an accident?  Why was she 
here?  Where was here?  Nothing.  Her mind was like a white board 
wiped clean.  There was no trace of any information anywhere inside 
her head.  She could not even remember her own name.

Despite this, she felt no unease, no panic or fear.  Perhaps it was 
the drugs they had her on.  She was calm and relaxed.  She approached 
the problem logically.

First she checked her body for damage, for scars or stitches, 
operation wounds or punctures across veins.  Nothing, with the single 
exception of her forearm.  The trace evidence of an IV drip though it 
was now removed.  How did she recognise this?  What experience had 
she had to learn such a thing?  She did not know and could not 
remember.

Physically she felt fine, no aches or pains.  A slight woozy head but 
beyond that she felt in perfect physical condition.

She threw off the thin cover, swinging her legs down to get out of 
the bed.  She looked around the room briefly.  There were no clothes, 
no gown.  She shrugged and walked naked to the mirror, examining 
herself curiously.

The first thing that she noticed were the muscles, her body was 
amazing.  Was she an athlete?  She was toned to the extreme, like an 
Olympic runner perhaps.  There was no trace of any fat whatsoever 
anywhere on her body, just hard, flat muscles.  When she lifted her 
arm, the biceps contracted, flexing into a wicked peak.  It wasn’t 
quite a bodybuilder’s bulk but not far off it; yet still as hard as 
rock.

Peeling her eyes away from her surprising body, she realised that 
something looked odd about the mirror itself.  She couldn’t quite put 
her finger on why until she examined it more closely.

It was clean and crystal clear, but there was something amiss.  There 
was no ghost image, the almost imperceptible double reflection given 
due to the thickness of the glass.  And she knew what that meant - 
the reflective surface was on the top of the glass and not beneath 
it.  It was a two-way mirror.  From this side it was reflective but 
from the other, it was transparent.

She wondered first the standard paranoiac ‘who and why’, but then it 
occurred to her to wonder how she would know this, how she would so 
precisely recognise the fact.  Was it a normal skill to be able to 
recognise one-way glass at a glance?  She didn’t think it was likely.

Looking in the mirror she saw the blackboard above her bed.  Someone 
had written ‘Emily’ on it.  Was that her name?

The nurse came in and with a strange déjà vu, she recognised her from 
a dream.  She was young and pretty, a slight and delicate thing in a 
starched white uniform.  She had a small button nose and a light 
splattering of freckles, intelligent eyes and wispily dark hair.  In 
short, she was ineffably cute.

"Hi Emily, how are you feeling?"

She didn’t seem to be either embarrassed by her nudity or surprised 
by her muscles.  She guessed that if the nurse had tended her, there 
was nothing she’d not already seen.

The nurse seemed to take her confused expression as an answer to 
this.  "Don’t worry, the disorientation is quite normal, I promise 
you’ll feel better soon.  I’m afraid there really isn’t anything we 
can do about your memory though."

"What happened to me?  Why am I here?"

"If you want to get back into bed, I’ll let the doctor know that 
you’re awake.  He’ll be able to explain everything better than I 
can."

"Where am I?"

"Just get back into bed," the nurse insisted, "I’ll get you a robe, 
but for now, you need to rest.  The doctor will explain everything."



Doctor Roseberge was a severe looking man.  White hair to match his 
coat.  He set up the chair to sit facing her, where she sat up in the 
bed.  She was still naked, the coverings held up to protect her 
modesty.

"Emily," he began, a little embarrassed.  "The first thing I can 
assure you is that you are in perfect physical health, the reason 
you’re in this institute has nothing to do with any injury or 
illness."

"Sure, I feel absolutely fine."

"The truth is a little strange, the fact that you have no memories 
prior to waking here, is something you may find a little difficult to 
adjust to."

He paused, referring to his notes, a hardback clipboard.  He shuffled 
papers.  He was stalling.

"Doctor?" she prompted.

"This is a scientific research institute," he told her importantly.  
"I am the head of a program that’s looking into cloning human 
beings."

"What’s that got to do with me?" she asked him slowly, not entirely 
sure she wanted to know the answer, and pretty certain that she 
wasn’t about to believe it.

"Physically, you’re only six months old.  You were grown, based on a 
fully developed woman.  You’re a perfect replica, an identical 
clone."

Emily shook her head, unable to take this in.  "That’s bullshit.  
That can’t be true."

"You’re real in every conceivable way, physically identical to the 
original subject."

Emily launched herself at the man, grabbing his throat.  "Why are you 
doing this to me?" she screamed, her momentum throwing him over the 
back of the chair to crash to the ground.  She landed on top, her 
thumb crushing into his windpipe.  "What the hell is going on?"

Roseberge couldn’t have answered her had he wanted to, in fact he 
could barely breathe.  Her fist was raised and she was about to 
strike when an arm caught her, pulling her off.  She turned to her 
assailant.  It was a soldier.  Another was grabbing her other arm, 
throwing her back onto the bed.

She struggled, fury driving her, throwing one off and striking out at 
the other with her freed arm.  He fell, face caving at her fist.  But 
more soldiers were already upon her.  Something sharp at her throat 
and then the world went warm and soft and faded to black.

A man stepped into the room once she was unconscious.  He wore full 
military dress, his hair slick and black.

"How’s the doctor?" he asked.

"He’ll live," the medic reported.  "Which is more than can be said 
for the guard she struck.  He died instantly."

"First blood," he remarked.



When she awoke, she was strapped down onto the bed.  She was alone 
with her thoughts, the raging fear and fury.  The questions and 
paranoia.

Her body was pumped full of drugs, her eyes unable to focus properly, 
seeing trails on every inhibited movement.  She couldn’t think 
clearly.  Her mind drifted in and out of a strange kind of delirium - 
a non-fevered hysteria.

Nurses floated in and out, administering shots.  She floated in and 
out of consciousness.

Something sharp and acrid woke her.  She was sat in a leather chair.  
Strapped down to it.  She was dressed in a hospital gown.  She was in 
an office.  She was not alone.

A tall, slim man in military dress sat in a chair facing hers.  He 
was a youngish middle-age, severe looking.  Jet black hair.

"How are you feeling?"

"Where am I?"  Her voice sounded weak and dreamy, even to herself.

"You’ll forgive the need for the restraints.  Do you remember what 
happened?"

"I hit someone."

"Doctor Roseberge."

"Is he OK?  I think I hurt him."

"He’s fine.  You’ll see him soon.  You remember what Doctor Roseberge 
told you, what freaked you out?"

"He said I wasn’t real."

"You’re real alright," Wilson assured her with a soft smile.  "You’re 
a clone.  Do you understand that?"

She looked up at him, harsher now.  "Oh, I understand it OK.  I just 
don’t believe it."

"It will take time for you to be able to accept it," he told her.

Below all the hysteria rattling through her brain, there was 
something else.  Beyond the anger and the paranoia, past the dread of 
what crazy mind-games they were performing on her and why, there was 
something worse.  A clean and icy fear - the possibility that it 
might be true.

                              * * *

The days rolled into one.  An endless stream of testing and 
monitoring.  She was given books and magazines to read but this too 
was a part of the experimental process for each time, they questioned 
her on what she thought of them, how she related to them.

The nagging suspicion that she might truly be just a clone affirmed 
itself in her mind.  Despite the spark of furious independent 
thought, what they told her was so plausible - it fitted the 
situation.  The monotony of her life also promoted her conformity.  
It was hard to objectively analyse her situation since she had no 
memories of previous experiences to compare her current life to. 



The nurse, Rebecca, came into the room as she did every morning, 
smiled a gentle greeting.  "Hey Emily, how are you feeling this 
morning?"

"Is it morning?" Emily muttered, "it’s hard to tell without a 
window."

Rebecca didn’t take offence at this, the hostility was only half-
hearted and not aimed at her anyway.  In truth, Emily liked the 
pretty nurse.  She was gentle and sympathetic and seemed to genuinely 
care about her job.  With that and her natural pragmatism, she was 
perfectly suited to her job.

Emily rolled her sleeve up ready for her morning shot.  Her life had 
become a series of rituals and routines and as is the nature of such 
situations, the bars that confined her had become a source of 
comfort.

Then she caught the expression of the nurse’s face, deathly serious.  
She mouthed a ‘shush’, her back to the two-way mirror.  For their 
hidden audience, she raised the hypodermic needle as though nothing 
were out of the ordinary.

She took hold of Emily’s excessively toned upper arm, but instead of 
injecting her, she faked the act.  She pushed the needle into the 
cotton wool swab she held and pushed the plunger, letting the 
absorbent ball soak up the contents.  She turned, letting the mirror 
see the empty hypo.

Emily’s head was buzzing.  This was the last thing she had been 
expecting.  She knew they were being watched so could do nothing but 
play along.  She wanted to ask the nurse a thousand questions.  Here, 
at last, was someone who knew what this was all about and was 
apparently trying to help her.

"OK," Rebecca smiled, as innocent and ordinary as always.  "I’ll be 
back in a few minutes with your breakfast."  And then she was gone 
without a glance backwards.

Emily sat back, hand still clutching the spot on her arm where the 
injection hadn’t been administered.  She rubbed to spot thoughtfully.  
It bore the mark of having a dozen previous shots over the past 
couple of weeks.  What had been in them?  What did it mean now that 
Rebecca had deliberately missed one?

The nurse returned baring a tray, a health-conscious breakfast of 
fruit and cereal.  She placed the tray on the table before Emily, 
touching the spoon delicately.  She pressed down a little on the 
handle, lifting the head out of the bowl.  The tip of something broke 
surface enough for Emily to catch it, and then was hidden again.

"Enjoy you meal," Rebecca offered and disappeared again.

Emily took the spoon and lifted it, raising a tiny square of paper.  
The message read ‘gym toilets, today, 11:30’.

She had to force herself to act naturally.  Her body was quivering at 
this sudden revelation, all these cloak and dagger happenings.  She 
feigned a yawn, brushed non-existent sleep from her face and got hold 
of herself.  Rebecca had taken a great risk here, she didn’t want to 
mess it up now.

She lifted the spoon, loaded with cereals, and shovelled everything, 
message and all, into her mouth.  She chewed carefully, pulping the 
piece of paper, and swallowed.


She finished breakfast without incident, though was careful not to 
unwittingly consume any further messages that may have been concealed 
amongst her meal.  She showered and dressed.  As per the daily 
schedule, a technician arrived to escort her through to the labs.

First session was a basic interview, a friendly chat with Doctor 
Roseberge.  He asked questions she’d heard a dozen times already and 
she gave the answers he was expecting.  He assured her everything was 
going fine, that she had nothing to worry about.  He also told her he 
was almost ready to step up her physical training.  What she was 
training towards he didn’t mention.  Emily decided not to ask.

Next there was a CAT scan, or at least that’s what she assumed it to 
be.  Why anyone would need a CAT scan three times a week was beyond 
her but she was assured it was necessary.  It had become a part of 
her routine and she no longer thought to question it.

She lay on the metal bed as prompted, remained still as the draw 

carried her smoothly into the large sealed coffin.  The machine began 
its rhythmic clacking and she breathed slowly, relaxing her body.  
This no longer scared her, it too had become familiar.

"OK in there?" the technician asked, his voice distorted through the 
speaker.

"I’m fine," she assured him automatically.

She lay back and waited for it to be over.

It was another lab and another technician.  He was a doctor but was 
doubling here as a personal trainer.  Her workouts had been 
specifically designed, though for what aim, no one had bothered to 
tell her.

Every aerobic session, every set and rep, had been calculated 
together with her diet, her sleeping patterns, for a precise intent.  
The lab had been set out like some sort of futuristic gymnasium.  The 
machines looked familiar but for the technical additions.  Though 
familiar to what she couldn’t specify, after all, she had no direct 
recollection of ever having stepping into a gym in her life.

The technician watched her warm up, studied every motion she made, 
occasionally making corrections to her form or notes on his 
clipboard.  He offered her no encouragement or enthusiasm, no effort 
of conversation or empathy.  He treated her as though she were a 
scientific experiment to be observed and recorded.

She did as bidden and sat at a weights machine.  There were no free 
weights however, just pneumatic tubes controlled by computers to 
offer precision resistance.  She grasped the bar and began working 
it, forcing the mechanics to contract.  A digital screen gave a 
precision readout of her progress.  She watched it, but what she 
focused on was the corner, where a digital clock told her it was 
11:14 precisely.

She trained silently, obediently doing as the technician instructed.  
After the latest set she sighed and stretched.  "I’m going to the 
toilet," she told him, standing.

He gave a cursory nod and made a remark on his clipboard.  Emily 
walked to the corridor, a door leading off it was clearly labelled 
‘toilets’.  It was small, three cubicles to the right, sink basins to 
the left.  It was empty.  At a glance it was empty.

She switched on the tap, the loud splash of water hitting porcelain.  
The long mirror above the sinks appeared to be genuine enough though 
she couldn’t take anything for granted.

Rebecca silently lowered her legs inside the cubicle, swung open the 
door that had been half closed, enough to conceal her from the casual 
glance, and stood.  She joined Emily by the mirror, their gaze 
meeting in the reflection.

She held out a pad, showing Emily the words written on the top page.  
‘No camera but room is bugged.  They’re paranoid, they listen in 
everywhere, nowhere is safe inside station.’

Emily nodded, her face urgent.  She remained silent despite the 
thousands of questions she longed to ask.

Rebecca turned the page; ‘You are a prisoner here, the government is 
performing illegal experiments on soldiers.  Your memories have been 
suppressed.’

Again a nod.  The next page.  ‘I can help you to escape and get you 
to the man who has answers.  It will mean having to break out.’

Their eyes met, for real this time.  Rebecca’s expression was dark 
and Emily could see that committing herself meant danger for all of 
them.  Her nod was slow and portentous.

Next page.  ‘Escape tonight.  3 AM.  Details in evening meal.  Don’t 
drink the water!’  Another nod.  Rebecca made to retreat back into 
the cubicle but Emily stopped her, miming a pen with her hand.

Rebecca handed her a pen and the pad.  Emily scribbled: ‘Am I real?’

The nurse’s eyes were large and soft as she read this, her face 
cracking, the urgent professionalism of this covert communication 
slipping away.  The empathy and emotion she normally kept in check 
was as blatant as Emily’s need to know.

‘You’re real.  Doctor Shuman will be able to tell you everything 
tonight.’

She reached up and touched Emily’s face, a soft caress, gentle 
fingers brushing her cheek.  She knew instinctively what this was - 
it was goodbye.  One way or another, the nurse didn’t ever expect to 
see her again.

Rebecca retreated into the cubicle and Emily returned to her 
schedule.

The day offered no further twists or surprises, returning to the 
mundane monotony of her normal routine.

Back in her room, the meal came as per normal.  It was another nurse 
who served her, an officious and callous woman who often took the 
late shift.  Chicken and rice as a main course.  She prodded at it 
carefully, innocently exploring the pile of food.  She found the 
message as before, a small square with Rebecca’s neat handwriting.  
‘It’s safe.  Cameras not watching you.  False bottom to plate.  
Remember, do not drink water.  Pour it away.  Quietly, mic still 
working.’

Emily lifted the plate, probing beneath it.  She could trace a 
hairline crack inside the rim of the base, but that was all.  She 
couldn’t check it out properly without turning the plate upside down.  
She finished the meal first, and then did so.

Working the crack, she managed to pop open a false bottom, skilfully 
applied to the round inner base of the plate.  It was identical to 
the real base it hid and only added a couple of millimetres to the 
thickness of the plate.  It held a small, round sheaf of delicate 
papers.  They were so thin as to be almost transparent.  She quickly 
hid them beneath her pillow, together with the false base and 
returned to the meal.

She desperately wanted to read it all now, but knew the nurse would 
return at some point soon, and not wishing to get caught.  Once the 
nurse had left, she’d be alone for the night, she’d have all the time 
she needed.

When the nurse returned she found the finished meal tray on the 
table, as ever.  All plate and dishes were empty, including the water 
glass.  Emily was lying on her bunk, reading a paperback copy of ‘A 
Clockwork Orange’.

The nurse collected the tray, gave the room a cursory glance around, 
pausing momentarily on the mirror.  She left and Emily forced herself 
to count slowly to a hundred before grabbing the message.  She passed 
her eyes over the lines, not taking in the text.

Then she reached under her pillow, finding the top page, and read it.  
It was a different hand to Rebecca’s, was this the mysterious Doctor 
Shuman?

‘Emily, the people who hold you prisoner work for the government, a 
sinister black-opps department experimenting on British Soldiers.  
You are a retired Special Forces operative.  Your memories have been 
suppressed.  I can help you, but only if you escape from your current 
prison.  If you wish to do so then the details are enclosed.  If not, 
take your chances and stay where you are, I will not contact you 
again.  I only ask that you flush these pages, they will easily 
dissolve.  The false base of the plate will become brittle in water 
and may be crumpled and flushed within a wad of tissue.  I hope that 
I will meet you tonight.  Either way, I wish you the best of luck.’

What chances must have been taken to deliver this?  She thought of 
Rebecca, that gentle touch on her cheek.  To risk so much to help a 
stranger, she was a true hero.

Emily looked through the other sheets of paper.  Details of her 
potential escape.

‘The camera behind the mirror in your room has been disabled, a 
technical fault that cannot be repaired until you’re out of the room 
tomorrow.  There is however a separate microphone.  This still works.  
Your door is locked and alarmed.  A computer malfunction at 3 AM will 
temporarily disable the alarm and allow you to break out.  You will 
have forgotten your military training, however, much of it will 
return to you with necessity - remember to trust your instincts.’

She flicked through the sheets, all the information she had been 
provided with.  She was grateful to note that the guards, though 
military, did not carry side arms.  All firearms were banned on the 
base and detectors were in place to ensure that none were smuggled 
in.  The guards were issued with electrified batons, a cruel mixture 
of club and tazer.

There was no map, but her instructions on where to go were clear 
enough anyway.  The route was plotted to completely avoid running 
across the duty soldiers; it appeared to have considered all possible 
eventualities.  Now it was just down to her.

Emily knew she wouldn’t sleep, so she lay on her bunk and relaxed her 
body, waiting until it was time.  Whatever the final results, it was 
going to be a full night.

She had been able to begin earlier than three in the morning, the 
preparations not involving the door to her cell.  She walked into the 
conjoined bathroom.  It contained no bath, just a toilet, aluminium, 
sink and shower unit.  The drainage and pipes she’d examined 
previously, they were of no use to her.  There was also a small 
cupboard, generously equipped with whatever sanitary and beauty 
products she could hope for.  This included a metal nail file.

It had originally had a pointed tip, but this had been removed, 
leaving both ends rounded off.  She could still put it to practical 
use however.

She knelt by the adjoining door into the bathroom.  Placing a flat 
edge of the file into the screw head of the door handle.  She twisted 
and with a stubborn jolt, the screw loosened.  She undid all four 
that held the handle against the door and pulled the whole thing 
free.  It came off, revealing a hole in the wood, a long square bar 
of metal jutting out.  This was what joined the two door-handles 
together on either side of the door.

She easily removed the other handle and then, from the edge of the 
door, the internal hunk of metal the housed the sprung closing 
mechanism.  She lay the parts out and rubbed her hands.  The file, 
though effective as a makeshift screwdriver, had no handle and was 
tricky to manipulate.  She inspected it, a little buckled but that 
was OK.  It had served its purpose.  She would need it again, but not 
as a screwdriver.

She pulled both handles off the bases they were hinged to, popping 
them off with ease.  She took one base, a metal rectangle, five 
holes: four screw holes at each corner, a fifth, larger in the centre 
where she’d ripped the handle off.  She folded the metal between her 
palms, having to angle her body, lean forward and grip her hands 
between her knees, using every muscle she had.

It was agonising and a near impossible feat, but she managed to fold 
the metal into a wonky L.  She turned it about and, thumbs forward, 
strained to straighten it out again.

She continued to work the metal, folding it one way, then the other.  
It was hard work and before too long, it had actually become hot to 
the touch from her manipulations.  With a final grunt of effort (not 
too loud she hoped) the one piece became two - each with a jagged 
tear of sharp metal fur.

Next she took the centrepiece, a bulky metal case that contained the 
sprung tongue that held the door closed, the twistable wheel with a 
square hole that the handles turned.

Smashing the box open would ordinarily have been fairly simple.  To 
do so in silence however, was a feat to achieve.  She used the only 
spare piece, the handle base she’d not touched, to help support the 
thing against the ground, leaning her weight and trying to lever the 
case apart.

Eventually, after much silent cursing, she had buckled it to the 
point where one side popped out of place, propelling the contents of 
the box out across the floor.  Happy, she picked up the tough spring 
and began to straighten it out as best she could.

She separated her tools from the waste and then began the wait.  She 
lay on her bunk and tried to relax, going over in her head the route 
to take, trying to create a map in her head and follow it, practising 
as best she could.

Time crept past mockingly slow.  She had work to do, but couldn’t 
begin until three.  She daren’t touch the cell door before that, the 
alarm was too sensitive.  With the camera out of action, they’d be 
especially suspicious of any dubious occurrence.

Eventually it was time, and with her heart in her mouth, she began 
work in earnest.

The main cell door was wooden, solid, but reinforced on both sides 
with a heavy metal sheet.  Five millimetres thick, according to her 
notes.  On her side, there was no handle; there was no mark on the 
metal, not even a hint as to where it attached to the bolts that ran 
right through the wood and then through the metal sheet on the other 
side.  The doorframe was also metal, but there was a small gap 
between the frame and the door itself.  It was this gap she examined, 
concentrating on where the metal attached to the wood.

She could see where the metal became thicker in spots, ballooning 
out.  The solid wood of the door had been chiselled in to make a snug 
join between the two.  These thicker spots where were the bolts 
attached though the wood, holding the metal plate tight.  There were 
four such places she could see along the door’s length; top and 
bottom and then two equally spaced to separate the door into three 
equal parts.

The lock she needed access to was half-way up the door, evenly spaced 
between the two middle reinforcements.  She hoped that would allow 
enough give to the metal.

She took one torn square of metal, a makeshift chisel, and started on 
the door, hooking it into the gap and having just enough space to 
scrape out a tiny splinter.  She tried again, getting further, making 
a small dent in the edge of the door.  It was slow going but she 
didn’t need to take out much, just enough to give her props a start.

The hollow was a little above the lock.  She began on another one, 
this time, a little below the lock, and soon had it symmetrical.  She 
took one door handle, a taper of metal, and jammed it into the tiny 
gap.  There was enough to get the edge in, the rest required some 
muscle.

Once the precision lining up was done, she stood, leant into the 
movement and pushed the handle at an angle.  It took all her 
strength, but she managed to ram the handle between the metal sheet 
and the wood, raising the metal out to almost an inch.  She shoved 
the tapered handle in to the hilt then released it, picking up the 
other one.

She repeated the process for the other handle.  This was easier, the 
metal sheet having already been lifted a little by the first prop.  
She rammed the handle home, shoving it into the space as deeply as 
she had the first.  It gave her a small gap where the metal was 
peeled back from the wood.  She tested her props, they were in tight, 
the metal crushing hard against them.

Within the gap, visible beneath the sheet metal, the wood had a small 
hole in it.  It was the gap where, if it was a normal door and not 
reinforced, the keyhole would be, allowing the lock to be accessed 
from either side.  It was this keyhole she reached for, probing into 
the gap with the thick wire from the spring she’d straightened.

The technique for lock picking was spelled out in explicit detail but 
she found herself responding to the task with almost unconscious 
sensitivity.  It was as though her fingers themselves knew what to do 
and so she relaxed and trusted to her instinct.

Almost immediately there was a click and the lock sprung, slotting 
naturally into the open position with a satisfying clunk.

She pulled the tapered props free, careful not to make too much noise 
in the process.  Once that was done she could begin the second task.
 
Higher up was the next lock.  This one was the style common for a 
residence, a key-turned barrel.  It was one-sided however, unlike its 
more common counterpart that had a small handle on the inside to turn 
as well as the key on its reverse.

The locking tongue was tapered, a rounded angle, designed to be 
pushed shut from one direction but then springs shut to lock square.

To open this without key, she had to ease something long and flat 
against that tapered tongue, easing it back into the body of the 
door.  She slid the nail file into the gap, manoeuvring it to the far 
side of that sprung bolt and easing it down.

It took some care and patience but she eased the lock open.  As 
before, she found she hand an instinctive talent for the act, as 
though her fingers could remember what to do even if she could not 
remember learning the act.

She secured the lock in the open position by leaving the nail file 
across it, wedged in the gap and held in place by the lock’s spring.

The final lock was electronic; it had been disabled along with the 
alarm.  It was on the outside of the door, a large magnetically 
operated bolt that currently rested (she was assured) in the open 
position.  However, the hinged casing that sat across join of the 
door and frame wouldn’t have been affected.

When operated, this small box of metal swung away to give clearance 
for the heavy door to open.  In order to retract the bolt the power 
had first been killed, which meant the casing remained in the closed 
position.

It was a small metal casing, thin and flimsy compared to the heavy 
bar that was the bolt itself.  However, that didn’t mean this would 
be easy.

Emily pulled the door handles free, allowing the metal to clang back 
down against the wood.  She braced herself, prayed that the bolt was 
indeed open, else she was likely to break her shoulder, and she ran 
at the door.

With a heavy crunch, the door swung open.  It bounced heavily into 
the wall and fell back dully.  It sounded incredibly loud to her, 
especially in comparison to the length of protracted silence that it 
followed.   It would probably alert them to her escape but there was 
nothing she could do about that.  Right now she just had to move and 
that’s exactly what she did.

She ran down the corridor, low lit badly plastered walls.  She 
followed the course mapped out for her, trusting that the one who’d 
planned this escape continued to be as effective as they had so far.

However, the part that she was dreading was coming up next.  The 
planner had excellent inside information, that much was true, but 
could they really be so certain of what was to follow?  She focused 
her mind; doubts were the last things she needed to dwell upon.  She 
forced herself to think of the lock-picking, the way it had been 
instinctive.  She’d followed the instruction to the letter and her 
body had remembered.  This would be the same.  Plus she would have 
the element of surprise.

She waited at the edge of the corner, steeling herself to what was 
next, focusing her mettle.

She glanced around the corner, careful to angle herself so that as 
little as possible of her body was exposed.  She saw the guard.  He 
was standing, leaning lazily against a wall.  He suspected nothing.  
He was half turned from her but would notice her approach the second 
she stepped from her hiding place.  She calculated how far, how many 
steps was that?

It all depended upon his reaction speed.  No, that was wrong.  It all 
depended on her.

Her body was strong, that much she had confidence in, but hand-to-
hand combat?  She knew nothing of any kind of fighting, especially 
against a trained military guard.

She didn’t give herself time to think and begin doubting again.  
Instead, she threw herself into the moment and ran at the man.

As he looked up, she reached him, slamming a muscular fist into his 
face.  He went down hard with her on top on him.  They crashed in a 
heavy mess, her hand clamped hard over his mouth, her other arm a 
solid bar crushing his neck.

It took her a few moments to realise for sure that he wasn’t 
struggling, he was out cold.  She opened his eyes.  They were glazed 
and unresponsive.  His face was apparently undamaged except for the 
flattened nose trickling blood.

She regarded her fist, impressed with herself.  It hadn’t even hurt.

She picked up the man’s batten and tried it out, clicking the trigger 
to electrify the rod.  She jammed the tip hard into the guard, 
watching his body writhe as the sparks snaked through him.

Happy, she continued her way, taking the memorised route.  First 
thing she had to do was get out of this area, and there was only one 
exit.  She turned the corridor and stealthily crossed its length, 
heading for the barred gate at the far end.

She stopped just short of the gate, tilting her body to see into the 
room on the other side of the bars without getting too close and risk 
being seen herself.

The guard in the room was sitting at his desk.  He was paying little 
attention to the alternating monitors, but Emily’s route had been 
plotted to avoid their gaze anyway.  The desk he sat at had a wooden 
top.  The frame however, was metal.

Emily lined herself up then attacked.

She fell against the bars, ramming her shoulders as far as she could 
into one of the gaps.  She reached her arm through, jamming her 
batten forward.  The guard spun around on his chair, surprised.  The 
tip touched the foot of the desk and she clicked.

Sparks exploded across the whole frame.  The guard’s pudgy stomach 
was pressed against it.  He began bucking, his body thrown into 
spasms.

When she clicked off, the guard fell back, collapsing back into his 
chair.  It spun out beneath him, toppling him backwards to crash 
unconscious to the ground.

He had fallen beyond her reach, but the batten’s tip was pointed.  
She turned his foot to give herself better purchase and then stabbed 
hard, piercing the black boot between the sole and ankle.  It sank in 
smoothly, puncturing through to the other side of his foot.

The guard didn’t react to this brutality.  He’d feel it when he awoke 
however.  Emily angled the batten to tug the guard towards her, when 
he was close enough to reach, she slid the batten out and dragged him 
by the wounded ankle, until his whole body was within her grasp, 
through the bars.

She found his key-ring, attached to his belt.  She picked the 
appropriate key and unlocked the barred gate, pushing the guard aside 
to swing it open.  She quickly checked the status at the guard’s 
station.  Incredibly no alarms had yet been tripped.  Her escape had 
gone unnoticed this far.  But she knew such luck couldn’t hold out 
much longer.  She had to get out of the entire underground complex.

One of the keys on her newly acquired key-ring opened a cabinet in 
the corner.  Inside was a board with a series of other keys, neatly 
labelled.  She checked her sheet and picked the one she needed, then 
left the room, heading down another corridor.

The last thing she heard as she disappeared was a voice over the 
radio at the guard’s station.  It was asking a specific guard why he 
wasn’t responding, repeating the insistence that he reply 
immediately.  She knew it would be only moments before they realised 
this was more than just a faulty transmitter.

She continued according to the cross-pattern route that led her 
through the station without exposing her to the sporadic cameras.  
She stopped at a maintenance room and unlocked it, closing it behind 
her.

Inside she found a torch on a rack and grabbed it, switching it on 
and killing the main lights.  She bypassed all the pipes and 
plumbing, heading for the access-way at the end of the room.  She 
levered it up and squeezed herself inside.  It was tight, only 
designed to give enough space for occasional maintenance but she 
worked her way through to a large gap.  Another cover lifted and she 
climbed down the ladder into the sewer.

It was no longer used, the military having installed their own system 
when they built the facility, but it still smelt pretty rank.  Her 
torch revealed the floor to be quite dry, to her relief.

She came the to blocked wall, professionally sealed so as to prevent 
people like her from escaping this way.  True to his planning, her 
saviour had seen to this too, the wall having been neatly tunnelled 
through.  This path would lead her into the main sewage works, still 
active, where she could finally make her escape.

She ducked and scurried through the broken gap, having to travel 
hunched over.  It was fairly short however, and led her into and an 
adjacent tunnel.  It too was dry but her ears now picked up the sound 
of running water.

She climbed to a walkway, the paving above where the running stream 
of sewage would be and ran alongside the dry river, coming to another 
access tunnel.  The flow of water was much louder now, sounding like 
a torrent in the echoing caverns.

Another sound caught her ears however, that of footsteps.  They 
couldn’t be after her already, surely.

She didn’t wait to find out, heading through the tunnel and almost 
toppling off the walkway and into the low stream of foul water.  It 
was only a couple of inches deep but still stank to high heaven.  She 
was also closer now to the torrent of the main sewer, it sounded 
almost on top of her.

She ran along the side walkway, as fast as she dared over such uneven 
stones in the blackness.  She was maybe a hundred yards or so down 
the tunnel when she heard a splash.  It was the sound of someone 
landing in the water.  It was followed by rhythmic slap of feet 
against water, running in her direction.  Someone was after her, 
directly behind her.

She turned and ran, forgoing niceties and leaping off into the water.  
She could run much faster through the water-channel than along the 
pathway, as her pursuer had discovered.  Foul water splashed her as 
she ran.

There was no torch behind her so she assumed her assailant must have 
night-vision goggles.  Perhaps if she’d had a pair herself, she’d be 
better able to flee through the treacherous tunnels.  As it was, the 
sewers weren’t designed for speed.

Cursing herself, Emily stumbled, managing to right herself and 
maintain her speed.  Her pursuer appeared to be catching up however.  
She fell again, this time splashing down into the murky slime.  She 
caught herself, gagged, and flew on, barely losing pace.  She'd scraped 
herself however.  It was light but she knew she’d have to get it cleaned 
properly, with this water.  Right now it was the least of her 
concerns.

The torch beam revealed the tunnel end coming up.  The channel 
narrowed and the low water flowed into a flat pipe that was barred.  
The walkway led to a parallel tunnel, where the torrent of the main 
sewage river flowed.  This was where she was headed but she knew her 
assailant was right behind her.  In the time it took her to scramble 
up to the stone path, she’d be caught.

Emily stopped at the end of the tunnel, turned, and faced her 
oncoming foe.

The pursuer slowed as they approached, the splash of their footsteps 
halting finally.

She shone the torch up at them, slicing the light into their eyes - 
into the goggles that she’d correctly anticipated they were wearing.

It was a woman but she did not flinch as the light struck her.  
"Vicious," she remarked.  "But I’m afraid they’re shielded to stop me 
from being blinded."

She removed the goggles and at the same time, a floodlight clicked 
on, swamping the whole sewer in unbearable light.  The flood was 
attached to her back, making her stand out as a silhouette.  A woman, 
definitely, shapely but broad and athletic.  Even dressed in army 
combats, Emily could tell that.

The woman dropped the pack, leaving the light behind her as she 
closed on Emily.  "So, you gonna come quietly or are you going to 
make this fun?"

Her voice was cruel, tempered by sadistic confidence.

Emily braced herself, raising her batten.  The woman didn’t appear to 
have any weapons on her.

And then she took another step and her face was revealed.  Emily was 
looking into her own eyes, features she’d looked at every day in the 
mirror stared back at her with a mocking grin.

Emily was too stunned to move.  Maybe this was what the double had in 
mind because she scythed forward, her leg swinging out to kick the 
batten aside.  It slid back again, knocking Emily to the ground.

She splashed into the foul water, head shaken from the kick.  She 
pushed herself up but the woman already had her by the throat, an arm 
every bit as muscular as her own slid around her neck and tightened.

"What’s wrong bitch, never had to fight your inner demons before?"

"Who are you?" Emily gasped.

"I’m the real you," she hissed.  "I’m the model, the subject the made 
the copy from."

"So what am I?"

"You’re a fucking test tube.  You’re a science project gone wrong."

Hopelessness and shock turned to fury and Emily fought back.

She tugged at the arm the restricted her breathing but the woman was 
too strong, keeping the lock around her neck.  She could feel the 
hard biceps muscle cutting off her windpipe, crushing her throat.

She raised her arms and twisted her body sideways, slamming an elbow 
into the exposed torso beneath.  She cracking she felt confirmed her 
success.

The double hissed a pained obscenity and dropped her hold.  Emily 
rammed her head backwards in a reverse head-butt, causing another 
satisfying crunch.

She spun about to slam the woman were her fist but she was too quick, 
catching Emily’s punch and batting it aside.

"You bitch," the woman screamed at her.  "I am going to hurt you for 
that.  Valuable or not, you’re gonna fucking bleed."  She kicked out, 
her whole body moving in a precision motion of fluid strength.

A well placed foot caught Emily’s stomach and slammed her into the 
far wall.  It felt like her vital organs had been crushed.  There was 
no air left in her body.  She felt utterly defeated, lying there 
helplessly in the sticking stream of filth.

The double was examining her own body for damage, checking chest and 
face.  She didn’t seem the least bit concerned about Emily, confident 
she had been felled.  And worse, she didn’t seem to be too affected 
by the damage Emily had done.  In fact, it had barely slowed her.

"You can’t defeat me," the woman told her.  "Everything you are, came 
from me first.  The only difference is, I’m stronger, I’m faster, I’m 
better."

Then she looked up, a cruel gleam in her eye.  She intended violence, 
and was more than capable of committing it.

"Oh you might be the pet project, but you ain’t the first, you know 
that?  They’ve tried to clone four other women before me.  All of 
them were failures in one way or the other.  It’s no hardship that 
you didn’t work out right either.  They’ll just write you off as 
another mistake and head back to the drawing board.  And I’m the one 
who’s gonna do the writing off."

She stepped forward.  "But first, a little something to be going 
along with."

She slammed a foot down, stamping into Emily’s leg.  There was a 
crunch, the shinbone splintering.  The two halves of the lower leg 
caved as though another joint had appeared.  Emily screamed in pain, 
her howl echoing through the tunnels.

The woman stood over her, gleeful in her sadism.  She looked down 
upon hard eyes.  Emily said something but it was inaudible.  She 
leant lower to hear and only realised her mistake at the last minute.

Emily had retrieved the batten and now thrust it forward like a 
short-sword.  It slid into the woman’s belly just as she threw 
herself back.  Emily clicked it on and the woman bucked, yelling.

Her body fell backwards, sliding off the skewer and crashing down 
into the water.  She only been exposed to a split second’s burst but 
it was enough to incapacitate her.  She tried to sit up but her body 
refused to respond, muscles turned to jelly by the electricity.

Then she saw what Emily was doing and she screamed.  "Don’t!"

Emily had placed her good foot on one side of the narrow channel 
wall, above the water.  She stretched her body across the span and 
forced her elbows against the opposite wall.

The woman forced her dull body to respond as she scrambled to the 
side and tried to pull herself up onto the path above.

Emily was above the water now, suspending herself despite the 
agonising pain in her stomach and her leg.  She lowered the batten 
into the water and clicked it on.

Just as the snakes of blue death seared through the low tide, the 
woman heaved herself clear.  Collapsing on the stone walkway, her 
body still shuddering in protest.

Emily could only manage a few seconds in her position.  She released 
the batten and just collapsed, falling into the water.  The fall made 
her whole body erupt into agony.  She could stop however; she didn’t 
know how badly the woman had been hurt or how long it would slow her 
down for.  She made herself stand, her good leg barely managing to 
support her.  Then she fell onto the side of the walkway, hauling 
herself up onto it.

Arm over arm, she dragged her body up and along the stone walkway, 
over towards access tunnel that led into the adjacent sewer.  She 
dragged herself on, leaving the lighted tunnel behind her.  The water 
was a high river here, flowing at speed off into the inky blackness.  
She threw herself that little bit further and plunged into the 
disgusting flow.

She tried to swim but couldn’t - too tired and too battered by the 
powerful current.  Instead, she contented herself with keeping her 
head above water, for most of the time at least.  The last thing she 
remembered was the thought that she was almost certainly going to 
die.



She was barely conscious as the old man helped her out of the water, 
half-carried, half-dragged her through the sewage access drain and 
placed her in the car.  "Can you hear me?" he asked her.  "Can you 
understand what I’m saying."

Emily murmured something she thought was an answer, but she couldn’t 
be sure, unable as she was to hear her own voice.

"My name is Doctor Shuman," he told her.  "I’m here to help you."

She came around again in the car.  The old man was driving through 
the quiet night streets.

"Are you still in pain?" he asked.  "I gave you a shot that should 
kill it.  I also gave you a stim to keep you with us.  How are you 
feeling?"

She tried to speak but found her lips wouldn’t do as she told them 
to.  "What’s going on," she finally managed, woozily.

"You escaped," he told her.  "You made it.  I’m sorry it was so hard, 
but you’re out now, you’re free."

"Where was that place?  Why me?"

"I promise, I’ll explain everything, but first, we need to move.  If 
your leg pains you again, let me know."

Her leg.  Shuddering, Emily looked down.  A thick bandage was wrapped 
around her leg, from thigh all the way down to encompass her foot.  
It was too thick to move, she guess he’d splinted it.  She was still 
wet from the sewer.  The car already smelt foul.

They turned down a deserted street.  One side consisted of half 
demolished houses, the other didn’t look much better.

Shuman drove the car right into the back of what was left of one of 
the garages.

"Out," he insisted, already out himself and pulling a dirty tarpaulin 
over the car.

Emily limped out painfully, watching as he covered the car.  The 
intention was obvious, hide all traces of their being here.  This 
place had little in the name of security, it was camouflage that 
served it.

He wrapped an arm around, propping his shoulder beneath hers and 
taking most of her weight.  They went into one of the more stable 
buildings.

It was a shell, masonry and brickwork exposed.  It had evidently been 
stripped and abandoned, awaiting demolition.  Its only purpose now 
was a den for children or a temporary shelter for someone homeless.  
Though she doubted even those who were desperate would wish to stay 
here for very long; the whole place looked about ready to fall down 
around them.

The door to the basement was heavy and solid.  He opened it and 
helped her down the stairs.

It appeared to be highly makeshift as a base of operations, if that 
was indeed what it was.  There was no equipment to speak of, no 
papers or computers.  There was a wooden chair that he sat her in.  A 
table containing a few doctors’ instruments and, rather bizarrely, a 
fish-tank.  All around them, piled up against the walls were sealed 
cardboard boxes.

"You’ve been bugged," he told her.  "A tiny transmitter implanted 
under your skin."

"Can you deactivate it?"

"No," he said.  "But it’s relatively simple to remove it.  But I’m 
afraid with all the drugs I’ve given you, I can’t numb the area."

He turned, revealed that he was holding a scalpel.

"You have to be kidding."  But she was pretty sure he wasn’t.

"It’s a tiny incision."

"Where?"

"Your torso, beneath the left breast."

"I take it, it has to be now?"

He handed her two tennis balls and a square of rubber.

"Squeeze these and bite into this.  It’ll help."

She took them and sighed.  She pulled off her T-shirt.

"And the bra."

She did so, sitting exposed before him.  He was the true 
professional, not staring at her pert little breasts, not appearing 
surprised by her obvious musculature.  He knelt before her, rubbing 
something wet over the specified area on her ribs.

"I’ll make this as quick as possible," he assured her.  "Ready?"

She bit down and gave a muffled, "go."

The cut was quick and tiny.  She felt a cold heat as he slid a metal 
hook into her body.  There was a scraping that felt like a straight 
razor grinding jaggedly across her ribs.  All her muscles tensed, 
leaping and hardening as she strained to keep herself still.

She felt him pull a part of her out through the hole and nearly 
gasped.  She bit down, remaining perfectly still until he wiped her 
skin again and slipped a small plaster over the tiny wound.

"Done," he told her.  He held up a small, flat bead for her to see.  
"This is the little bastard."

He dropped the thing into the fish-tank.  There was some sort of net 
in there that stopped it halfway down.  He threw a switch and a pump 
began, bubbles shimmering through the water.

"The water’s ionised, that gas is a mixture of oxygen, aniline, 
hexane and a little cocktail of my own.  It should confuse their 
signal but not so much that they can’t trace us here."

"Why don’t we just destroy it?"

"Because I want them to think we’re just trying to muffle it, but 
that we can’t kill it completely."

Despite the pain and drugs, her mind was still sharp.  "You want to 
lead them here."

"Yes."

She nodded, understanding fully.  "Because we’re not going to be 
here."

He didn’t say anything, busy instead packing his medical supplies 
into a steel briefcase.

"What’s in the boxes?"

"Can you walk?" he asked, quite blatantly ignoring her.  "We need to 
leave now."

She didn’t say anything as, with his help, she struggled to her feet.  
They climbed the stairs and left the building.

They walked down the road unseen, no sign of life in this part of 
town.  The building they headed to was only a few streets away but 
with her wounded leg it took half an hour to get there.  By the time 
they arrived, the sweat was poring from her body and she was 
exhausted.

It was an abandoned church.  A modern style building rather than the 
old stone cathedral but it still had the decorations, the crucifix.  
An altar of sorts, an elaborate lectern and a drained pit like a 
mini-swimming pool where they had once performed baptisms.

The seating was all gone, but an old piano remained, its coverings 
removed to exposed the complex skeletal innards of its surprisingly 
elaborate mechanics.

A medical bench sat alone in the middle of the large room.  Shuman 
helped her onto it.  He took a syringe and gave her another shot.

She heard him say, "let’s get that leg seen to," but after that, the 
world was black.



When she awoke her body was throbbing lightly.  It was a strange 
sensation though not entirely unpleasant.  Kind of floaty.  She 
realised that she was strapped down to the table, her body held in 
place with a series of leather binding.  She tested them for strength 
and discovered she was securely tied.

"Hey," she called out, twisting her head to try and see around her.

Doctor Shuman stepped into her field of vision.  He smiled, gentle 
and reassuring.  "How are you feeling?"

"I’m fine," she said testily, "why am I tied down?"

"Please, don’t worry," he said.  "I just had to make sure you didn’t 
throw yourself out of the chair and hurt yourself."

"Well I’m OK now," she assured him.  "Untie me."

She was beginning to get the horrible paranoid sensation that this 
whole thing had been a set up, that they were playing games with her.  
Or perhaps Shuman was the bad guy and this had been devised so that 
he could perform his own experiments upon her.  But that would have 
to mean that the nurse Rebecca was in on it and she didn’t want to 
believe that she could do evil.

Shuman could see her discomfort.  "Please don’t be worried.  It’s 
nearly over now.  There’s just one thing left to do.  I want to give 
you back your memories.  After that, I can explain everything."

"Fine," she hissed.  "But why don’t you untie me first."

"I’m afraid the process can be quite unpleasant.  It’s the nature of 
memory to focus upon the more intense experiences.  Unfortunately 
those don’t always tend to be the most pleasant ones.  As your 
memories return, they will hit you in a flood.  It will be like going 
through all the most traumatic times in one short burst."

Emily lay back, wondering what could be so terrible in her past.  But 
then, everyone’s life has hard times, moments we’d rather forget.  
Moments of pain and trauma they we recover from due to the brains 
ability to put them aside to a degree, to forget about the pain.  
What would it be like to have every one of those memories condensed 
and pored into your head at the same moment?  She guessed that she 
was about to find out.

"OK," she told him.  "Just get it over with then.  Do it."

Shuman nodded.  "I’m going to give you another shot," he told her.  
"This will countermand the neural inhibitors.  It will be extremely 
disorientating and it’ll take the brain a while to set everything 
back in order."

He gave her a rubber block to bite on.  Unlike the previous one 
however, she noted this one was larger and shaped so that it was 
impossible for her to spit it out.  She nodded and he jabbed the 
needle in her.  He pulled away and stepped back quickly, as if afraid 
she would grab at him.  He was watching her carefully, the look of 
anticipation on his face making her feel even more afraid of what was 
to come.

And.    Then.    The.    Rush.    Hit.    And.    She.    Saw...

Light, God man, let there be... if any man knows any reason why; the 
pain, the holy mother of, blood dripping from; I’m bleeding... dark 
skies; blinding light, hot as, bright as the morning, high as a, dry 
as a, tourniquet turning again and again and, circling, blistering, 
twistering... brothers, boys, playing at God, playing at men, playing 
war; creation, birth, death, circle of life, of re-birth, of bleeding 
- I’m bleeding... droning, buzzing, flies like nagging doubts of, 
fear and fury and vengeance and hate of, man, of God, of, man and 
wife, of let there be light, show me the light, of... ring of fire, 
circle of hate, band of gold, band of brothers, my comrades my 
fellows, my brothers, my lovers, bright, light, height, sight, I want 
to fly, oh God let me be, let me fly, up, up and away... any reason 
why these two, to heaven and back, on the wings of desire, like 
flying, diving, falling, rolling around and around and down and around, 
twisting, circling, spiralling... hate and fury, wrath of God, like a 
bolt out of the blue, out of the black, out of the sky, out from on 
high... I’m bleeding, oh God, save me from this; hate, fury, wrath, 
kill them all, my brothers, kill them all, my lovers, save me from, 
kill them; of circle of violence, of droning, buzzing, falling, 
crashing, burning, bleeding, killing, raping, breaking, hating, 
filling, killing, searing, sighing, dying, blinding, light... oh God 
let me; bleeding, burning, I’m dying, kill them, my husband, my love, 
save me, I’m dying, I’m burning, I’m killing, circle of life, of 
hate, band of blood, cycle of violence; God no, let me be, let there 
be, let me see... Light.

Her voice was hoarse when she awoke.  Tears still dripped down her 
face.  Her body was aching, the flesh rubbed raw where she was 
strapped down.

Shuman undid the straps and handed her some tissues.  She wiped her 
face and sat up.

"How do you feel now?"

"Tired," she told him.  "Exhausted.  Completely drained."

He offered her a drink of water and she took it gratefully.  It 
burned her throat.

"This is a church," she suddenly realised.

"Yes."

"How appropriate."

"Are you religious?"

"No.  Just for wedding and funerals.  It’s just that religion is 
supposed to be about new-life, about second chances.  I was married, 
you know that?"

"Yes, I did."

"He abandoned me after I went psycho."

"Post Traumatic Stress isn’t going psycho."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes."

She turned to Shuman.  "Tell me everything."

"You should really rest now."

"Tell me doctor, in your professional opinion, am I likely to be able 
to sleep until you tell me everything."

He chuckled gently.  "No, I guess not."

"So tell me everything."

They went into a back room, what was once a small office for the 
pastor.  He poured them both a proper drink, strong and sharp, and 
they sat back in comfortable chairs.

"I was assigned a project to attempt to clone a human being," Shuman 
told her.  "There had been other attempts, this was to be the Mark 
Five.  I had the basic notes on the previous attempts, my 
predecessor’s notes.  Also, on what was to be tried this time.  Other 
people had done the groundwork, I was just an overseer really."

"You ran the project?"

"No, a fellow named Wilson was in charge.  He was the head of a black 
operations research program.  Understand, no one knew what we were 
doing.  This is all highly illegal."

"So why me?"

"You were a suitable candidate.  Physically you were in incredible 
condition.  But you were an ex-soldier, used to taking orders.  You 
had full military training.  Hell you’d even signed the National 
Secrets Act."

"So that other version of me was the clone?"

"You saw your clone?" he asked, surprised.

"She was the one that smashed my leg," Emily told him, tapping her 
thickly bandaged right leg.

"The idea was to create a perfect soldier.  The body can be grown 
artificially, based on the original subject.  It takes about six 
months.  But the intelligence and thought patterns are harder to 
create.  We used a technique of neural stimulation that duplicates 
certain parts of the brain, all the base impulses and background 
functions.  The parts of the brain that maintain the body, that 
enable us to distinguish sensory data into something coherent.  
Language and speech.

"Also, every muscle memory, every learnt movement and physical 
action, that the brain remembers on a subconscious level, can be 
simply transferred across.  That immediately gave us a function human 
being that had most of the instinctive skills of the host.

"Leaning to ride a bike for example, or a martial art, is more than a 
conscious memory of a set of rules.  The mind remembers a series of 
intricate and subtle movements and can perform them just be deciding 
to kick or punch.  That one thought triggers a certain set of pre-
enforced neural pathways.

"The problems occur with the subject’s mental states however.  They 
don’t know who they are or what they are.  They’ve never experienced 
conscious thoughts before; they have no capacity for reason or logic 
or any level of understanding.  These are all neural pathways that 
are unused and firing randomly, not knowing how to function.  They 
can’t deal with the emotions that are quite naturally physically 
induced, they have no experience of how to deal with such thoughts or 
ideas."

"This is all very fascinating, but where do I come into it all?  
Surely they’ve taken my blood, or whatever you need to clone me, and 
I can go back home, happy and none the wiser."

"You were kept around, quite voluntarily, for a comparison base.  We 
needed the original to see how the copy deviated, how we could 
control those deviations and shape them into what we wanted.  Custom 
designed human beings.

"Then, when our latest clone, the Mark Five, was showing signs of 
mental deterioration, it was proposed that a series of test were made 
on you, the original.  They wanted to use neural inhibitors to make 
memory recall impossible, then set you up in a scenario where you 
believed you were a clone.  Then see how you reacted to such a 
situation and how you could be calmed and controlled without losing 
your mind, as had happened to all the clones."

"You decided to use me as a lab rat?"

"I was completely opposed to the project, I voiced the highest 
possible objections.  I was overruled however.  It was then that I 
decided to quit, that I could have nothing more to do with the 
project.  But it’s not the sort of job you just walk out of."

"You escaped?"

"Not as elaborately as you, but yes.  I prepared my escape route and 

I ran."

"So what happened?  Attack of conscious?"

"Something like that.  I realised that I couldn’t sit back and 
pretend it hadn’t happened.  I was still in contact with a nurse 
there, Rebecca.  She was sympathetic to my views and together we 
arranged to help you escape."

Emily sat back, pondering all this.  It was incredible but she had 
been there, she’d seen it all.  She’d seen her clone, her own face, 
her own body, mocking her.

"The clone I saw was fully functioning," Emily told him.  "She was a 
military machine alright, she was faster than me, stronger than me.  
I barely escaped."

"Wilson must have found a way to stabilise her."

"Oh, I don’t think stable is the word I’d choose," Emily said.

"The fact that he’s been successful is not important here, we need to 
ensure our escape.  Wilson isn’t going to rest while the both of us 
are still alive and running around, a potential threat to his 
project."

Emily looked him squarely in the face.  "So we’re on the run?"  But 
she knew what he was hinting at.

"We have to shut down the project permanently, and we will always be 
in danger as long as anyone knows of it."

She nodded, knowing it was true.

Shuman waved as if brushing such concerns away.  "But all that’s as 
maybe, we’re safe for the time being.  Right now, you need to rest."

He was right, she was absolutely exhausted.  A small camp-bed was set 
up in the corner, she was asleep almost as soon as she lay upon it.  
By the time she awoke it was dark again.  She limped out into the 
main room, finding Shuman over a laptop computer.

He looked up when he saw her.  "How you feeling?" he asked

"Fine," she told him.  In truth, she felt great, healthy and strong.

"Good.  Let’s take a look at that leg."

He removed the bandages, prodding her shin carefully.  "That seems 
fine.  Try not to over-use it.  I’ll fit you with a lightweight 
splint.  That should take the stress off while it finishes healing."

She looked down.  "You’re kidding, I’ll be out of action for months."  
Then she saw the leg, looking a lot better than she’d previously 
thought.

"Hardly," he told her.

"But it was broken," she protested, stretching her leg 
experimentally.  It certainly felt a whole lot better.

"Often strains of minor fractures can feel like breaks," he told her, 
his doctoral reassuring voice.  "But trust me, you’re in one piece."

She tried standing, finding her leg perfectly strong, if a little 
painful.

"Not until I’ve got the splint fitted," Shuman scolded.  She sat and 
he fitted a framework that ran along her whole leg, neatly hinged at 
the knee.  "This she keep you perfectly mobile until that leg’s 100 
percent again."

She walked up and down, getting the feel for the apparatus.  It was a 
little clunky but gave her reassuring support.

"Let’s get back down to the business at hand," Shuman said.  "The 
decoy was found about four hours ago.  You could hear the explosion 
from here.  Almost all of Wilson’s troops will have been wiped out.  
That will leave the base on skeleton staff."

"Won’t he simply call in reinforcements?  Is the secrecy level that 
high?"

"He’ll want to use his own troops, take a squad off of another 
project and ship them over here.  That gives us time, but only if 
we act quickly.  Also he’s expecting us to run, not to retaliate."

Shuman pulled out his charts, blueprints, diagrams and schematics.  
"Are you sure you’re happy with this?"

She gave him a look that he’d not seen previously, a look that came 
from memories and experiences.  "I can do it," she assured him.  
"After all, it’s not like it’s the first time."

                              * * *

She was dressed in black, slipping between buildings like a shadow.  
She had broken into the wrecking shop at the opposite side and made 
her was undetected across their yard and to the fence.

She scaled it easily, flipping her body over the barbed coils at the 
top and landing with the precision of a cat.  

The warehouse was designed to look just like that - a warehouse.  
There was a guardhouse inside at the front.  It was the only entrance 
into the underground complex.  She headed to the main door, staying 
under the roving eyes of the security cameras.  One was fixed to 
point at the main warehouse door but she approached it from behind, 
ripping its lens off.

The main door was large, a typical clasp and padlock job.  This too 
was camouflage.  The door had been designed to be opened from the 
inside, not the outside.  Emily stepped up to one hinge, slid in the 
crow bar and wrenched it free of the wood.  She broke the other hinge 
and carefully opened the door enough to slide her body in.

Inside the warehouse, the camouflage continued.  Conventional boxes 
were stacked, as though this were any normal storeroom.

What wasn’t normal however, was the room to the side, a computer room 
of monitors and control decks.  A guard sat back in his chair, eating 
a sandwich and reading the newspaper.  The radio was playing loudly 
and he had no idea that an assassin was creeping up behind him.

His first indication that everything was not as it should be was when 
a hand came around the back of his chair and grasped his head 
tightly, another hand cupping the back of his skull.

Before he had time to register what this could mean, she had twisted, 
snapping his neck with a quick and easy jerk.

The room led to the underground complex, a locked door at the back.  
She did not use it however.  There were two guard stations here and 
both were required to disable the electronic lock that allowed 
anybody in or out of the base.

She needed an alternative route.

The atmosphere processor was a huge air conditioning unit.  It 
maintained the oxygen, humidity and temperature levels throughout the 
base.  She found the main vent, shut off its mainline to the 
processor and began unbolting the pipe that stuck out of the wall.

It was fairly small and would be a tight squeeze but that was OK, she 
wasn’t especially bulky despite her muscles and besides her body 
could be incredibly supple when required.

She pushed her way into the vent, having to scrunch her broad 
shoulders to fit them into the tunnel.  She pulled her body up and 
dragged herself inside.  It was only horizontal for about ten 
meters, then it went straight down.  She tipped herself over the 
precipice letting her elbows and shoulders act as breaks, her 
forearms ready to cushion her fall should she slip.  Her legs were 
spread wide, pushing against the sides to control her descent.

She went down the equivalent of several stories before hitting the 
bottom where the pipe led into the centre of a cross-junction, giving 
her the choice of four compass point directions.  She chose one and 
squirmed to twist her body around the corner, having to rotate 
herself so her belly could fold forward to get around the 90-degree 
angle.

Eventually this led her to a vent.  She checked the room beyond was 
empty and popped the grill off, ripping it free of the screws with a 
powerful shove.

She got her elbows out, dragging her body after, landing heavy but 
rolling forward to absorb the impact of the fall.

As she was getting up two guys came running in to see what the noise 
had been.  They saw her, saw the vent, clicked that something wasn’t 
right.  By this point, Emily had swept a hand across the lead man’s 
face; his nose shattered on impact and fired a splinter of bone 
through his brain.

The second man was holding a pool cue.  He brandished it at her like 
a weapon.  She smashed it with a smooth blow, sank a fist into his 
belly and then landed her elbow into the back of his skull with a 
resounding donk once he doubled over.  This last had almost certainly 
killed him but she couldn’t take any chances on survivors.  She 
knifed her foot down across his throat, snapping the neck in a clean 
and silent motion.

She picked up one half of the pool cue, drew a hunting knife from its 
sheath.  The station had firearm detectors so she had been unable to 
use a gun.  Even so, she was confident that she was deadly enough to 
complete the mission.

The adjacent room was a common-room.  A pool table, video games, 
couches, TV, video shelves.  There were another six men inside.  All 
turned to see Emily emerge, their comrades' blood still on her hands.

She threw the broken cue, the splintered end hitting the closest man 
in the face.  The next, standing at the pool table, she slashed open 
his throat with the knife, grabbing his cue as he fell back.

Then they launched at her.  Four men, military soldiers, running at 
her with murder on their minds.  She knocked back the first with a 
sweeping blow of the cue, stabbing the pole back then, to spear 
another through the throat.  She jumped, a flying kick to shatter a 
jawbone.  The again to leap backwards onto the pool table.  She 
kicked the balls, launching them at her assailants, hitting cracking 
shots to take them down.

She jumped off the table, flipping her body gracefully over the chaos 
to land, knife primed, facing her advisories.  Two were still 
standing.  She stabbed the first with upward thrust, scoring an 
instant kill, tearing through his sternum.  She ripped the blade free 
with an upward tear, opening him like autopsy.

Then the other guy struck, a dizzying fist to her face that sent her 
staggering.  He kicked, a professional, precision motion that made 
her arm feel like it had been struck by a mallet.  The knife spun 
across the floor.

He leapt at her, another kick, to the face, which she blocked, but 
missed his follow-up to her stomach.  She grunted in pain, her body 
turning over and falling as he rapidly exploited his upper hand.

He came in for another blow, ready to kick her insensible, but she 
flew into him low, her elbow crunching against his kneecap, 
shattering it and sending the leg folding backwards.

He fell down on it and her fist came up to meet him, shattering his 
jaw and knocking him cold.  She climbed on top of him, furious that 
he’d hurt her so much and come so close to really defeating her.  She 
wrapped her arms around her neck, squeezing, slowly and decisively.  
He was unconscious but she ensured he would never wake again.

She glanced around at her other victims.  Some were still conscious 
though all were incapacitated.  She retrieved her knife and made 
short work of those who were left.

Through the door and into the main corridor.  A series of doors, each 
one to be checked, each encounter to be a fatal one.  She made her way 
slowly and meticulously down the corridor, opening each door as she 
came to it.

The next inhabited room was a kitchen, two cooks at work.  Though 
these two men had more access to potential weapons than any of her 
previous victims, they put up less resistance.  These weren’t 
military, they were just civilians, employed to cook.  No exceptions 
however.  Her knife did its job, cold and functional.  Both men died 
before they realised they were under threat.

She collected a series of carving knives and checked them for 
balance.  Then she burst into the canteen and into the fray.

A dozen or more men and women were sat around the canteen, eating 
their supper.  The last thing they expected was a woman in black to 
jump out from the kitchen and start killing them.  That’s exactly 
what she did however, throwing knives at those closest to her, though 
only a few were immediately fatal wounds.

Then she was amongst them, cutting and slashing, severing life in all 
directions.  They all fell before her, parting like a field of wheat.  
As she snapped a neck, the man falling away, she saw one man run, 
head for the far door.  She picked up a metal chair and hurled it at 
him, bringing him down.

Another woman was running at her, Emily turned in time to see the 
meat cleaver she carried.  She threw her own knife, knowing it to be 
true.  It buried itself into her forehead, right to the hilt.  The 
woman dropped at Emily’s feet.  She retrieved the knife and the 
cleaver, spinning around and taking a fighting stance, her eyes 
scanning the mass for the next assailant.  It was clear however.

She check all those she’d killed, severing arteries whenever there 
was a doubt and counting her score as she went.

She noted that the chair she’d thrown had actually impaled the man 
and the leg stuck out through his chest.

The next corridor was accommodation, people in their living quarters, 
people asleep.  This was harder but this was still a part of the job 
she needed to perform.  At least sleeping victims didn’t look at you 
when you placed a pillow over their heads and buried a knife into the 
bundle of blankets.

There were no surprises until she got to the work station levels.  
There were still people in the labs, up and working.  Science never 
sleeps it would appear.

She kicked open one door and recognised the man inside, a snotty 
technician who had monitored her workouts.  In all the time she’d 
known him, she’d loathed him.  This put her mindset back onto that of 
justified retribution, of 'them and us'.  She was here to ensure her 
own survival, to wipe out every trace of the project and to kill all 
those involved in it.

"What the..." the technician hissed.  "What are you doing here?"

She didn’t answer him, instead reaching forwards to rip his throat 
out with clawed fingers.  She handed him the chuck of bloody flesh 
and dumbly he accepted it before collapsing in a gurgling heap.

Feeling a little better she headed to the next lab to find a couple 
more technicians bent over a microscope, apparently excited about 
what they’d found.  She killed the first as he turned, jamming the 
knife between his ribs.  She slammed the second guy down hard, the 
microscope eyepiece jamming through his eye-socket.

She ripped the knife out of the first guy, slashing his throat open 
and pushing him aside.  She turned back to the Cyclops.  He was still 
alive, his head jammed onto the microscope, stuck inside his skull.  
Blood gushed over the slide, ruining months worth of research.

She left him attached there, splitting his spine from his neck, 
jamming the knife down until it could be seen through his mouth.

The alarms started ringing as she was heading to the next room.  The 
stealth approach was over.  She burst into the next lab, recognising 
it but it was empty.

Three guards arrived at the door before she could leave.  They pulled 
out battens and spread out, to surround her.  She threw her knife, 
instantly reducing the odds.  The other two jumped her.  She launched 
at one, twisting her body away from the electrified stick and 
throwing him around to crash into the other guard.

She heard the stick go off and quickly released him as electricity 
flowed over them both.

She picked up both battens as another guard came into the room, his 
own batten held aloft.  She struck his weapon aside, using the other 
to incapacitate him.  She retrieved her knife and stabbed the other 
three guards, leaving the room armed with a batten in each hand.

In the corridor, two more guards came at her.  She threw one stick, 
its pointed end spearing one of them lightly but incapacitating him 
nonetheless.  The second guard caught her batten arm just as she 
caught his.  They both tried angling their own battens in while 
struggling to keep their assailant’s out.

Emily changed tack, grabbing a tight hold of the guard and raising 
her foot, placing it squarely on his chest.  She leant her body back, 
pulling his arms back with all her might.  She heard his chest crack 
and dropped him.

She put the batten through his throat just to be certain, then moved 
on.  The first was just stirring as she past him.  Barely slowing, 
she crushed his throat as she past.

The battle continued.  Emily didn’t stop for breath.  There was death 
around every corner, blood behind every blow.  With each new face she 
met, a murder was committed.  Each room she entered reduced the 
population of this facility.  By the time she had worked her way 
through to the far end, she slaughtered almost a hundred men and 
women, scientists, guards, research assistants, medical staff, 
maintenance workers, cleaners, and everyone else who lived and worked 
at the station.

At the end of a blood stained corridor, she found an office and 
inside the office she found a man and the man was Wilson.  He was in 
his chair, back turned to the door.

Emily entered and called to him.  He didn’t respond.

"Wilson, you son-of-a-bitch, look at me.  I’ve killed my way through 
this entire base of yours, now turn around and face me."

She reached across the desk and swung his chair around.  His face was 
pained and shocked.  It was also frozen in the last expression he’d 
pulled.  In his lap, sat the still bleeding heap of bloody muscle.  
His heart, fresh from the hole ripped in his chest.

"There was probably a reason for doing that," Emily said out loud.  A 
voice from behind her replied.

"Well, if you killed him, that would have meant I never could have.  
He was an arsehole, I didn’t like the way he fucked with my head."

"So it comes to this."  Emily turned to face her double.

The other woman was dressed in Lycra, a neon body-suit designed to 
extenuate every shapely curve of her muscled body.  Her arms were 
bare, all the better for showing off toned biceps.

"Too bad they didn’t transfer any fashion sense," Emily remarked.

"Please tell me you’re still not riding under that sad delusion that 
you’re the original.  You are the Mark Five, affectionately known as 
Emily.  I am Lieutenant Shannon Clark.  I volunteered for this 
program."

"Yes, I remember it well," Emily told her.  "Do you remember  
receiving the letter offering you the chance to qualify, the physical 
requirements?  It was that afternoon, sitting down at the oak table 
in the kitchen, an A4 pad before you, writing out a diet and training 
plan necessary to get back into shape."

This stopped her, Shannon’s face clouding.

"And tell me this," Emily continued.  "Why did you leave the army."

"That’s well documented," Shannon interrupted quickly.  "Until this 
project it was in any military record you care to dig up."

"Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome," Emily stated bluntly.  "It’s only 
to expected that you go a little crazy after being shot down and 
captured by a group of enemy militants in the middle of a war zone.  
A pretty enemy soldier.  Remind me, how many days did they spend, 
taking turns to rape you before the rest of your unit were able to 
break you out?"

This was the trigger; screaming with fury, Shannon rushed at her 
double, fist flailing.

Emily had been waiting for it.  She neatly stepped forward, grasping 
the chair besides her and smashing it into her assailant.

Shannon kicked it aside, shattering it in the process.  Emily timed 
her kick and scythed it through the wrecked furniture, slicing it 
into Shannon’s stomach and sending her flying backwards to crash to 
the ground, clutching her stomach in pain.

"I wasn’t finished speaking.  As I was saying, before you 
interrupted, that’s all documented.  Even the clean up mission 
afterwards that sent your unit in to mop up after the base was 
bombarded with heavy artillery.  What’s less well known is the fact 
that you persuaded your unit to let you go in first, and you single-
handedly slaughtered all the survivors, all the wounded, all the 
civilians who aided and tolerated them."

This made Shannon cold.  The memory and the fact that another knew 
the fact.  She pushed herself to her feet, leaning against the wall 
for support.

"But then your unit knew, though they all swore themselves to 
silence," Emily said.  "How about this, you remember the spider that 
lived in a bush outside your window, orange body, green legs.  You 
watched her build a web all summer. Then one day there was a big egg 
in it.  The egg hatched..."

"The egg hatched," Shannon remembered all too clearly.  "And a 
hundred baby spiders came out. And they ate her."

"You ever tell anybody that?  Anybody, ever?"

Shannon looked up and this time, there was fear in her eyes.

"They’re memories lifted and planted in your head, specifically 
designed to shape your psyche into whatever they wanted it to be.  
You’re the one borne of a test tube, not me."

"It’s not true," Shannon screamed, lunging forward again.  But her 
emotions had made her careless.

Emily remained cold and proficient, cutting the other woman’s assault 
down with a well aimed kick.  She followed it with a crushing fist, 
splitting her face.  Shannon staggered back and Emily felled her with 
a sweep.

"It’s not true," Shannon insisted, almost weeping, "It can’t be."

"You know it’s true," Emily told her.  "Why did you kill Wilson.  He 
was fucking with your head?  He wouldn’t tell you the truth?  He told 
you want he wanted you to know.  He played you like a drum, you were 
his tool, his latest military toy."

Shannon leapt up again, punching out.  She was hurt but she was still 
strong, catching a fast blow through Emily’s defence and doubling her 
over.  She brought her knee up, splintering her nose.

Emily jammed her tensed finger hard into Shannon’s kidneys, throwing 
her off.  She punched and then jumped, kicking her back to fall 
against the wall.

"We don’t have to do it like this," she told her double.  "Wilson 
played with us both but he’s dead now.  We’re both his victims, we 
should be on the same side, not fighting each other."

Shannon threw herself forward, blood and sweat streaming from her 
now, her fists leading.  "Dream on bitch," she hissed as she laid 
blow after blow into Emily.

Emily fought her off, replying to each punch with her own assaults.  
"I don’t want to kill you."

"Then die," Shannon hissed.  "It’s the only choice I’m giving you."

They locked, hands going for each other’s throat, arm locked across 
arm.  Muscles writhing beneath flesh as they both squeezed their 
grip, trying to out-muscle the other.

Locked together they tumbled around the room, both angling their 
bodies to get the upper hand.

"Don’t make me do this," Emily hissed.

"Die, bitch," Shannon hissed, but her voice and her hold was 
weakened.  Still she didn’t give up, her grip lethal around Emily’s 
throat.

"Please," Emily gasped.  "Don’t."

There was a crack and Shannon slipped through Emily’s grasp to slowly 
crumple to the floor.  Emily sat besides her, suddenly exhausted.  
She wept silently, allowing herself a minute’s grief before finishing 
what she had to do.

                              * * *

"Well," Shuman asked her eagerly as Emily finally stepped back into 
the church.

"I won," she told him.

"They’re all dead?"

"All dead."

She walked over to the office, found his bottle of whiskey and 
swallowed a mouthful.  She grimaced against it but didn’t put the 
bottle down.  She returned to the main church, looking at the huge 
model crucifix that was the centrepiece of the altar.

"Your clone?"

"Why didn’t you tell me," Emily hissed, turning on him.

"What do you mean?"

"I should have realised," she sighed, taking another gulp of the 
whiskey.  "Mark Five, they picked the name Emily, fifth letter.  It’s 
all coded."

"What do you mean, that’s just how they programmed you."

"Those memories you gave me, and that pretty little story, using the 
original donor as an experiment.  God I’m so gullible.  I suppose I 
believed it because I wanted to believe it, because anything was 
better than the truth.  And my leg, I really was living in denial."

"You’re just confused, it’s only natural due to all the stress you’ve 
been under."

She turned and threw the bottle at him.  It missed by only a few 
inches, exploding against the wall behind him.  "I swear to God, if 
you don’t stop lying to me you are going to be the next person I kill 
tonight, God knows one more won’t make any difference, I’m already 
damned."

Shuman sighed and finally capitulated.  "You’re right, you believed 
the story because you wanted to.  When we create a clone, it is a 
complete replica of the original, complete in every way.  Thought 
patterns, memories, emotions.  It’s a straight copy of the neural 
pathways, exactly how they were in the original.  When a clone awakes 
it assumes it is the original, it is identical at the point of being 
cloned."

"And that tale you told me, implanting memories to control the 
emotions.  That was just bullshit?"

"I got the idea from a Sci Fi movie."

"Yes, Bladerunner.  You know the crazy thing, I’ve seen it; I 
remember watching it.  Even though I’m less than a year old."

"You are exactly the same as the original donor, a perfect copy."

"Why do you suppress the memories?"

"The idea was to choose selective memories to help alter the psyche 
of the individual clone, to control them better, to turn them into 
whatever we wanted them to be.  The perfect soldier."

"You’ve yet to perfect the process?"

"We were trying several things with a number of different clones.  
With you it was complete memory suppression, telling you that you 
were a clone, trying to start from scratch.  The clone you fought 
tonight was a different experiment.  Certain memories had been 
released in order to mould her psyche as we desired."

Emily nodded, taking all this in, shock probably the only thing that 
was stopping her from exploding at him.  Shock plus the emotional 
numbness that had settled since before tonight’s escapade.

"I get all that, I understand," she said, sitting and leaning back 
against the crucifix.  "But the piece of this puzzle I’m confused 
about is where you come into it.  Why quit and then why break me 
out."

"My reasons for leaving I didn’t lie about.  I was sick of this job, 
the twisted games Wilson was playing with human beings.  He didn’t 
see you as a real person; you were just an experiment.  Hell, he 
never saw the humanity of most of his troops either."

"So you wanted out," Emily said, her mind quickly filling in the 
blanks.  "But you needed someone to clean up the evidence after you.  
To wipe the slate clean, cleaning your conscience and everyone who 
could possibly tie you to it.  How can you pretend it’s morality when 
I’ve just killed a hundred people because of your little plan?  Their 
blood is on your hands as well as mine."

"I can live with that," he assured her.

"Not necessarily," she hissed and stalked towards him.

"What are you doing?" he whimpered, seeing the look in her eyes.

"What’s one more death to me?  I’m a custom-built military slaughter 
machine, remember?  If I’m wiping the slate clean then you’re the 
last piece to be removed."

"But you can’t," he insisted, "I saved you.  I created you."

She grabbed him by his throat.  "Men kill their Gods all the time, or 
hadn’t you noticed?"

"Please."

She drew back her fist, watching as his face screwed up, anticipating 
the crushing blow that would pound his skull into a fine mist.

She dropped him, throwing him away in disgust.

"I thought you were an atheist," he commented, trying to regain his 
dignity.  His voice was still very small and weak.

"I am.  I lost my faith when my husband left me, but I used to 
believe.  I was a real Sunday-School girl.  ‘And Jesus asked him, 
"What is your name?"  He replied, "My name is Legion; for we are 
many."’  Mark chapter five, verse nine.  Tell me doctor, where do I 
fit into God’s world?"

"You’re as real as me."

"What like, ‘I think therefore I am’?"

"Something like that."

They both stood in silence for a while.  Eventually Shuman asked her, 
"What are you going to do now?"  He’d meant what was she going to do 
to him, but she answered him more generally.

She pulled a list from her pocket, waved it carelessly at him.  "This 
wasn’t the only base that played with cloning.  Some of my... sisters 
I suppose you’d call them, were taken to other places, all over the 
country.  As you said, different experiments tried on each one.  I’ll 
find them, go from there."

"What will that tell you?"

"I don’t know.  It’s a start I suppose.  What about you?"

"Get out of here, make a new life somewhere.  Try to do some good for 
a change.  Some of the research I’ve done could have all sorts of 
positive benefits."

She nodded.  "Well, good luck then.  I guess this is goodbye."

Emily left him without looking back.  She got into the car, the 
passenger seat.  Rebecca looked up at her.

"How did it go?" she asked.

"Just drive," Emily told her.  "I’ll tell you about it later.  Right 
now I just want to get out of here."

Rebecca started the car.  "Amen to that," she said, and headed off 
into the night.