Twelve

Charles Caine was surrounded by the warm comforts of the limousine, but he flipped up the collar of his overcoat as the car pulled up in front of the Washington Hospital Center. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought. Or sniffly. Visible weakness was a bad thing on the Hill.

Especially these days.

A Secret Service agent opened the door from outside. The brisk air rushed inside, and Caine winced. From beside him, Carl Sigler, his chief aide, barked a quick "Goddamn."

"We're ready when you are, Mr. Vice President," the agent said.

Caine put on his smile. "Let's do it." The Chattanooga accent had mostly left his voice--thirty-three years on the Hill does that to a man--but a hint of it remained to please the folks back home. "I'll freeze my balls off if we don't."

Charles Caine, appointed vice president two weeks ago, stepped out of the car into the sunlight and into the flashbulbs, the microphones, the well-coiffed reporters with their slender faces and shark's teeth. The Pack. Pudgy men with bazooka video cameras . . . Barbie-doll Botoxed TV news reporters . . . newspapermen wearing ties (as if that disguise made them respectable). All crying for his attention. All ambulance chasers, as far as he was concerned.

Caine smiled. And waved. And smiled.

The Pack's questions were a raucous spaghetti plate of nearly indistinguishable voices--

How are you feeling, Mr. Vice President?

Any surprises from the doctor?

Hypertension?

Any leads in the investigation?

About the Iraqi-pipeline saboteurs . . .

--that Caine pretended not to hear. He kept waving and nodding as the Secret Service agents and his aides walked up the hospital's gray steps. Caine could spin with the best of them. The message was clear: the vice president was going to a civilian hospital--not a secret facility--for his physical examination. Yes, public places were safe in this time of murder and terror.

This footage would undoubtedly be followed by clips of the press conference after his examination, the doc giving a bland synopsis of Caine's good health, then Caine delivering his sound bite: I feel right as rain, and ready to help President Hale and this great nation in any way I can.

Trite. Lame. Clichéd. Safe. As American as apple pie and freedom fries.

The story might not lead the national newscasts, but it'd certainly be mentioned. Face time is good time. Having the physical at a public hospital and not a military post or classified location had been Caine's idea.

Bred confidence in the system.

* * *

Secret Service agents flanked Charles Caine as he nodded hellos to the lobby security guards and strode toward the elevators. The media had been banned from the lobby, but Caine could still hear the camera shutters snapping through the scratched glass.

Sigler followed, cell phone pressed against his angular face, barking orders to a subordinate about the upcoming press conference. Sigler didn't care if the so-called reporter from that blog had a press pass--he wasn't in the pool, his name wasn't on this list, he wasn't cleared . . . so he wasn't getting in. It was elementary, Sigler said into the phone. Fucking elementary.

The cluster of suits worked its way to the elevator bay. Two of the elevators were already open, guarded by more Secret Service. Caine and two agents stepped inside one of the lifts; Sigler and the remaining staff went into the other. The ride to the top floor was swift and smooth.

When he stepped out of the elevator, Caine couldn't hear the army helicopter on the roof above him, but knew it was there, its blades whirring in standby mode, waiting for evac orders if necessary. When Caine had been prepped by Secret Service on the escape route this morning, he'd nodded solemnly at the news and said something that rang of authority, like "Very good" or "Excellent plan." Frankly, Caine thought it was all a little silly; he wasn't used to this presidential fuss (not that he hadn't earned it, with all the years he'd dedicated to the party and to the Hill). He'd missed plenty of his daughter's birthdays for the GOP. But for God's sake, it was just a physical.

They walked down the hall, past more agents and awestruck nurses and doctors. He smiled amiably at them. Face time was good time.

He met his physician at a doorway near the end of the hall. Dr. Jared Blackwell shook his hand.

"Good to see you, Charlie," Blackwell said, smiling. "How's the old lub-dub?"

"Well, I'm here, so I guess it's still ticking. And when I'm not in an office with bulletproof windows, I'm on that damned treadmill. Just like you ordered."

"Good for you," the doctor said, and they entered the examination room. It was bright and spacious. The examination table was well cushioned, the cabinets made of cherrywood. Clearly, Caine wasn't the first VIP to visit here.

"You just keep doing what the sawbones tell you, and you'll get along just fine," Blackwell said, motioning for Caine to sit on the table. "Besides, you'll have fewer co-pays that way."

"Huh. Whatever happened to 'an apple a day'?"

"These days, Johnny Appleseed works for Aetna."

They laughed. Then Blackwell's expression turned serious. This was the "doctor" face. Break the ice, then down to business.

"Seriously, Charlie. How're you feeling? With what's happening out there--Griffin dead and Hale stepping up, and you being appointed--how's the body reacting? You sleeping well?"

"Jared, I'm seventy-seven," Caine shrugged. "I haven't had a good night's sleep in fifteen years. I wake up at three every morning, like clockwork, to take a piss. Sometimes twice a night. I always manage to stump a toe or bump into a wall because I won't turn on the light. Jean's a light sleeper--and a real grouch when the light comes on."

Blackwell smiled. "You didn't answer my question. Consummate politician."

Caine sighed. "How'm I feeling? I'm feeling like a big, heavy bar of gold has been chucked into my lap. I'm thrilled to have it--the position, the opportunity. The other side of me can't believe how badly my lap hurts."

"Because that's one heavy bar of gold."

"Exactly. I'm sitting in the number two spot before Griffin's blood is dry on the pavement. They needed to move fast, they wanted me to step up, I understand that. But it feels so . . . big. That chair. That bar of gold. Christ, they're telling me about launch protocols for nukes, SDI satellites, the works."

"Heavy is the head that wears the crown."

Caine nodded. "Something like that. But it's more than that. It ain't right, Jared. Little boys want to be the president. They don't want to kill the president. It's a goddamned mess. I feel like the shovel crew at an elephant parade."

Caine looked from the floor to Blackwell.

"Confidentially?"

Blackwell nodded. "Of course."

"The body's pooped. The brain's working overtime. I miss spending time with Jean. I haven't had a second to spare to talk to my kids--much less my grandkids. Since the appointment, I've been surrounded by strangers who are scrambling for attention and are a little too free with their advice. Alone in a crowded room, that's how I sometimes feel."

The doctor nodded again.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm doing the best I can."

"That's all anyone asks." Blackwell placed his hand on the VP's shoulder. "Listen. This physical, it's routine. I'm no headshrinker, but it sounds like you're dealing fairly well with the life changes. Keep dealing with the stress the best you can, keep running that road to nowhere on that treadmill." Blackwell walked over to the window and closed the vertical blinds. "You know the drill. Lose the shirt. The nurse will come in and do the stuff that I got the MD to avoid doing."

The doctor raised his eyebrows.

"You're in luck, Charlie. She's young, firm, and has a chestful of personality, if you catch my drift."

Caine grinned.

"I provide only the best for our great leaders," Blackwell said, stepping into the hall. "You know our rule, of course."

"Don't shit where you eat," Caine said, nodding. "I'll behave."

* * *

At that moment, forty miles away and two thousand feet underground, Dr. Kleinman was giving a history lesson to John, Kilroy2.0, and the other Beta clones. The group was in Ops, sitting at the mahogany table. Kleinman was explaining the implications of NEPTH-charge technology, and how Dania Sheridan had taken its secrets to the Department of Defense.

Kleinman was now saying that Dania Sheridan had apparently made significant improvements to the technology since she began working for the DoD. He didn't tell the clones how significant those improvements might be.

And he certainly didn't know those improvements were now in the hands of the enemy.

* * *

When the door opened again, Charles Caine was suddenly certain he was not looking at a human being. This was an earthbound angel. A mirage, somehow given three dimensions. He had never seen a woman this . . . this . . . what? Words failed him. Exotic? No, but it was the only word his mind could conjure at the moment.

She was in her early thirties. Slender. Athletic. Her eyes were black pearls. Her skin was a creamy brown, her features certainly of Indian ancestry. She wore no makeup; it would have compromised her somehow, Caine marveled, like a colorized black-and-white film. A waterfall of black hair soaked her shoulders. Her bosom pressed against the fabric of her white uniform. A plastic name tag hung from her uniform, over her heart, its lower edge dangling just off the slope of her breast. mira sanjah, rn, it read.

She stepped into the room and closed the door. Caine fought the urge to lick his lips.

"Good morning, Mr. Vice President. He was lost in her dark brown lips. "How are you feeling today?"

Better. Christ. So much better.

"I'm doing well, thank you." Caine was beginning to blush. When was the last time he'd blushed in front of a woman?

"Good to hear it."

There's the slightest hint of a British accent in there, Caine thought. Was she born in India and raised in the UK? Or here, in the States? Where had she come from?

Nurse Sanjah smiled again, as if she'd read his mind, and stepped over to the cherrywood cabinets. She plucked two latex gloves from a small cardboard dispenser and pulled them over her hands--an effortless, methodical act. Caine suddenly imagined her face below his navel, unhooking his belt with her teeth.

Can it. You're old enough to be her granddaddy. He shifted on the table. Don't raise the flag here, you old sonuvabitch. Think of anything else. Anything. Football. The Titans. Jean. Think of Jean.

The nurse turned around, holding an electronic thermometer. "I'm just going to take a few readings, Mr. Caine. We'll start with your temp, then blood pressure. We'll wrap up with something new." She smiled. "Don't worry. I won't bite."

Too bad. "Sounds good to me."

"Great. Say ah."

The old man opened his mouth, and she placed the thermometer under his tongue. He could smell her now, an intoxicating rush of lavender and jasmine. He saw the fuzzy blur of the thermometer sticking out of his mouth and felt like a fool.

As he sat there, the nurse went back to the cabinets and bent over to open a drawer near the floor. She pulled a black, phonebook-size metal box from the drawer and placed it atop the cabinet. The nearly featureless contraption had only a few buttons on its top. Caine spotted special ports on one side of the machine; they looked like tiny headphone jacks, the kind he'd seen on Walkman radios.

Nurse Sanjah switched on the machine and offered him another smile. Caine felt himself blushing again--Goddamnit--and sheepishly smiling back.

She slipped the thermometer from his mouth, looked at the reading, looked at him, blinked (or was that a wink?), and said, "Normal," as if it were a white lie only they would share. Which it was, Caine suspected. How's the old lub-dub? Oh, baby, it's doing the bebop.

She took his blood pressure without comment, though Caine nearly sighed when her right breast slid against his biceps. Caine told himself that was an accident, told himself to think about Jean, told himself that he never shat where he ate.

The nurse took the reading and wrote it on the sheet clamped in the metal clipboard.

"Lie down," she said, and Caine did . . . knowing that if his body was going to betray him, it was now. He lay on the cushioned examining table, stole a glance down at his flat crotch--Thank you, Lord--then stared up at the ceiling. Caine exhaled.

Nurse Sanjah brought the small black box to the table now and placed it next to his legs. She connected thin wires to the small ports on the side of the machine and connected the wires to circular foam electrodes. Caine watched with interest. Her gloved hands were small, but completely confident.

She looked into his eyes and smiled again. "Don't worry, this is a recent addition to the physical. It's a twofer: an EEG and EKG all in one. I'll put these electrodes on your head first. They'll pick up neural information and send it to the box. Then I'll remove the electrodes and place new ones on your chest. Again, the results go into the box. Dr. Blackwell will pull the data and make a note of the results."

"I've never seen anything like it."

"State-of-the-art." Sanjah leaned over him, her hair sliding off her shoulders. "I'm going to put these on you."

He nodded and watched her tongue slip out of her mouth in concentration as she grabbed the first electrode.

My God, I need a drink, he thought.

Mira Sanjah placed six electrodes on his head: two on his forehead, two on his temples, and two near the base of his neck. Her perfume was intoxicating. She then tapped several buttons on the machine, and the device made a strange, high-pitched whine, like the sound of a charging camera flash. Caine was about to ask about that noise when the goddess gazed down at him. Her eyes were different now.

"Ready?" she asked.

Caine began to frown. Different how?

Her eyes were cold.

Wait. Something's wro--

Mira Sanjah pressed another button.

* * *

As Charles Caine tried to shriek, to scream for help, to breathe, to blink, to reach up and tear those electrodes from his head, a tsunami of voices, images, sounds, and emotions--none of them his, none of them his, noneofthemhis--surged into his mind, invading, conquering, slipping across his brain like an eel, screaming over the geography of hemispheres and lobes, funneling into the place where his memories lived, his consciousness, his self, his

--soul Jesus Christ Almighty my soul somebody help me--

tearing arcs of wildfire across his mind, something crushing his singularity under its incredible weight, reshaping it into something else, something

--damned--

frozen, cryogenic, obsidian, predatory, uncompromising, unflinching, unfathomable.

Charles Caine did not see the ceiling tiles above him now. He did not see the smirking woman with the raven hair. He did not feel the spasms jigging his muscles, did not feel his fingernails digging Cheshire moon-grins into his palms, did not feel his teeth grinding against each other. He did not hear the air surging from his nostrils in sputters of guttural, manic snorespeak.

He did not see. He did not feel. He did not hear.

And yet, he did.

An iron glove was closing around Charles Caine's mind. He was reliving moments, thoughts. He could feel a shimmering, alien precision overwhelming his mind neuron by neuron

--dancing in mother's parlor to "Chattanooga Choo Choo," doesn't Mary Jean look wonderful in her dress, Charlie, her curls bouncing with the music THIS IS MINE NOW--

enslaving him, overtaking his thoughts, his memories

--married the childhood sweetheart, you bet I did, and did I mention I was running for YOU county ARE comMINE--

pushing him inward, pushing him aside, pushing him deep

--ly in love with you, baby, that's wonderful news, sounds like we need a house with another roo--

--EVERYTHING YOU ARE--

compressing them, making them

--MINE--

like files in a cabinet, like a cards in a Rolodex, like

--Jesus Christ what's happening to me God help me God help me God help me--

words in an open book

ALL MINE

information on a disk drive, spinning round and round and round and

--i'm sorry Jean so sorry so so sorry I can't see--

YOU

--God can you hear--

ME

--Lord, Holy Lord beginning--

ALPHA

--and end--

OMEGA

--I--

WE

Eeeeeeeee

* * *

Me.

* * *

When Caine's body stopped its tangled marionette dance, Sanjah's smirk twisted into a sneer . . . then a triumphant smile. She covered her face with a gloved hand, suppressing an outburst of laughter. Her eyes were still black ice. Killer's eyes.

The old man's eyes fluttered open. They scanned the room, the woman, cataloging what he saw. Caine lifted his hands and held them in front of his face, examining first the palms, then the withered backs. He lifted his head and looked down at his chest and stomach, his mouth slipping into an unconscious frown. His eyes followed the wires connected to his chest and head down to the black device near his legs. A sly grin spread across his face.

"Success," he said.

Sanjah's smile vanished. She raised her eyebrows. "Almost," she replied coolly. "Let's do it. Vermilion."

Caine nodded. "Quantum."

"Methuselah."

"Mission," he said.

Sanjah's eyes glimmered. "Propagate."

Charles Caine sat up, swung his legs over the examination table, and took in a deep breath as if it were his first. He closed his eyes and placed his hands on his face; his fingertips gently trailed down and across his nose, mouth, and cheeks. He dragged one hand down over his mouth, over his chin, and onto the small wattle beneath it. Caine's eyes opened and brightened. He flicked the flesh there with his index finger.

"So this is what being old feels like."

Sanjah snickered. "You should try being a woman." She held her hands out to either side of her breasts and moved them back and forth, comically emphasizing her bosom.

Caine surveyed the nurse's body and shook his head in appreciation. "If I had scored your gig, I never would've left the house."

"You did score my gig."

Caine raised an eyebrow. "So I did."

Sanjah looked at her wristwatch and sighed. "You know the plan. We have two more minutes, then I get the doctor. You saw him last. Does he suspect anything?"

Caine shook his head. "Nothing." He watched intently as Sanjah scribbled several comments, many of them Normal, onto the clipboard sheet. He chuckled. "I think he wants to fuck you."

Sanjah's nose crinkled in disgust. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a test tube. She removed its rubber cap. "So give me the run-through. What do you know?"

Caine closed his eyes again. The surface of his eyelids rose and fell as the orbs behind them rushed side to side, like a sleeper's in REM sleep. He opened them. The pale flesh above his cheeks crinkled into well-worn laugh lines.

"Everything," he said. "I know everything. His daughters' birthdays. His Social Security number. Emergency bunker locations. Access codes to the intranetwork. His favorite movies--all John Wayne. Every dirty little secret. Names of his wife's pets. Pet names for his wife."

Caine gazed down at his right thigh and rubbed it absently.

"Jesus. I can remember when he was shot in Okinawa. I can feel it."

Sanjah shook her head. "Later. Let him stay near the surface. It's better that way; takes care of most of the unconscious stuff. Body language, signature sayings, accents, that sort of thing. If there's anything I've learned over the past three days, it's this: Don't try to be the host. Just let it flow. Caine's in there. Pillage when no one's around."

"Got it."

"Hold still now."

Mira Sanjah reached out and plucked a strand of gray hair from Caine's scalp. She slipped it into the test tube, then replaced the rubber cap.

"Thank God you only need one. I don't have many to spare."

Sanjah glanced at her watch again. "So, quick. Do the FBI, CIA, NSA, know anything about us?"

Caine closed his eyes. They rolled in their sockets like a madman's.

"No."

"Do they know anything about our family reunion?"

Caine smiled. "No. The bastards are apparently keeping it quiet, running it in-house."

"So I was right," the nurse said, grinning.

"No, I was right."

Sanjah laughed, ripped the latex gloves from her hands, tossed them into the shimmering wastebasket. She then picked up the black device and tucked it under her arm like a textbook. "Time to go."

"You know what to do from here," Caine said. "Give my best to Devlin."

Sanjah grinned. "It's Devlins now. Hordes, really. It's all on schedule. Unit One is already learning how to drive the trucks, and learning to love vodka. Unit Two is freezing its balls off, while Unit Three is having fun, fun, fun till their daddy takes their T-birds away. And speaking of daddies, I'm off to find the prodigal. I'll probably need some Devs for that."

"Make as many as you need."

"That's it, then. You know when to report, of course."

The vice president nodded. "Report." It rolled off his tongue in a romantic gush. "I can't wait to talk to myself."

Mira Sanjah walked to the door and winked at him before she opened it. "You just did."

* * *

Charles Caine grinned during Dr. Jared Blackwell's predictably bland synopsis of his health during the press conference thirty minutes later. Aside from a touch of hypertension--well within normal limits for a man of Caine's age and position, Blackwell emphasized--the man was more than fit to lead the country. The Pack voraciously gobbled every syllable . . . its flashbulbs, zoom lenses, and clown-red-lipstick smiles said as much. Caine smiled through it all, too, nodding at the appropriate moments.

When he took the lectern after Blackwell's briefing, the questions overflowed from the Pack. All of them inane.

All of them perfectly, deliciously inane.

Vice President Charles Caine answered every last one. Just before he left the stage, he delivered his sound bite that would indeed be edited into the evening's newscasts: "I feel right as rain and am ready to help President Hale and this great nation in any way I can."

As he departed, no one asked the vice president why he was waving with his left hand instead of his right, as he had done for the forty years he'd been in politics. The Pack simply didn't notice.

Which made John Alpha--who was now lurking and controlling Caine's psyche from the depths of the old man's hippocampus--smile even more.

Thirteen

It was good to be back in the Common Room, John thought. Not because it made the day's revelations any easier to swallow, or because he was closer to his bed, which he desperately wanted to dive into. It was good because it was the closest he could get to being outside. As John sat on the circular couch in the center of this circular room, staring up past his cigarette smoke, he could spot birds swooping across the skylight above him . . . and far, far up into the blue, misty contrails of airliners. Or fighter jets, more likely. In these parts and in these times, you could never be too sure.

After Durbin had played the audio file in the Operations room--deee dee deee dee deeeeee--the group had taken the express elevator up here for lunch. Warm sandwiches and cold sodas were waiting for them, but only Michael felt like eating after the ride. John had made a beeline for the couch and his smokes--just need to sit down for a sec . . . just a sec . . . process this shit--and the others had found some similar solace in looking up into the sky, into the great freedom above.

John exhaled and watched the smoke rise. This place they were in, it was a tomb, dangerous. He didn't trust it, and he didn't trust Kleinman, Hill, or Durbin. It was a feeling, just a feeling tugging at his brain, like a sliver of popcorn shell trapped between your teeth. It nagged, insisted.

Nearly all of the clones sat on the couch. Jay and Jack sat beside each other, conversing in conspiratorial whispers. John had no idea what they were saying, but it was clear Jack was steamed about something. John smiled at the exchange. Toss them in Star Wars T-shirts and they'd look like kid brothers up to no good. Now, John smiled at the irony.

Kilroy2.0, however, was not at the couch. He pored over a motley collection of computer monitors, keyboards, and CPUs humming away on a folding table placed in the far end of the room. The lunatic had nearly shrieked with joy when he'd spotted the setup. John suspected these were the computers that had been taken from Kilroy's home when the spook squad had kidnapped him. Just as they had kidnapped John. And Dr. Mike. And Father Thomas. And the rest, here on Gilligan's isle.

Kleinman was with them, sitting on a section of the couch. He appeared tired, yet wired. The constant polishing of his glasses tipped his hand. Right now, with that quiet impatience radiating from him, Kleinman reminded John of a boss he once had in Georgia a few years back--during what John now called the Road Work Years. Roy Fielder was his name. He owned Athens Rock N' Roll, a paving and cement company. No matter how early John would show up to prep the mixer, the roller, or the work site, Roy Fielder was there. First to arrive, last to leave. Fielder would pace and cross his arms, silently waiting for the crew to get that first mug-o-joe in their bellies and get to work. Roy Fielder never said a word, but his eyes implored. There's sweat to be spilled and profits to be made.

Restless, Kleinman clapped his hands on his knees. John took another drag and looked at the old man.

"So now we're supposed to decode the message our evil twin left for us," John said. "We find Mom and save the day."

Kleinman nodded. "Something like that."

"And you're depending on seven semi-average Joes instead of superbrilliant government folk because . . . ?"

Kleinman fidgeted with his glasses. "Twofold. The first should be obvious: secrecy. To contact outsiders about Alpha's plot, whatever it may be, would reveal the existence of 7th Son. The world doesn't know about us, Alpha, or you. I wouldn't think you'd want to share a face--much less fingerprints and DNA--with a political assassin. Every post office in America would have your mug shot on a bulletin board. Instant fugitives. And I don't think any of you are ready to out yourselves as human clones."

"Got that right." John took another drag. "But it seems shortsighted. You're taking us seven whippersnappers over whatever brainiacs the feds have at their disposal. Not to mention sheer manpower, or gunpower. Doesn't make sense."

"Don't worry about the resources," the old man replied. "General Hill can get you whatever you need. Trust me." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Listen. Over the past three weeks, Durbin, Hill, and our team tried to decode that Morse-code message--if it's even Morse code--and came up with file after file of gibberish. They're stumped, which makes me wonder about using government 'brainiacs.' Alpha sent two messages with this kidnapping: 'You can't decode this' and 'Get the Betas--they'll be able to do it.' The label on the CD-ROM said as much."

"And since we have the same memories as Alpha--to a certain point in his life--we're suddenly very useful," John said, and smirked. "I see what you're going for. If anyone could get into Alpha's head . . . really get into his head to stop him . . . it'd be us. Seven heads are better than one."

Kleinman smiled. "You're good."

"Better hope so."

Across from the pair, Jack and Jay concluded their mini-conference. Jack leaned forward, face flushed, and tapped his index finger on the round table. "Kleinman, we want to talk to our families. They've got to know what's going on here, where we are. Jay and me. We've gotta talk to our wives. No bullshit."

"You can't, Jack," the doctor said. "Not right now. There's too much wo--"

Now Jack's knuckles rapped on the Formica. "No, I said. No. They need to know we're okay. You've got us by the balls, but at least give us a phone call."

Across the room, Kilroy2.0 clapped his hands and gave a small hoot. The five monitors were powered up now. A small webcam rested on one of the boxy CRTs. Kilroy2.0 leaned his head over the keyboards--stacked almost atop each other, like keys on a cathedral organ--and began typing. John and the other clones stepped over to see what was happening.

"Are you up and running?" Kleinman called. He stood up, grateful to escape Jack's ire. The bearded, bespectacled clone remained on the couch, knuckles still on the table. His shoulders sagged. John felt a pang of sympathy. Hell, he'd left his girl, Sarah, on a balcony in Miami, where she'd promised sex and breakfast. It was a fucking mess, all of it.

Kilroy2.0 didn't look up, but nodded his head furiously. The monitors glowed with Web-site windows, strange programs, and streaming text, numbers and graphics. John, whose computer experience was limited to the occasional visit to the public library to buy an amp on eBay, was amazed. He'd never seen anything like this: Kilroy2.0 was like an orchestra conductor on speed, his fingers already rak-a-tacking across the keyboards, his hand flipping to the computer mouse to double-click a winking icon. The computers hummed, beeped, and whirred . . . and apparently did what Kilroy2.0 told them to.

It's like he's come home, John thought. Like none of this, none of us, matter.

"What operating system is that?" Jack asked, squinting at the screens.

"Home-brewed," the hacker muttered as he typed. "Called K2."

"Our tech team installed the audio file onto your hard disk," Kleinman called. "When you're ready, go ahead and play it."

Kilroy2.0 clicked an icon on one of the monitors, which activated the sound file. It played through the computers' attached speakers and into the circular room. No one spoke. John thought of a roomful of army telegraph operators wearing their arcane headphones, hunched over their little electric noisemakers, pumping messages to wires suspended over burning battlefields.

Dee deee . . . deee deee dee . . . dee deee . . . dee deee . . . deee dee deee dee . . . dee deee . . . Dee deee . . . deee deee dee . . . dee deee . . . dee deee . . . deee dee deee dee . . . dee deee . . . dee deee . . .

There was more, but Michael spoke up over it. "Stop playing it for a minute."

Kilroy2.0 clicked an on-screen button that resembled a stop button on a tape player and looked up at the marine.

"Gimme a sec." Michael closed his eyes; a line of concentration formed over his eyebrows. Near him, Jay did the same. "Play it again," Michael said.

Kilroy2.0 clicked the rewind button and played the file again. It was creepy: dee deee dee deeee, like a message from an alien race.

The hacker stopped the message when Michael opened his eyes.

"Someone grab a piece of paper," Michael said. "It's definitely Morse code."

* * *

Nearly all of the clones had dashed back to the couches when Kleinman tore a page from a pocket notebook and waved it at them. Kilroy2.0 kept his post at the computer. They crowded around the circular table at the center of the room, peering down at the letters as Michael wrote them. Even now, John couldn't help noticing the marine's handwriting.

That's my handwriting, he thought. Jesus Christ. His A's look like triangles. Just like mine.

Michael had written three rows of capital letters; the first two had six letters . . . the last, seven letters.

AGAACA

AGAACA

AGAACAA

Dr. Mike snorted. "What up, Da Vinci Code?"

"What does it mean?" Father Thomas asked, shaking his head.

"No idea," Michael said. "I didn't edit for content."

"Are you sure you translated it correctly?" Kleinman asked.

"Yeah, he did," Jay said. "It's the real deal."

Dr. Mike looked at him suspiciously.

"I had to learn this stuff to work in the field for the UN," Jay said. "When you're in the middle of the mountains of Pakistan and the satphone's on the fritz, you gotta communicate. It's usually reserved for emergencies."

"Well, this is an emergency," Dr. Mike said, and picked up the piece of paper. "But I'm with the priest. Agaa-caa? What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That's basically what Durbin's team said," Kleinman replied. "They decoded the same letters, have been puzzling over it since."

The clones stood in silence, staring down at the letters written in Michael's handwriting--in their handwriting. They glanced at one another, that same worried expression pinching their faces.

And here we are, together at the starting gate, John thought. That's what we're all thinking. If we get this ball rolling now, we're admitting some truths, aren't we? We're admitting that we believe. That it's all true. Can I trust these me's? Can I trust them like I trust myself?

Then, as Jay began to speak, the moment passed. John's mind flitted to cigarette smokers, instant conversation. A freak is not a freak if all are freaks, Frank Zappa once said. Too true. The seven were in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Agaa-caa. Is it an acronym?" Jay glanced at the marine for a reply. "Maybe for a company or an agency?"

Michael shook his head. "Doesn't look like it. Even if you say them phonetically: 'Alpha, Golf, Alpha, Alpha, Charlie, Alpha.' That's no code I'm familiar with. It could be some kind of instruction or command--like some kind of GPS coordinates for latitude or longitude--but we don't have any kind of context. If it's an answer, we don't have the question. If it's the lock, we don't have a key. There's plenty of Alphas in there, for what it's worth." He shrugged. "I just don't know how much it's worth."

"Me neither," Dr. Mike said, clearly intrigued now. "Maybe it's not an acronym. Maybe it's a . . . ah, shit. What're those words you rearrange to make other words?"

"A palindrome?" Father Thomas said.

"Anagram," Kilroy2.0 said, still staring at his computer screen. The others looked at him in that strange amalgam of morbid curiosity and amazement. The oracle speaks and the faithful listen, John mused. Then the lunatic added, "Anagrams are your best friends in online Scrabble."

"Swell," Dr. Mike said. "Anagram. Is it one of those?"

They looked over the letters.

"Cagaaa? Aaacag?"

"Those aren't words," Jack replied.

"I'm just trying to help," Thomas muttered.

The clones continued to look at the slip of paper.

"CA. GA. Those could be abbreviations for states," Michael said. "California and Georgia."

"Yeah, but what about the other two A's?" Dr. Mike flashed a brilliant smile. "Is John Alpha telling us that he's in a twelve-step program?"

"Be serious, Doc," Michael said.

"I'm just sayin'. Maybe it's a cry for help."

"Hush," Jack said, and squatted down. His knees popped, two little thundercracks. "Of course," he said, tapping the letters with his index finger. "These are code letters for nucleotides. Nucleotides are the building blocks of DNA."

Dr. Mike grinned. "Now we're getting somewhere. The twisted fuck. Appropriate message for a bunch of clones."

Jack picked up the paper and held it. It quivered slightly in his hand. Across the room, Kilroy2.0 was already finger-pecking on his keyboards.

"So what do those letters mean?" Father Thomas asked. "Does it spell out a gene or something?"

The geneticist shook his head. "It's not that easy. Nucleotides are like little biological code words. They talk to cells. Depending on the code word, which is defined by the order of the nucleotides, the cells produce special proteins. That's how traits are passed from parent to child . . . or clone to clone. It's all about A's, T's, G's and C's."

"Mendel and his peas," John said.

"And Q's," Dr. Mike said. "I'll get the Cliff's Notes later. So what's the problem?"

Jack sighed. "Instructions for protein manufacture are composed of hundreds of nucleotides, not six or seven. This might be a part of a protein code, but it's certainly not--" Suddenly, Jack stood and whirled around. He looked at Kilroy2.0, then pointed at the computer screens. "Hey. Where can you go with those?"

Kilroy2.0 grinned. "Anywhere."

"Good. Do a search. Genetic databases. For AGAACA."

Kilroy leaned over the keyboards. His fingers tak-tacked. John heard the distinctive double-click of the computer mouse.

"Working," Kilroy2.0 said. Dr. Mike rolled his eyes. John watched lists of data simultaneously stream across the five monitors. The mouse clicks almost became a cadence.

"Numerous hits," Kilroy2.0 said. "It's part of a wheat genome. It's also part of a sequence for an anticoagulant. Also found in some mouse and rat hormone receptors."

Michael frowned. "Okay. So what do wheat, rat hormones, and blood clotters have in common?"

Silence.

John stared at the letters. Stared past the letters.

AGAACA. AGAACAA.

"Nucleotides may not be the answer," Jack said. "If this is only part of a genetic sequence, we'll never know what Alpha's trying to tell us."

"We didn't play the entire message," Thomas said. "Maybe if we transcribed the whole thing . . ."

John continued to stare. AGAACA. AGAACAA.

A-G-A-A-C-A.

Of course, you bastard. Of course.

"Yeah," John said. His voice was calm, transfixed. "Play back the whole thing. Write it down. And, ah . . ."

He glanced up at the others, embarrassed.

"Somebody get me a guitar."

* * *

John realized his request was ridiculous: Get me a guitar. Here. In a "Code Phantom"-protected cloning facility, whatever the hell that meant.

But Kleinman had nodded and hustled out of the room. In Kleinman's absence, Kilroy2.0 replayed the entire message while Michael and Jay collaborated on the decoding. They were wrapping up when Kleinman burst back into the Common Room with General Hill not far behind. Hill's eyes were chilly.

But the soldier was also carrying an acoustic-guitar case. John stifled a laugh. This, this . . . force of nature . . . is an axeman? What's he play? "The Army Goes Rolling Along"?

Hill's eyes narrowed; he was looking at John as if he were reading the young man's mind.

"I'm sorry," John said, suppressing a giggle. "It's just . . ."

Hill brushed past Kleinman, strode over, and placed the guitar case on the round table. He fired a smirk in John's direction and opened the case.

The clone's eyes widened. The wood was spruce--Sitka spruce, the best around. It was deep brown on the edges, slipping into a warm gold in the center. The headstock read c. f. martin & co., and just below that was a pearlized logo of a rat and the letters g.o.w.r. The gold tuning pegs glimmered in the skylight sunlight.

"It's a Martin," John whispered. His eyes flitted from the six-string to the general, then back again. Glittering letters were inlaid on the fingerboard. When read vertically, they spelled skiffle.

John closed his mouth, then said, "You own a Martin?"

"Limited edition," Hill said.

"Yeah, I know," John marveled. "A Lonnie Donegan Brazilian. They only made seventy-five of these." He couldn't pull his eyes away from it. A Martin. He'd only strummed them in guitar shops, and then only for a minute; he'd always been too broke to afford to break one. John whistled a note of amazement. "Motherfucker. This put you back, what? Seven gees?"

"Almost nine."

Jack gasped. "Nine thousand dollars? For a guitar?"

"A limited-edition Lonnie Donegan," John marveled. "It's beautiful. Beautiful." He reached for the guitar. Before he lifted it out of the case, he looked at General Hill. "I'll be careful."

"I know you will."

John sat down on the couch and propped the Martin on his knee. It felt nice in his hands; it felt right, if that made sense. John strummed a first-position E chord and grinned. The guitar was perfectly tuned, and the sound was warm, rich, aural butterscotch. He looked down at the piece of paper on the table, read the first three lines, and began plucking the strings with his fingertips.

A-G-A-A-C-A. A-G-A-A-C-A. A-G-A-A-C-A-A.

"Huh," John said. "Does that sound familiar to any of you?"

"Negatory," Dr. Mike said.

John played it again, looked at the others for any recognition. "I don't have the foggiest, either."

He played the notes again. And again.

Nothing.

"What if you were to play them differently?" Jack offered, leaning back against the couch cushions. "I don't mean in a different order. I mean to a different beat. You just played them straight through. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. Play it differently: Bam-bam-bam . . . bam-bam . . . bam-bam, or something like that. Catch my drift?"

"I do." Stupid. What John had just done was not really different from replaying the monotone Morse code. "Stagger the beats so they might actually sound like music."

"Like emphasizing the correct syllable in a word," Michael said.

John tried again, playing the first line as Jack had suggested: A-G, A-A, C-A.

Now that sounded familiar. John looked at his brothers and saw hints of recognition on a few of their faces--Michael and Father Thomas, most notably.

Something was there. "Do you feel it?" John asked them. "It's there. Tickling my brain."

"Yeah," Michael said. "Sounds sinister. Play it again."

John's fingers moved up and down the neck of the Martin as he played the notes again with the same rhythm. It did sound sinister; the tune was almost like a dirge--repetitive, starting in a neutral A, then dipping into a dark G, then back to A . . . up to a bittersweet C, and back to A again.

As John finished, Jack closed his eyes and softly hummed the tune over and over. Father Thomas was staring at the ceiling, nodding his head slightly to the humming--then he was nodding at something else. Nodding and grinning.

John played the six notes and listened.

" 'Mr. Mo-jo ri-sin',' " the priest sang along. " 'Mr. Mo-jo ri-sin'.' "

"That's the Doors," Michael said.

"Yes," John said. "That's 'L.A. Woman.' "