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Menacing
Lincoln keeps himself sheltered, in the safety of Albert’s shadow, behind Albert’s back.
It’s a wide, muscular back, still a little bit damp, since Albert had been coming out of the shower when the front door buzzer rang.
Lincoln’s a bit concerned that Albert won’t be all that intimidating, since he’s wearing only a pair of black pants. How do you look scary and menacing when you’re half-naked?
But then Albert raises his weapon to shoulder height, arms outstretched, both hands on the handle. Every muscle of his torso tenses, yet at the same time his movement is fluid, controlled. And, as Lincoln can see in the reflection on the polished steel door, Albert’s chest and shoulders are as impressive as his back. Which Lincoln stays behind.
For security reasons.
And so he can gain comfort from that expanse of lustrous dark skin, with its muscles highlighted by the rays of the rising sun slanting in through the transom. Golden light brings out the rich tones of the skin, so delicious. A single drop is perched on a perfect delt, and Lincoln would lick it, but that would distract Albert, and he doesn’t want to distract Albert for any reason.
After all, the man Lincoln killed is on the other side of the door. Merrick probably isn’t here on a social call.
Lincoln is best to stay well behind Albert, who jerks his head toward the control panel and says, in the lowest, most controlled tone Lincoln’s ever heard, “Stay behind me.”
Wow. Albert’s sexy when he’s menacing, but doubly so when he’s half-naked and menacing. The vulnerability of the nakedness does nothing to detract from the menacingness.
Lincoln knows those aren’t even real words, but he can’t be bothered to think of real words when he’s standing behind half-naked, menacing Albert.
Because Albert can be menacing whenever and however he damn well wants to be. And he’s terrifying now. Lincoln won’t be surprised if Merrick shits himself when the door opens and he’s looking past the barrel of a gun into Albert’s angry eyes.
That gives Lincoln the courage to press the button that opens the door.
Coma
“We can sit here until the sun sets, Merrick, but I will not lower my weapon,” Laurent says calmly. He doesn’t care that he’s half-naked and still a bit damp from his shower and hungry from the night’s… activities. This is nothing. A day without food, without water, stationary and pointing a weapon at the enemy is no hardship.
All that matters is that he and his sidearm stay between Merrick and Lincoln.
Merrick puts his hands out on the table, palms up. “I’m unarmed. And surely you can see that I mean you no harm.”
Laurent does not waver. “I can see nothing of the sort.”
Merrick sighs. “I don’t blame you for being cautious. From what I can understand, Six Echo and I have a difficult past.”
Lincoln stiffens. Laurent can’t see it, because Lincoln is behind him, as Laurent instructed him to remain. But he can sense it.
He hopes Lincoln can keep his cool. Lincoln has come a long way in the last few months, but he has no training. Lincoln is still a boy in a lot of ways; he can’t keep his emotions under control. Not the way Laurent can. Laurent does not want to be sitting calmly at one end of the table while Merrick sits at the other, civilized, in spite of the loaded and aimed weapon between them. But he stays calm because that’s what his training tells him to do. He must maintain control, so that when he does have to blow Merrick’s head to tiny bits, it’s at the right moment, in the right way.
He’ll enjoy it. He feels a hatred for Merrick he hasn’t felt since he was a boy.
Lincoln’s hand falls on Laurent’s shoulder. It’s shaking a bit. Lincoln must be trying to draw some serenity form Laurent. Good move. Laurent tries to radiate serenity. Not easy, with a cocked Beretta in your hands, but he tries.
“You shouldn’t assume hostility on my part,” Merrick says.
“Oh, I think I should,” Laurent replies evenly.
Lincoln’s fingers squeeze.
“I don’t know any of the details. I was hoping Six Echo could—”
“My name is Lincoln,” Lincoln says abruptly.
“Of course,” Merrick raises his hands. International gesture of non-hostile intent. “Lincoln. I was hoping you could fill me in. I woke up with no memory of the past at all, no knowledge of events. They told me it was a coma. From an accident.”
“Who told you?” Laurent interrupts. He hates half-stories. Half-excuses. Half-lies.
“I don’t know. My family. My sister, her husband. I don’t remember them. I only know what they tell me. They took care of me. Fed me, bathed me, kept me alive while I was in the coma. And they taught me, once I woke up. I had to relearn everything. How to walk, to talk, to eat… everything. I was like a child.”
Lincoln’s hand disappears.
Merrick looks at Laurent with watery eyes. “I had no past. I wanted to learn. And then I did some research. Looked into things, into who I was… who I am. I tracked you down and—”
“Stay still!”
Merrick has started to get up, and Laurent can’t allow that. There’s something wrong with this story. Maybe it’s the way Merrick is telling it. His voice is flat. Like it happened to someone else. He doesn’t sound like the Merrick that Laurent knew.
“Okay, I’ll stay sitting.” Merrick keeps his hands in plain view. “So, you can understand why I’m so curious. I knew nothing. Not even my name.”
Lincoln starts to walk the length of the table, toward Merrick.
“Lincoln, no. Get behind me,” Laurent warns.
“And what is your name?” Lincoln asks, ignoring Laurent.
Merrick looks from Laurent to Lincoln and then back again. “Merrick,” he says, eyes still watery. Green eyes. Not hidden by glasses.
Tom Lincoln wore glasses, but Lincoln does not, because they fixed Tom’s poor eyesight during the cloning process.
“Your full name,” Lincoln demands, getting far to close to Merrick for Laurent’s comfort.
“Lincoln, please,” Laurent begs. He needs Lincoln safe.
Lincoln and Merrick both ignore Laurent and stare into each other’s eyes.
“Merrick Zero Alpha,” Merrick says.
Different
It’s too much. Too much to integrate. Too much to handle.
But there he is - Merrick’s clone, sitting on the couch drinking tea while Albert grills him.
Albert insisted on the interrogation, but Lincoln got him to ease up a bit, let Merrick have a cup of tea and sit comfortably and not have a gun pointing at his head all the time. Albert still has the gun, but he’s not pointing it at Merrick anymore. Albert’s dressed now as well, so he’s not quite so bulging and terrifying, and the gun is in a holster on his thigh.
The strap of the holster around Albert’s black-clad leg is almost enough to make Lincoln toss Merrick back out the door.
Why is that? Lincoln asks himself as he stirfries vegetables for dinner. Lately, he’s been looking at Albert’s holsters in a new way. Just last night he’d found his fingers wandering over the strap idly. Albert shifted away a bit self-consciously.
And belts, too. Albert wears these black jeans with a wide, black leather belt, and Lincoln can’t stop his hands from straying to the belt, especially when they’re kissing.
Lincoln looked it up on the net, and found things he didn’t want to think about. All that nastiness all wrapped up with sex. He doesn’t want to have that kind of sex. Or he doesn’t think he wants to have that kind of sex. What he saw on the net seems very impersonal, compared to what he does with Albert, and Lincoln likes everything he does with Albert just the way it is. Plus, he doesn’t like the idea of pain at the same time as sex. He’s had enough pain in his short life. So has Albert.
But Albert has been wearing the thigh holster more often, this last week. Since the time Lincoln unstrapped it while kissing Albert’s bared stomach. When he wears the thigh holster, he has to wear the long black coat. Lincoln likes the coat. But he likes the holster better.
Lincoln puts the cooked vegetables aside and drains the pasta. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, Albert is giving him hints, with the holster and the long black coat and the belt. He’s pretty sure Albert doesn’t like the painful things Lincoln found on the net, but maybe he likes some of the trappings. He sure seems to like it when Lincoln wears black. Especially black leather. Black leather pants, tight on his legs. Albert really likes that.
And the kilt.
Oh, yes, Albert likes it when Lincoln wears the kilt. But that has less to do with trappings and more to do with access. He really likes sliding his hand up Lincoln’s naked thigh and…
“Do you need help?”
Merrick is standing by the counter, looking smug.
It’s not his fault. He can’t help looking smug; he was cloned that way.
“No. Mind wandered for a second. Sorry. Food’s ready.” Lincoln tosses the ginger sauce into the vegetables and dumps them onto the pasta.
Albert watches everything.
Merrick is very friendly. He helps Lincoln set the table. He passes the salad to Albert. He pours wine. He smiles.
He has an attractive smile. A little bit wicked. A little bit self-deprecating. He knows he’s attractive, and he’s confident, but he’s not making too many assumptions, and he wants you to know that he’s available and interested.
He wants Albert to know he’s available and interested. Or maybe Lincoln’s being paranoid.
Paranoid is a relatively new word for Lincoln. He looked it up last week. He doesn’t want to be paranoid but he suspects that in this case it’s warranted.
“I’ve arranged for one of my associates to pick you up soon,” Albert says after dinner.
“Pick me up?” Merrick asks. “Why?”
“To take you to a place you can stay until your situation is made clear,” Albert says. He sounds very efficient.
“I don’t have a situation,” Merrick says, in obvious denial.
“Everyone has a situation,” Lincoln points out.
“Your status. You have to go through the program if you’re to be certified a responsible adult.”
Merrick makes a face. “I’m responsible and I know it. I’ve been living in the world for over five years. Way longer than he has.” He doesn’t even look at Lincoln.
“You were half-living in the world. You had caregivers. They handled most of your affairs. You need to learn to take care of yourself. Beside that, you left your home without notice. Don’t you think your sister is worried about you?”
“She’s not my sister.”
“We don’t know that,” Albert argues. For the sake of arguing, maybe.
“Even if she’s Merrick’s biological sister, she’s not mine,” Merrick says.
“Technically, she would be,” Lincoln points out, trying to be helpful. “And she did take care of you.”
“She lied to me.”
“Maybe she thought you were Merrick,” Albert says.
“Maybe you think I’m that stupid, but I think otherwise.”
Albert scowls and drinks his scotch.
“I’d rather stay here,” Merrick says.
Lincoln stares at the coffee table.
“You’re the only people who’ve never lied to me,” Merrick says.
“It wouldn’t be safe,” Albert says.
“Correction,” Merrick spits out. “You didn’t lie to me, until now. This is the safest house in the city, and you know it.”
“For you, it’s safe. But for Lincoln?”
Lincoln looks up at Albert. “Why not?”
“Lincoln, you killed his sponsor.”
“And you killed his sponsor,” Merrick says to Albert.
“That was different,” Albert growls.
“Do you honestly think I’m here for revenge? I’m sorry, but from what I know about the man, I’d rather not be his clone at all. I can’t help that, though, can I? I can’t believe you are going to hold me responsible for my sponsor’s actions.” Merrick looks furious. Just the way Doctor Merrick used to look when he was thwarted.
Albert stands up, hand hovering over the Beretta in the harness.
Lincoln feels a bit faint. He’s not sure if it’s because of the overwhelming situation, the way Merrick reminds him of Doctor Merrick, or the fact that Albert just stood up. The way those long, long legs unfolded…
Albert takes his hand away from the gun and puts it on his hip. “Okay. You’re not Merrick. And you’ve been out and about for a few years, so maybe you’ll be deemed competent. The Facility is closed to outsiders for the weekend. Monday morning we’ll call and seek advice.”
Merrick shakes his head. “What if I don’t want to be registered as a clone.”
“You are a clone.”
“I’m no different than you.”
“You are,” Albert says, and Lincoln feels sick.
“Am I?” Lincoln asks.
Albert looks confused and helpless. It was unfair of Lincoln to bring himself into the argument; his situation is completely different. Merrick never grew up at the Institute. He never believed in the existence of the Island. He never lived in sex-segregated dorms and wore a uniform. He’s spent the last five years believing he is a man who had an accident and survived a long coma. He is different, but not the same different as Lincoln.
But Lincoln hates the idea of Albert thinking of him as a clone all the time. He hates the idea of his cloneness being a barrier. Lincoln just wants to be normal.
But maybe that’s not possible.
Bastard
Lincoln looks crushed and Laurent feels like such a bastard.
He’d sworn never to bring up the clone thing first, and he’s blown it. Lincoln thinks Laurent thinks he’s some kind of freak, and there’s not enough “I’m sorry” in the world to wipe that sad look off his face.
Laurent could strangle Merrick.
He doesn’t, because it’s not Merrick’s fault. Not really. It’s the original Merrick’s fault.
But if it weren’t for Merrick’s agnate-clone enterprise, Lincoln wouldn’t exist. Laurent wouldn’t have met him, and Lincoln wouldn’t be sulking beside the kitchen counter.
And Laurent would not be in love.
Mysteries
Merrick can tell something is horribly wrong, and he can tell it’s his fault. He’s always had a sixth sense about this kind of thing.
Well, maybe not always. He was pretty disoriented when he woke in the hospital bed, in the living room of the woman he’d thought was his sister. Since then, though – since he’s learned how to talk – he’d been able to tell when he’s put his foot in his mouth.
As time wore on, and with a little more experience, he began to recognize that certain subjects cause the greatest discomfort. His accident was one. The nature of his memory loss was another. But the worst, back where he used to live and in this house, is the nature of clones, a subject that’s always, in his experience, been avoided, ignored or changed.
He has learned that what is not said is more important than what is said. Determined to solve the mystery, he has gathered information and analysed it constantly. He has followed every lead, searched for clues, for hints, for crumbs of knowledge. He was able to hide his research into the subject until quite recently. He had to keep it all very secret. There are things you simply do not talk about.
He’s talked about the wrong thing again, only this time the other people are as upset with each other as they are with him.
He didn’t mean to cause this kind of trouble. He came looking for help. But he’s upset these people. This clone. And this… he’s not sure what Albert Laurent is. He knows who he is, what he’s done. Not the specifics, but he knows he played a role in the end of Merrick’s work. He can tell that Laurent sees him as unfinished business. An untidy leftover. And that he makes both Lincoln and Laurent very uncomfortable.
It was easier before he knew about the clone thing. He thought people were uncomfortable around him because he’d been in a coma. Most people aren’t comfortable around disability and death, and he was a walking reminder of their mortality. It could happen to anyone. Sudden death. Injury. You can be driving to work, get in a car accident and be in a coma. It doesn’t matter how good you are, how rich, how popular, how righteous, how determined. Bam - hospital. Pow – mortuary.
He couldn’t have articulated that until quite recently. It took him a long time to pick up the language. They told him it was because of his head injury. Like the amnesia. He’d never been able to remember anything from his alleged past, and the slow progress had been frustrating. They kept attributing it to the extent of the brain damage, but it had become obvious, at least to him, from quite early on, that was not the case.
It seemed more like he was learning things for the first time. From scratch. Not relearning, but learning. As if he’d just been born.
And that was how everyone referred to it. His “sister” Kathy, his “brother-in-law” Dale. The doctor who visited every week. They talked about his “second birth”, and how he’d been “reborn”. Twice born. Reincarnated, even, since he’d allegedly died on the operating table. That “death” was the reason for his memory wipe, the physician in charge had patiently explained to him, once he could understand the words. But there was more to it. There had to be.
For a five-year old, he was pretty remarkable. That was the thought that always kept him going, whenever he was so frustrated and angry he wanted to scream. Since he could remember, whether he’d only “come out of his coma” one, or three, or five years before, it was amazing that his vocabulary was so large and his ability to walk and run was so advanced. He could take things apart and put them back together – the clock, the radio, the computer. He’d memorized the periodic table of the elements and passages from Shakespeare and the ingredients of his favourite dishes without even trying. He was, everyone said, very well-adjusted. Capable. Brilliant, even.
He’d often imagined that he had knowledge of things others did not or could not understand. Kathy would laugh nervously and say he’d always had a bit of an inflated opinion of himself, and as it turned out she was right. Only it wasn’t him with the self-esteem imbalance, it had been his “sponsor”.
Merrick Zero Alpha doesn’t really think of Doctor Merrick as a “sponsor”, though. Merrick didn’t pay for his clone the way others did. Merrick wasn’t some rich egoist seeking eternal life. Doctor Merrick didn’t need the cushion of euphemisms to placate his moral centre.
Zero Alpha was Merrick’s clone. His insurance policy.
Zero Alpha thinks of Merrick as his source material.
Zero Alpha has no illusions. He knows he wasn’t brought into the world to be the doctor’s friend. He knows he’s not the result of philanthropic largesse. He was created as an experiment. How would a clone live in the real world? What would happen to him in a less regulated environment? Could clones be like real people?
Doctor Merrick had his clients convinced that the agnates were vegetative spare part machines, and had convinced himself that they were sub-human, soulless beings deserving of cold-hearted slaughter. What had he thought of his own clone? And what would have happened if Zero Alpha’s parts had been needed?
He’d hoped to find answers from Lincoln Six Echo. Ever since he’d figured out he was a clone, he’d been digging deep, breaking into computer systems, looking for answers. He’d pretty well pieced it all together by the time Kathy and Dale had noticed the change in him. They’d locked him in the basement, but he’d escaped easily. He’d been on his own for a few weeks now, and he was doing okay for himself.
Not great. He’d had to steal money, food, clothes. He’d stopped in a casino and won enough to get him here, to Tom Lincoln’s home, in reasonable style. It hasn’t been easy, but at least he knows the whole story. Or most of it. Last night, he found Lincoln by getting past the security system of the Facility using a computer at the public library and a few simple tricks he doubted most people knew.
Those sorts of things are easy for Zero Alpha. A little too easy. He suspects there was a bit of tinkering with his mental faculties at the agnate stage. Acceleration of growth. Maybe some enhancement. Like the eyesight. And the low cholesterol levels.
But his emotional faculties… he can’t quite wrap his head around some emotions. It’s as if he’s intellectually mature, but emotionally still five years old. Not that his behaviour is immature. He doesn’t throw temper tantrums or whine to get his way. Judging by the way Lincoln is sulking in the kitchen right now, Zero Alpha’s far more advance in the social behaviour arena.
But he can’t clearly identify his emotions, and he can’t put his finger on what makes people angry or sad, what will trigger which reaction. And he doesn’t understand hatred or fear or love.
He’s sure, though, that he came to the right place for help. He’s seen the hatred in Albert Laurent’s eyes. And he saw the fear in Lincoln’s eyes. And he’s pretty sure, now that he’s observed them interact, that there is some kind of love between them.
He’s not sure what kind it is, but he’s determined to find out.
Merrick Zero Alpha loves solving mysteries.
Always Lincoln
Laurent can smell dinner, spicy ginger and crisp vegetables and fragrant rice with cashews, lingering in the still air. He can smell the leather of the couch, and the melting wax of the candle that still burns in a dish on the table. He can smell the water outside the window, even though the window is closed. And Lincoln. Always Lincoln.
He can’t see Lincoln, or anything else, because he has his hands over his eyes. He sits on the couch with his elbows on his knees, and his shoulders sagging under the crushing weight of his error.
Always Lincoln.
Zee
Muted voices. Talia promises to bring Merrick back tomorrow. Lincoln says they’ll go for a walk on the beach. Lincoln calls Merrick “Zee”, because the bastard doesn’t like to admit who he really is. He asked Lincoln to think of a suitable nickname for him. He’d been calling himself ‘Zero Alpha’, but that has unpleasant connotations for Lincoln. Something Merrick wouldn’t understand.
Lincoln says goodnight and the door closes shut.
There’s only the sound of the water outside.
For a second, Laurent thinks Lincoln might have left with the others.
Then Laurent hears a puff of air, extinguishing the light.
Shh
Two fingers touch Laurent’s lips, stilling his words.
He’s been babbling. He couldn’t help it. It just spilled out. “I’m sorry” and “I didn’t mean that” and “you can’t believe I would…” but he did, even if not really, and it’s too late to change that, but it’s not too late to slide off the couch, kneel at Lincoln’s feet and beg forgiveness.
“You think I’m less than human,” Lincoln says sadly.
But no. Laurent thinks he’s more. So much more. And tells him so. Resolutely.
Then Lincoln reaches down and touches his fingertips to Albert’s lips and says, “Shh.”
The Faintest
Faint lemon and ginger traces on Lincoln’s lips. The flavour grows stronger when Lincoln’s tongue flicks out and pokes at Laurent’s closed lips.
Laurent can’t imagine why he’s holding them closed. Hasn’t the faintest.
He opens them, and the taste of Lincoln explodes when Lincoln’s tongue snakes into Laurent’s mouth and coils around it. Lincoln’s lips are warm and pressing insistently. Laurent opens more and curls his tongue around Lincoln’s and their tastes blend together.
Laurent indulged in a scotch after dinner but Lincoln did not. Funny. He can taste it now that Lincoln is sucking it off his tongue.
Can't
Lincoln is not looking at Laurent with anger. He doesn’t even look sad. He looks… fond. Fond of Laurent.
Laurent fervently hopes it’s not the kind of fondness lovers sometimes feel when things are coming to an end. He really hopes that wasn’t a good-bye kiss. Because he felt it down to his toes and even his toes don’t want to leave.
He’s still kneeling on the floor, and keeps looking, unsure of what to expect.
Lincoln gives smiles gently. The kind of smile you give someone who doesn’t really understand, but it’s not their fault.
Laurent can’t look away.
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