Operations Group. Drakov had deceived the S.O.G. and spirited Moreau away from the parallel universe with promises of generous funding and unrestricted research, the opportunity of developing his hominoids to their fullest potential.
Instead, Drakov had taken control and carefully observed Moreau, studying the process until he had mastered it, and then he took the hominoids in directions
Moreau had never dreamed of. Now, this was the crowning touch, the piece de resistance. He had replicated himself.
The young boy he was watching along with his "mother," an earlier generation hominoid, had been part of the first run, a dozen versions of himself born out of petri dishes and artificial wombs, then clocked back to various periods in the past, each to be raised in different environments, but under highly controlled conditions with predetermined key stages of development, the first occurring when they received their cerebral implants in early childhood, enabling them to be programmed at specific points throughout their lives, and the last when they received the scars that matched his own, a diagonal knife slash that ran from beneath his left eye to just above the corner of his mouth.
The first of these secondary versions of himself had already been subjected to this process that Drakov called "time lapse maturation" and had been killed in an encounter with the temporal agents. They now believed him to be dead. Drakov smiled as he anticipated their rude awakening.
He turned and started walking back toward Fifth Avenue. Gulliver's escape had been a minor setback, but it didn't really matter. The temporal agents were alerted to the threat now, but it was far too late. Even as they prepared to seek the secret island base of The Lilliput Legion, the Lilliputians would find them. And this time. his little soldiers would know what to expect.
"Wake up! Cmon, wake up!"
Hunter felt his face being slapped. His head rocked back and forth with the blows as if it were somehow a thing apart from himself and he tried to ignore it all, to retreat back into the warm, thick mist of unconsciousness, but they weren't having any of it.
"Come on, wake up, dammit!"
Whack.!
"He's still out of it."
"The hell he is, he's playing possum. only I ain't buyin' it.
Wake up, you bum!"
Whack.!
An involuntary groan escaped him.
"Ah. there we go! Come on. baby, you can make it! Wakee, wakee!"
WHACK.!
"Stop…" Hunter mumbled, his voice thick and slurred. He felt someone take hold of his chin and stcady his head. "Open your eyes."
His eyes blinked open.
He was tied to a straight-backed wooden chair. Thcre was a blurred face close in front of him and several people standing in the background. He tried to focus in. It came slowly. The blurry images gradually resolved themselves into a sharp. featured, hatchet-like face surmounted by thick, elaborately styled black hair and a custom-tailored, dark silk suit filled out well with muscle. The tie was incongruous. Bright canary yellow. Silk. The breath smelled of cigarette smoke.
Cigarettes.
Right. The cigarettes.
Behind the hatchet-faced, tough guy in the expensive, raw silk suit was another man cut from the same cloth, a smoothly styled sharpie in a mauve suit with a purple silk shirt and a purple tie the same shade as the shirt. And beside him stood the lovely, treacherous Krista, staring down at him as though he were some interesting new bug she hadn't seen before.
“Who are you? asked the hatchet-faced man.
"George Palmer," Hunter mumbled, giving the name that he'd been using.
Whack!
"Wrong. Try again."
“My name is George palmer. I don’t-"
WHACK!
The force of the blow split his lip and he felt blood trickle down his chin.
"Look, my friend," hatchet-face said softly, bringing his face up close to Hunter's,
"we know who you're not, okay? What we'd like to know is who you are. And where you got this pretty bracelet."
Huntcr's gaze was riveted on the warp disc being dangled before him.
"I don't understand," said Hunter. "Why are you doing this? If you want money-"
WHACK!
"Okay, now listen to me, all right? That was the last time with the open hand. I'm getting impatient. Next one’s a closed fist. And if losing a few teeth doesn't loosen you up…"
Snik. The six-inch blade sprang out of the handle.
"That will do, Vincent. Take Krista and go make some coffee in the kitchen. I'll call you if I need you."
Hatchet-faced Vincent gave Hunter a long look and then left the room with Krista.
Domenico Manelli came around from somewhere behind Hunter to stand in front of him, looking like an investment banker in his tailored pin stripes and rep tie. So far as Hunter could tell, there were only three of them in the room now-himself, Manelli, and the smoothie in the mauve suit.
Manelli loosened his tie and took out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and offered it to Hunter. "Cigarette? These aren't drugged, by the' way." While Hunter watched, he took
one himself, lit up and inhaled deeply. "I have no need of playing tricks," he said.
He shrugged. "Now that you're tied to that chair, I could shoot you up to my heart's content. A little Pentothol to make you talk, some uncut heroin to make you stop.. or I could call Vincent back in for some of your more basic persuasion. I'd really rather not, though. You strike me as a reasonable man. I think we could discuss things like intelligent human beings."
He shook out another cigarette and offered it to Hunter. Hunter nodded and
Manelli held the pack out so that Hunter could take the protruding cigarette between his lips. Manelli lit it for him with his gold lighter. The man in the mauve suit hadn't said a word. He hadn't even moved. He simply watched Hunter expressionlessly. Hunter decided that this man worried him even more than
Vincent.
“The reason I sent the others out of the room is because they don't know what this is," said Manelli, holding up the warp disc, dangling the bracelet in front of him as Vincent had. “However, I do. And so does the gentleman behind me. In fact he has one just like yours. Now isn't that an interesting coincidence?"
Suddenly, it was a brand new ball game. Hunter stared hard. the man in the mauve suit, but his face gave nothing away.
"I see we have your full attention," said Manelli, with a smile.
"All right, what do you want?" said Hunter. "Let's start with your name."
"Hunter. Reese Hunter."
It was pointless to lie. If they did administer drugs, he'd tell them the truth anyway. The thing was to convince them that he..as already telling them the truth and at the same time withhold some of it.
Manelli smiled. "There, you see? I knew we could discuss things in a reasonable manner. And how about your rank, Mr Hunter?”
"Captain."
Manelli looked impressed. "A captain, no less. And your unit?"
Hunter hesitated, his mind racing. Should he risk a bluff?
'They could easily find out, but how much time would it buy him?
Fortunately, Manelli misinterpreted his hesitation.
"Ah, I think I understand," he said. "You're a deserter, aren't you?"
Hunter chose not to reply, implying assent by his silence.
"Yes, I do believe you are," Manelli said, with a smile.
"That would explain your rather interesting and somewhat reckless behaviour.
Actually, you've proven to be quite resourceful, Capt. Hunter. Your one mistake was that you moved too quickly. You got greedy."
"Am I under arrest?" said Hunter.
Manelli raised his eyebrows. "Why, Capt. Hunter, do I look like a policeman?"
Hunter frowned. "I don't understand. You're not.
And then it came to him. "You're the Underground?"