Darren Lemke - Gemini Man

“I’m pretty sure there’s a truck around here somewhere,” Baron said. “I never saw an airfield without one.”

“When we were coming in to land, I saw an open-air barn over there, just past the tree line.” Henry pointed at the other side of the runway. “We can hole up there for a bit while we figure out our next move.”

He should have been beyond tired, Henry thought as the three of them crossed the airfield together, but somehow he wasn’t. It was as if he was running on a reserve of energy that he’d never known he had until now. Or maybe it was adrenaline afterburn. Whatever was keeping him upright, he was glad to have it. Otherwise he would have been dead on his feet.

And then just as they reached the barn, he was.

As a Marine, Henry had learned how to override his circadian rhythms and function whenever he had to, day or night. By personal preference, however, he was a night owl. Like most kids he had loved staying up late, but Henry had a special affinity for the nighttime. Nighttime was always the right time—cool stuff happened at night that never happened during the day, and a lot of daytime things vanished after the sun went down, e.g. there was no school, no chores, and best of all, no bees trying to kill him.

Unfortunately, there were other ways to get stung.

As soon as Henry felt the dart hit his neck he yanked it out, but it was already too late. He knew what it was and who had done it to him. His own fault—he’d opened his big mouth back in Budapest and told the kid how to kill him.

Well, he was going to regret that for the rest of his life, which would last for maybe two more minutes before his throat swelled shut. Unless his blood pressure fell too rapidly—then he’d skip suffocation altogether and go straight to cardiac arrest.

He was barely aware of hitting the ground. Baron and Danny were talking frantically, Baron saying something about an EpiPen and Danny telling him this wasn’t his original burn bag. Their hands ran over him in a quick search in case he had an EpiPen on him but the feel of them was far away, muted and muffled, and their voices seemed to slide away from him.

Henry’s head rolled to one side. His younger self was marching forward out of the shadows, pistol raised. On his left, he saw Danny kneel to pick something up: the dart.

“Don’t move!” Junior Hitman said loudly.

Danny held the dart up. “What was in this?” she demanded just as loudly.

“Bee venom,” said the clone.

Even in his semi-conscious state, Henry couldn’t help thinking how smart it was. A dart was like a stealth bee—he couldn’t snap one of those clean out of the air with a cap. Not even with a Phillies cap.

“You can’t! He’s allergic!” Danny took a step forward and the clone fired—two quick shots, one at her feet, one at Baron’s. Near misses, warning them to stay put.

Henry’s vision started to brown out as it became more difficult for him to breathe. Apparently he was going to suffocate after all. Not as showy as being killed with a motorcycle but more effective. Once it started, there was no fighting it off, shooting it, or outrunning it. Unless someone interrupted it with an EpiPen, it would continue to its inevitable conclusion. The end. Game over.

The dark patches in his vision were spreading as Junior stood over him. Damn, the kid looked exactly like him at twenty-three—not just his face but his posture, the way he held his weapon. Henry even recognized the mix of emotions on Junior’s face as he watched the target dying. Clay Verris had literally turned him into his own worst enemy. That was all kinds of wrong.

His thoughts faded as a new feeling took hold of him, a sensation of loosening, becoming untethered, like a boat that had been untied from a piling and was starting to drift, except the movement was upward.

This really was it, Henry thought. He was wheels up on his last flight, the one you took without a plane. Junior could finally go home and tell Daddy he’d taken out his old self.

In the distance, Danny was saying, Please, please don’t do this! And Baron was yelling, Breathe, Henry, breathe! His old friend didn’t know he was already catching an updraft.

Then somebody stabbed him in the arm.

The pain pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness. The floating sensation was gone; he felt the hard ground under him again. He could breathe more easily now. It was a tremendous effort to open his eyes but when he finally forced his lids apart, he saw a face above him, so close it filled his vision. His own face but younger.

“Epinephrine,” his younger face said with his voice. “And an antihistamine.” Henry felt another sharp pain. “You’re going to be fine.”

Henry’s breathing was almost back to normal now. On his left, Danny started to cry with relief. He wanted to tell her not to do that, there was no crying in assassination, not even when someone was trying to kill you. You were supposed to suck it up, tough it out, walk it off. But when he rolled his head around to the other side, he saw Baron’s face was wet, too.

“Hey,” he croaked at Baron.

Baron nodded at Danny. “What she said.”

Danny laughed through her tears as she and Baron helped him sit up. A few feet away, Junior sat on the ground in front of him, long legs folded. Henry had a moment of envy; his own flexibility wasn’t what it had once been. But he was still alive, thanks to his clone’s sudden attack of conscience. The kid looked like a man who had awakened from a troubling dream to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings—unsure, bewildered, and lost. Henry could relate.

“I’m sorry,” Junior Hitman said after a bit, and Henry knew he wasn’t only apologizing for trying to kill him. He was sorry about being a clone and not knowing it, sorry the world had gotten one over on him, sorry for things he didn’t even know how to articulate yet. Henry had seen the expression before in the mirror.

“It’s all good,” Henry told him. “All this shit’s been pretty hard to accept.”

The kid looked up at him, wary.

“So, you came here to kill me with bee venom,” Henry went on. “But you also brought the antidote with you?”

The clone gave an awkward shrug. “You said you were allergic; I figured maybe I was, too, and I ought to start carrying an EpiPen, just in case.”

“You decided that when—tonight?”

Another awkward shrug.

“Guys, I hate to break up the kumbaya of it all,” Baron said. “But how the hell did you always know where we were ?”

His younger self hesitated. “Do you trust me?” he asked Henry.

The question jerked an incredulous laugh out of Henry. “Damn, you’ve got nerve.”

“Yeah, I wonder where he got that,” Danny said, amused.

The clone produced a combat knife from an ankle sheath and held it up in a silent question.

Henry nodded. He did trust the kid. Strangely, he felt like he’d always trusted him.

Junior Hitman got up on his knees, took hold of Henry’s left bicep and pushed the point of the blade into a spot a couple of inches below the curve of his shoulder.

“Jesus!” Danny said, flinching; even Baron caught his breath. Henry held still. It didn’t tickle but it wasn’t the most painful bit of impromptu field surgery he had ever endured. It wasn’t even the worst thing that had happened to him tonight. Danny was rummaging around in her burn bag and Henry knew she was looking for something to use as a bandage. Ms. First Aid to the rescue.

After almost half a minute, Junior sat back and showed Henry a small black square on the tip of his knife. “They chipped you,” he said. “Remember that surgery on your torn bicep, three years ago?”