Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

“Your Government sent you?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Thank you, my friend. We owe you a great debt! I must go now. I take it I may take these with me?”

“Of course, Cerf. May God be with you.”

“And you.”

Cerf was on his feet, the photographs back in the safety of the plastic folder he now clutched in a suddenly sweaty hand, and was out of the door. Von Klitzing waited until he was sure that Cerf had left the building before ringing down to reception.

“I need a car to the airport.”

Checking the room for his belongings, he thought about rubbing it down to remove his fingerprints.

In a couple of days, this place will be ashes, he thought with a smirk.

In the war room, Bremen had started pacing. He felt like a spare wheel and was jealous of the men he could now see on the screens in front of him. The text message from Von Klitzing read simply “Package delivered”, but meant much more. In essence, it was the key to the real pandemonium they had planned. It was more good news on a day, which, despite a rather mediocre start, was picking up. The stock markets were all down by more than eleven percent. Meanwhile, the world governments were pleading for calm, issuing statements about glitches and anomalies and pleading for people to have faith in the new laws and controls that they had passed since 2008.

At the same time, Meyer-Hofmann’s anarchists were flooding the social media with horror stories about crashes and depressions on a scale not yet seen. Recommendations for everyone to withdraw their savings from the ailing banks before it was too late were abundant. Queues were already forming on high streets around the world fanned by still more rumours on Twitter that they didn’t have enough money to pay out all of their customers.

Meyer-Hofmann’s politicians appeared on live television. They were busy distancing themselves from their old political parties and preaching a new brand of federalism for Northern Europe, with promises of financial aid to anyone suffering hardship who was willing to join them.

Bremen watched as Anton Brandt moved from one tent to another, carrying cases of supplies and munitions, ready for the move to Bushehr. Clone soldiers, moving twice as fast and carrying far heavier loads than their Iranian colleagues, kicked up clouds of dust as their heavy boots trod a beaten path between the tents and the waiting trucks. The men oozed self-confidence, and Bremen could tell the whole camp felt invincible. When the trucks were loaded and the small company was ready to leave, the troops fell into line for some rousing words from their new German commander, Anton Brandt.

Brandt had changed into camouflage fatigues similar to those the Americans wore in Desert Storm. An old cloth military cap was the only sign of bygone days. He looked down the line of men, from the dishevelled ranks of the Iranians to his clone warriors. Each of them was a perfect Heinz, not quite identical but scary as hell. The Iranians had named them ‘hell’s brothers’, which Brandt found quite appropriate under the circumstances.

“Gentlemen, this is the start of a new era. An era that will see the rise of a new world order. A world order where Germany and Iran will take their rightful place.”

The Iranians’ chests visibly rose with his words.

It is so easy to manipulate these people, he thought.

“We wish to thank you, the Iranian people, for giving us this opportunity. As a sign of our good will and intentions toward your people, my men have something for you.”

The twenty clone soldiers broke ranks, lining up directly opposite their Iranian colleagues. Raising their weapons as if to salute them, they opened fire directly into their ranks.

Bremen watched the carnage with a smile on his face. Hardly a shot was returned as the poor souls twisted and jumped at the bullets biting at their torsos, arms, and heads. When the clones stopped shooting, they were just a bloodied heap of cotton, flesh, and bones, surrounded by clouds of billowing dust.

Turning to Captain Bald, who was looking away from the screen towards the stock market tickers, he boomed, “Can this day get any better!”

“It is going very well.” The Captain returned.

Michael felt the full force of the shot’s impact with the left side of his chest. He was already moving when the bullet hit him, but the impact had both twisted and lifted him, slamming the back of his head into the cell wall. The lights had gone out at that moment, and he was back in the twilight world of unconsciousness he had been inhabiting for the last month. As usual, he was not alone.

You useless son of a bitch! You have killed us, you know that? You have killed us as surely as if you pulled the trigger yourself!

Michael didn’t know what he had done, but he knew for sure that the death of Hofmann would not be such a bad thing.

If only I could have said goodbye, Michael said, thinking of Lisa.

It seemed Hofmann was privy to even his most intimate thoughts.

You miserable excuse for a German. How could you be a relative of mine? There is far more at stake than your whore! Don’t you understand how long I have been waiting for this? How long I worked for this! This was our dream. Our chance to finish the work of the Führer! And you! You have ruined everything. Everything! And you will pay! Before I go, I will make sure there is nothing left of you!

Michael listened to the tirade without emotion, finding solace in Hofmann’s demise.

You can’t hurt me any more Hofmann, it’s over.

Don’t be so sure!

Michael felt a rush of blood to his head and a moment’s dizziness, followed by the feeling of drunkenness and a loss of memory. Unable to get his bearings, he called out to Hofmann.

What are you doing? The sound of his voice echoed around the inside of his head.

Hofmann’s thoughts were filling his mind. Michael could feel his hatred and bitterness. His memories flashed before Michael’s eyes, as clear as day. Hofmann’s childhood, his first girlfriend, his first job. Michael didn’t understand how Hofmann was making him watch these things, but he could do nothing to stop them.

What is this?

This, my dear Michael, is my past. Can you remember yours?

Of course… But he couldn’t. Michael became panicked, trying to force his mind to wake up and remember. I remember my life. You can’t take that away from me!

Do you? Tell me, what hair colour did your first foster mother have?

Michael knew the answer, he was sure.

She was a young woman . He fought to remember, searching desperately for other memories from the same period of his life. Nothing came. Again he concentrated, determined to prove Hofmann wrong, but nothing came.

You don’t know, do you? What about your first school? You must be able to remember that.

Michael tried again.

This can’t be happening. Please, God, no.

Michael became scared, realising how far he was from himself.

Am I losing it? What will happen when I can’t remember anything of my life?

Then, you will be me! Hofmann’s tone was matter of fact.

That is not possible; you can’t just wipe me out as if I never existed . Michael tried to sound convinced, but he wasn’t, and a cold feeling of fear was growing in the pit of his stomach. Its tentacles pushed through his veins, wrapping themselves around his heart and squeezing the very life out of him.

Lisa watched through the windows of Intensive Care, as more doctors burst through swing doors into the room. Some silent alarm summoned them to save the patient. Desperation filled her as an arm placed gently on her shoulder beckoned her away from the scene.