MJ-12: Endgame

16

Getting up every morning was a little bit tougher. Old age did that to you — especially when you were aging a couple weeks every day. And sleeping on a thin mattress thrown onto a wooden floor hadn’t been helping much either.

Nonetheless, Cal got his feet under him and went outside the building just as the sun was starting to peek up from over the mountains. The weather had improved considerably since he was captured. As long as you were going to be held captive somewhere, there were far worse places than a thousand-year-old temple.

Cal really didn’t think highly of other religions, when he thought of them at all, but there was an undeniable serenity to the place. It was called Songbul-sa, a Buddhist temple tucked into an ancient fortress on the side of Mount Jongbang. He had no idea where he was on a map — and would’ve been stricken to know he was less than 150 kilometers from the front — but the place seemed like a slice of heaven compared to what had come before.

The Chinese and North Koreans were using the ruins of the fortress and the still-operating temple as a safe haven and operating base. Most of the soldiers were camped among the ruins, but Black Wind was held in such high regard that he was given quarters within the monastery itself, and tended to silently, almost reverently, by the robed, bald monks. They also gave the same treatment to Cal and Miguel, and Yamato as well, to Cal’s surprise, allowing them the bedding and some decent food. Cal would’ve killed for some spare ribs, mind you, but the temple food was surprisingly good, even with the lack of meat. Those Buddhists really knew their way around some spice.

They’d been kept there for a couple weeks now, once the Koreans had figured out just how to keep them. After Yamato’s outburst in the POW camp, they’d kept him fully sedated for days, waking him just enough to feed him. Even then, though, Cal could tell the young man was getting weaker and weaker. Cal had tried to slip him a little life energy whenever he could, but they’d been keeping Cal’s hands chained up behind his back most of the time, having seen what he could do to a man when angry enough. He felt bad about what had happened to that soldier. Some folks could get used to really hurting people like that. Cal hoped he never would.

Ultimately, they were given a choice. Behave, or watch a bunch of American POWs get slaughtered — as many as they had on hand. Kim had translated the ultimatum with a pained look on his face, and even Black Wind himself had seemed uncomfortable with the idea. But it was incredibly effective. If the Reds so much as saw a spark out of Yamato, or Cal made someone feel even just a little sleepy, people would die. Lots of people.

Now, that didn’t mean Yamato was always a hundred percent on board — Cal had to talk down the hothead a few times after he was allowed to wake up and had the situation explained to him. But Cal remained the senior commander on the scene and, with a great deal of patience, he’d managed to get Yamato in line every time. It was wiser, of course, to hold out for the right time. Their last attempt was ill-conceived. They’d been tired and angry and they hadn’t been thinking right. They had to pick their spots better moving forward.

Mostly, though, Cal felt bad for all the people who died for nothing. Even the Reds had moms and dads. And he wasn’t going to condemn a bunch of Americans to the same fate just so they could try and fail again.

Cal looked over to the guards on the other side of the little room — each Variant had two men on him at all times, armed to the teeth. Today’s pair looked young, maybe sixteen each, and that was generous. But they had fully loaded rifles with them, as usual — leftovers from World War II or even earlier, but rifles all the same. Cal nodded at them and waved, but was greeted with stoic, inscrutable staring, as always. They no doubt had orders to shoot on sight at the slightest hint of provocation, so Cal made damn sure not to give them any.

Instead, he pulled on his boots — they’d been given fresh clothes and real boots, another sign of favor — and stepped outside his room and onto the wooden building’s porch, beautifully carved and tended to, with a tiled roof overhead and intricate columns supporting it. There was a mist hanging low over the trees this morning, obscuring some of the mountains, but it was a damn fine sight regardless. Toward the main temple building, Cal could hear woodblocks being struck — the Buddhist monks were at their morning prayers. That meant breakfast would be soon, with rice, some kind of salty soup, and pickles. It wasn’t bacon and eggs, but there was definitely something to it, because Cal always felt nourished afterward, but not heavy. He figured he might look into that diet more when he got home, have Sally give it a try….

If he ever got there again. A wave of sorrow and regret washed over Cal for a long moment as he thought of his beautiful wife and his son, Winston. He swore that if he ever got home again, he’d find a way to hang it up with MAJESTIC-12 and just go off with Sally and grow old together on Social Security. And they’d watch Winston, now in law school, become a lawyer and follow his dream of seeking justice and equality for his fellow Negroes.

Yes, Cal wanted to grow old. Theoretically, so long as he kept his life-energy levels up, he could live indefinitely. But how much life would he have to hoard as he got older? Back when he’d first discovered his ability to drain life — well after he found out he could heal people — he could slaughter a horse or a cow and be a hale and healthy twenty-five. Now it took two or three head of cattle to take him from his real age to that peak again. So how much would he need when he turned eighty? Ninety? A hundred? It really didn’t seem fair, after a while, living like a vampire to stay young. Sure, he could keep Sally young, too, but there would come a point when the price tag would be too high. Best to let it go sooner rather than later, before they got too used to the benefits and started justifying the drawbacks.

At least, that’s where Cal stood now. He wondered if, when he was old and about to die, he might start thinking differently. What a test of faith and morality that would be… and Cal honestly couldn’t say how he’d respond. That was a frightening thing to contemplate.

Cal’s attention was drawn to the monastery gate, where shouts and movement could be heard on the other side. He didn’t know Korean from Greek, but he could at least tell the ruckus was a positive one — there was no gunfire, for starters. Finally, the gates opened, and Cal saw Hei Feng stride into the courtyard, flanked by a bunch of grinning young soldiers, weapons held in triumph. They hadn’t seen much of the Chinese Variant since they arrived — apparently, the young man was in high demand. Of course, the ability to deflect bullets and send people flying wasn’t something you came across every day. Cal had picked up enough scientific lingo through the years to theorize that, like Miguel Padilla, Hei Feng had the ability to manipulate kinetic energy. Miguel’s Enhancement allowed him to adjust a moving object’s kinetic energy to make sure it went where he wanted, every single time. Hei Feng could do the same, but only away from him, and only if that object was already moving. Neither of them could so much as lift a pebble, but once that pebble was thrown, the two of them could probably have it bounce all over the damn place.

Cal turned to see that Miguel and Yamato, the latter looking particularly sleepy, had joined him out on the porch, along with their guards. At least three of the guards had weapons trained on them, but the frightening thing was, Cal was getting used to that.

A young soldier separated himself from Hei Feng’s pack and ran toward the porch, shouting in Korean. Suddenly, there were rifle barrels in their backs and some shouted words Cal had grown to recognize, in a general sense, as “move it.” They were shoved and prodded down the stairs and into the courtyard, and from there toward one of the nicer buildings in the complex, where the monks stayed and ate. It was also where Hei Feng himself was quartered, when he was around.

A few minutes later, they were seated on the floor around a low table, monks bringing them steaming bowls of soup, rice, pickles, that rotting cabbage crap they called kimchi, and some other less-identifiable stuff. There were four places — and just as many guards. A moment later, Hei Feng came in and bowed to them, followed by Kim, their old translator.

“Hei Feng welcomes you and apologizes for not having had the time to show you more hospitality,” Kim said after Black Wind spoke a whole bunch of Chinese. “He remains very curious about you and hopes that you and he may speak freely. He would be most eager to keep the soldiers outside, so long as you continue to honor your word regarding the use of your abilities. Of course, an attack now on him, or anyone else, would result in the regrettable end of many of your countrymen. It would only take a single code word on the radio for that to happen. He urges you to join him for this meal in peace and comradeship.”

Cal looked at Padilla and Yamato, who looked just as puzzled as Cal felt, and finally decided to speak for the group. “You tell him, Kim, that’d be just fine. Happy to sit down for a nice breakfast and a chat. Tell him we’ll behave.”

Kim related the information, and a moment later, Hei Feng dismissed the soldiers, leaving the four Variants — and one translator — in the room. Cal started to feel a little bad for Kim, frankly; he already knew way too much for any one side to want him around after all was said and done.

Tea was poured and plates filled, and Cal dug in with relish, his chopstick usage surprisingly deft for having just learned, while Padilla and Yamato still struggled with theirs. “So, can I ask what Hei Feng’s been doing lately? Haven’t seen him around.”

“He has been away on missions, and also to consult with his superiors in the Red Army,” Kim replied after some back and forth with Hei Feng. “He would like you to know that he has kept your existence secret from all but a few trusted officers and friends, which is why you are here and not with the other prisoners, or sent away. Hei Feng knows you would be of great interest to the government of China — or the Soviet Union.”

Cal nodded and smiled. “Tell him thanks for that. He’s right. I’m gonna assume, then, that the folks in Beijing and Moscow don’t know about him, either. Otherwise, I figure they’d snap him up and ship him off to Beria or somebody. Does he know of anything like that? A program where they use people like us?”

Another flurry of translation and discussion followed. “There are rumors, yes, that the Communists gather people with strange abilities, and that some go to Moscow, some go to Beijing. It is Hei Feng’s belief that he can be more effective and useful to his people here, than in such a situation.”

Oh, boy. There’s a Chinese Variant program too, Cal thought. It made sense, of course, given China’s huge land and population. Enhancements didn’t really seem to hold to a particular geography or race, so it made sense that China might have more than a few Variants around. And if Beria was poaching where he could, well… that’d be interesting too. How long before China would say enough to that?

“Hei Feng would like to know about the kind of program America has for its special people,” Kim added. “He believes you to be soldiers and wishes to confirm this.”

“Don’t tell him shit,” Yamato warned quietly. “He could already be working for Moscow. Or someone else.”

Cal just smiled. “And if he’s working for Beria, he already knows all about us. I mean, Beria himself saw you throwing lightning around pretty good in Kazakhstan, if I’m not mistaken.” Yamato said nothing to that, just scowled into his meal, so Cal turned back to Kim.

“You can tell him that, yeah, we have a program. We’re not just soldiers, though. We do a lot of different things to help our government and our people. And we’re paid well and treated well.”

“But you are a black man, Calvin Hooks,” Kim replied after translating. “The Chinese and Koreans know that black people are still treated like slaves in America, and that capitalism will keep them as slaves forever.”

Well, ain’t that something. “Yeah, black folks aren’t treated too well. We aren’t slaves no more — my grandfather was born a slave, but he was freed after the Civil War. But yeah, especially in the South, we have to sit in the back of the bus, can’t go where we like. It’s called segregation. But that ain’t gonna last forever. Every year goes by, black people like me, we’re getting stronger. We’re fighting back. My boy is studying law in order to try to help with that. And as for me, yeah, there’s still some prejudice. But I live up North now, and for the most part, we’re treated just fine. And my program, for folks with abilities, they really don’t see color. Me and Yamato here, we’re treated just the same as white folk. I mean, they really gonna treat us bad, knowing what we can do?”

Hei Feng laughed at this once translated, then continued to pepper them with questions. Each of them was asked about their abilities. Yamato remained sullen but Padilla offered a modest demonstration by using a grain of rice to strike a fly on the ceiling in the corner of the room, which delighted Hei Feng and even impressed Cal a bit.

As they talked, Cal got a sense that Hei Feng was sizing them up, putting rumor to fact and figuring out where his loyalties might truly lie. The Chinese Variant said he was a simple farmer’s son, drafted into Mao’s revolution not because he was a believer, but because his village had been on Mao’s way to Beijing. Then he’d been sent to Korea and, about six months ago, his Enhancement had manifested. Cal was impressed that the boy had been able to keep the secret from so many people for so long, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder if Hei Feng had maybe trusted some people he shouldn’t. It wasn’t likely that a Chinese farmer’s son would have anything more than an instinctual grasp of operational security — and the Devil’s in the details.

Breakfast stretched onto lunch as they talked, and the monks cleared their plates and brought more food, including some of Cal’s favorite spicy dishes. Cal told stories about his life in the States, and some heavily redacted tales of his work with MAJESTIC-12. Yamato kept shooting him warning glances, but when Hei Feng excused himself for a moment, Cal explained that this was as much a recruitment opportunity as an interrogation. That mollified him for the time being, and by the time Hei Feng returned, lunch was served, and Yamato offered a few reluctant details about his own upbringing. Hei Feng was particularly intrigued to hear about the Japanese internment during World War II, since the Chinese Variant had lost an older brother and an uncle to the Japanese invasion of China back in the late 1930s.

They finally wrapped things up by mid-afternoon, and Hei Feng thanked them profusely for their time and openness, which Cal was sure to return in kind. Cal figured he maybe needed three or four more sessions like these before Hei Feng would seriously consider defecting, and that outcome wasn’t certain at all. Black Wind might be a xian and have all kinds of admiration and worship from the people around him, but in the end, he was just a kid pressed into service in a war he didn’t really believe in. And like most folks — like Cal himself — he just wanted a better life. And in Cal’s case, MAJESTIC-12 had largely delivered on that.

Except, of course, for him being a prisoner in Korea. But it wasn’t the first time he was captured by someone. All he could do was hope it might be the last.