Vasquez Bio, pt 2 - “Ms. Black”
05 Mar 2020Jenette Vasquez
Vasquez Bio pt 2 - “Ms. Black”(Continued from “Vasquez Bio pt 1 - ‘Room Service’ ”)
The big security guard in the hall winced as he heard Nedry’s screams of pain coming from the shower. He adjusted the crotch of his pants in sympathy then continued his task of hiding the cleaning lady’s cart in the room across the hall. His burner phone vibrated as a private message arrived: “Mr. Red, please join us when you are prepped.”
Mr Red, the big Samoan security guard, said nothing. He simply sent a thumbs up emoji in reply, adjusted his hair bun under his security guard ball cap, and continued with his task.
Nine lives. Like a cat. She pondered while waiting, still dressed in her hotel cleaning staff garb. With any luck that’s how many lives this Private Vasquez might have.
The cleaning lady mused on as she studied the “ink cartridge” of DNA. That kind of mileage from each clone-grade sample liberated from corporate military contractors would mean countless soldiers for the government defense forces. Nine clones on average per sample. More if the resulting soldier was never gravely wounded and didn’t use up any DNA to heal bones or organs.
The cleaning lady watched Bob help Nedry sign the final binding document. Even freshly showered, Nedry was still coughing and his eyes were still swollen nearly shut from the mace attack. Finally, Bob guided him to the last space on the form and Nedry blindly scribbled his signature.
“Welcome to the team, gentlemen,” the cleaning lady stood and extended her hand for a handshake. “You can call me Ms. Black.”
Looking grimly resigned to their fate, the two men stood and silently shook Ms. Black’s hand.
The hallway door opened and the big Samoan stepped inside, filling the doorway. The door closed.
“Hi Red!” the stunning Asian room-service lady flirted.
Mr. Red, the security guard, said nothing.
“And you can call me Ms. Pink,” the room-service lady said to Bob, breaking Red’s silence. Pink was no longer coughing or holding a washcloth to her eye. She turned and slapped Nedry on his butt cheek like a coach sending a ball player back on the field, “C’mon boys, grab your crap and let’s get you out of here.”
Nedry gritted his teeth in pain. The slap didn’t hurt. It was the resulting jostle to his junk that sent sharp knives through him.
Bob walked toward his master bedroom rubbing the ache inside his bald head with both hands as he went. Shadowing him closely was the overzealous Mr Green, a small but very militaristic Asian man who was still dressed as a hotel security guard.
Blinking rapidly, Nedry started walking away from his suite but Ms. Pink grabbed his elbow. She took him arm in arm and he could feel the plush warmth of her breast near his elbow. He didn’t mind at first. Then a certain bit of him awakened… stirring painfully. As Ms. Pink guided Nedry to his suite she turned and pressed closer, letting her other breast press into the back of his hand. Then she smiled a little too sweetly, batting eyelashes while asking him, “How’s little Nedry Junior doing?”
“Fuck you,” Nedry coughed as he untangled his arm. He was walking very gingerly, feet nearly shoulder width apart. This was far worse than the time little Nedry Junior got caught in his own zipper. Ms. Pink laughed heartily. “Don’t worry, dickhead, you’ll feel better when you get that first paycheck.”
Ms. Black smiled and shook her head. She wrapped up her side of the paperwork and responded to private messages while her two newest “employees” packed their things. Messages were coming in fast these days. She’d have at least four more assets like Bob and Nedry by this time next week if all went as smoothly as today.
She scrolled to her calendar. A meeting with her military contact was next on the schedule. For the next week, General Clancy and his team would help her rehearse Q&A for a key meeting with the Prime Minister’s Defense Secretary and top military brass from all branches.
She waved goodbye as she watched her team escort Bob and Nedry out. She changed clothing, did one final sweep of both suites before departing, and left no trace except a nice tip for the real hotel cleaning crew.
When she exited the hotel lobby, the big Somoan was there with the car. He held the car door open for her and smiled without showing his teeth. “Thank you, Mr. Red,” Black chimed sweetly as she climbed into the back seat.
Mr. Red, her bodyguard, said nothing.
Nine lives. Nine chances at a full meaningful life.
The rehearsal went well and the week went by very quickly. On the last day of rehearsal, Black’s burner phone vibrated. It was Ms. Pink texting a quick update: “Four more assholes on the payroll. No mace necessary this time. That might change if Trainspotter Green clears one more room after I do.”
A week to the day after she played the role of hotel cleaning lady, Ms. Black found herself at the planet’s Capital City in front of the world’s top government officials and military brass. She knew that nine lives wasn’t the chief concern of this crowd, nor was the quality of life for the resulting clone. They needed soldiers now. According to opening statements from the Defense Secretary, by their best estimates, they had a 10 year supply of active duty personnel remaining. Between war, famine, injury, suicide, prison, and failed recruiting and retention efforts, the military had been decimated and was relying too heavily on veterans re-upping, air drones, ground drones, and even imperial slaves.
“What can you give us in 5 years?” asked General Thomas Clancy, the right-hand to the Defense Secretary and the man who was tapped to facilitate this meeting. Clancy was a wise old owl of a man, a no-nonsense retired 3-star General and Black’s mentor who helped her prepare for this presentation. He believed in Black’s vision. To him, what she had to offer was the only solution and this meeting was a mere formality.
As-rehearsed, Ms. Black scanned the board room before answering, letting the question sink in and the silence create some tension. The table was ringed by commanders for each military branch. At the head of the table opposite Ms. Black was the Prime Minister’s Defense Secretary. Everyone seated at the table was flanked by at least 3 aids, and each aid seemed to have an aide. Unlike rehearsal, however, this room contained not a few enemies who had their own agenda and competing solutions to the same problem. Another key difference: this room was large but stifling from the body heat generated by so many people packed behind closed doors. Worse still, they had started the meeting at 0900 local, had just finished a working lunch, and were planning to go into the night. Most of her audience was struggling to stay awake.
“What can we deliver in 5 years, sir?” Ms Black repeated. “In 4 years, using our current assets and technology, we can deliver an estimated 20,000 minimally viable ground-based troops in time for boot camp,” Ms. Black locked eyes with the Defense Secretary, pausing for effect. “Give me 5 years, and I can deliver 50,000 ground troops at maximum viability. No boot camp required.”
The defense secretary kept his unreadable poker face but looked around the table as impressed murmurs filled the board room. Ms. Black knew this was an under-promise. She planned to over-deliver, per her reputation.
General Clancy’s eyebrows raised slightly. He knew Black was under-promising too and was surprised she didn’t give her best-case scenario. Then he continued, “Explain what you mean by ‘current technology.’”
Ms. Black continued to look at the defense secretary as she answered. “We can genetically engineer rapid maturity. Currently 1 year of a modified human is equal to 3 years for an unmodified human. You know how they say one year to a dog is equal to 7 human years? It’s similar to that line of thinking.”
More murmurs. The General winked his approval and encouragement at Ms. Black, then asked, “And next year’s technology?”
General Kurtz, who sat across the table from Clancy at the Defense Secretary’s left hand, noticed the wink. A rival and pro-drone hawk, Kurtz was also a retired 3-star General but was a pit bull of a man. He noticed the wink, scowled, and quickly jotted a note for an aid. The aid read the note, motioned for his assistant, and whispered in her ear. She quickly exited through the service staff area, nearly bumping into a server carrying a tray of water pitchers.
Ms. Black noticed the exchange but maintained her composure. She made a mental note to keep out of sight from airborne drones as much as possible.
Mr Red, her bodyguard, said nothing. But Black heard the chair behind her groan in relief as he stood, and she watched as Red followed the aid into the service staff area. His long waves of hair flowed over his shoulders and he made a powerful impression in his black bespoke suit. The clothiers must have been very happy the day Big Red walked into their establishment.
“What will next year’s technology advances bring?” she repeated. “General, we expect to make advances every year. By this time next year, we expect the rapid maturity rate to increase by one year,” Black answered. “ So a 1-year old modified human would be the equivalent of a 4-year old unmodified.”
At this point, General Kurtz broke his silence. His tone was not pleasant. “And how much time would each soldier serve, Miss Black?”
“I’m glad you asked, General Kurtz,” Ms. Black smiled, showing not a hint of emotion that he deliberately mispronounced her name. “We can also genetically engineer a slow maturity rate starting at what is normally the equivalent of age 18. So barring major injuries, our perfect soldier could serve twice as many years on average as an unmodified human.”
“Are you aware, Miss Black, how that compares to the service life of a drone?” General Kurtz smirked.
She had prepared for this, thanks to General Clancy and his insistence on rehearsal time. “I’m not aware of the machine’s service life but I’m sure it is decades long. However, a drone doesn’t operate itself, Mister Kurtz… excuse me, General Kurtz.” The General smiled cruelly at this deliberate show of disrespect.
Black continued: “What I am aware of is this: the suicide rate of drone pilots is worse than foot soldiers at the front. I’m aware the rate far outstripped our recruiting efforts so that we are now drafting 12 year olds to pilot drones. I’m also aware suicide rates among teenaged drone pilots is rising rapidly… reportedly because they’re seeing carnage that would disturb even a battle hardened veteran.”
As she spoke, General Clancy beamed while General Kurtz fumed.
After a pregnant pause, Ms. Black bottom-lined it for the hawk: “Bottom-line General Kurtz, the clone program will negate the need to draft teens for the drone effort.”
Kurtz sat quietly with arms crossed for the remainder of her Q&A period. Ms. Black was released from the meeting during the next bio break. She finished her afternoon with a swim in the hotel’s indoor pool and taking a long hot bath in her hotel room.
General Clancy met Black briefly at her favorite capital restaurant late that night. The kindly old owl had just wrapped up the Defense Secretary’s meeting and looked weary.
“You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet,” Black laughed.
“Yes, but it ain’t my first rodeo,” the General smiled warmly. Black was like the daughter he’d never had.
He sat with her long enough to eat a bite of her dessert and share the good news.
The General motioned for her to lean closer and whispered over his spoonful of chocolate mousse, “The Defense Secretary authorized immediate action on the clone program. Black budget funding will be utilized so we can bypass government appropriations and oversight … at least for the first phase.”
This meant Ms. Black now had legal access to military DNA samples in addition to her black market samples. Excited by this news, Black fired a volley of questions at the General. He smiled sleepily.
“Let’s worry about taking that bridge when we get to that bridge,” the General replied. “For now, don’t expect the military to release any samples quickly. Each branch is like a cruise ship… they’re big, slow, and don’t turn on a dime.” He raised his spoon, toasted her success with another spoonful of mousse, and departed.
Once alone, Black called Pink on her secure Sat phone.
“Hey Ms. B. How’s the weather?” Ms. Pink answered without a greeting.
“Hi P. Looks like we made some rain,” Ms. Black answered. “But keep an umbrella over you even in the sun,” then ended the call.
Seconds later, her burner phone vibrated. Ms. Black was blind-copied on a private message from Pink to all operatives including Bob and Nedry: “It’s raining cats and dogs here. Stay indoors until further notice.”
A minute later, Ms. Black was looking at the “ink cartridge” containing Private Vasquez when the first affirmative reply came back from ‘Bob’: “Yeah, but we really need the rain.”
Then Nedry: “Agreed, the drought’s been bad. We really need that rain. Imagine that …dogs and cats living together. It’s madness!” Black smirked. Nedry was downright cheerful. He had apparently received his first payment.
Only after the last asset replied affirmative 10 minutes later did Black relax.
“So it begins again for you, Private,” Ms. Black whispered to the DNA sample. “Better luck in your next life, my friend.”
She rose to find Mr. Red alone at the table behind her chair. His long waves of Samoan hair tumbling over his shoulders. She had not seen him since he followed the aid out of the meeting. He was finishing his ice cream. An ice cream stained napkin was tucked into the collar of his bespoke suit and another was in his lap. The spoon he held was so microscopic compared to his hand that he couldn’t help but raise his pinky daintily as he ate. She smiled and joined him.
“Ready when you are, Red. Take your time.”
The big Samoan took one more dainty bite, then pushed the bowl to the center of the table, and nodded to the fresh spoon on her side. He was offering her a taste. She shook her head no. He pushed the bowl to her and held up the fresh spoon. He was insisting. She sighed, took the spoon and tried a taste. Her face melted in elation. They finished the bowl together in silence.
Red removed his napkins and stood. He was ready. Ms. Black rose and tried to put on her shawl. Mr. Red helped her adjust it properly to cover her bare shoulders. As he did so, he deftly slipped her the note the general had scribbled during the meeting.
“Thanks Red,” she smiled as they walked out.
Mr Red, her bodyguard, said nothing.
(To be continued)