Tribe Page 2

  The room beyond was small and cluttered, but Figueroa could tell it was empty.

  His heartbeat quickened.

  There were supposed to be two men at the other door. There was no one. No bodies. No one to knock.

  "I thought you read my file," a voice called from behind.

  Figueroa spun, dropped to his knee and fired off two more shots, reaching for a second clip of ammunition.

  The bullets buried themselves in the wall, but there was no target.

  The fan kept spinning.

  And then Carlos Teramond's foot slammed into Figueroa's back, sending him sprawling to the ground, his cartridge sliding across to the desk. Figueroa turned as he slid and tried to find cover, pulling a chair towards him and cowering behind it. Carlos stood at the door. He was wearing a tank top and three-quarter length pants. Figueroa noticed Carlos' bare feet for some reason.

  The American stepped in and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

  Figueroa sat up, still clutching the chair.

  "Well?" asked Carlos.

  A second Carlos appeared behind Figueroa and casually lifted the chair from the man's grasp. Figueroa looked up, in shock, his face draining of colour.

  A third Carlos appeared and offered him a hand to get up.

  "Don't be shy," he said.

  "I'm not going to kill you, or anything," smiled the first Carlos.

  Figueroa refused the hand but stood anyway, looking at his firearm which still held three bullets.

  Carlos followed the gaze and smiled, eyebrows raised.

  "You've got enough to kill all three of us," he said.

  "That'd make five murders," added the second.

  "Although you might be able to commute that to a single murder since it was all the same guy."

  "Namely, me."

  "W-what do you want?" Figueroa blurted, and it seemed that as soon as he had said it, he realized how inane the comment was. "I was only doing my job."

  The three Carloses smiled. One held out his hand and Figueroa handed over the gun.

  "A little anticlimactic, eh?"

  "How did you do that?" asked Figueroa, softly.

  Carlos looked a little confused for a moment, looking down at the gun.

  "It's not like I have mind control or anything, dude," he said. "You gave it to me fair and square."

  Another Carlos scoffed.

  "Hermanos, dude, he was talking about the door thing."

  "Oh right..."

  "Your file didn't mention that we can re-materialize at a distance?"

  Figueroa shook his head.

  "Well, we can," said Carlos. "Among other things."

  "What are you going to do with me?"

  The Carloses exchanged looks.

  "We have you alone."

  "The goons are all tied up downstairs."

  "You did kind of kill me."

  "Twice."

  "What do you think you deserve?"

  Figueroa blanched.

  Carlos stepped closer, his eyes looking directly into Figueroa's. Neither man blinked.

  "Don't worry," Carlos whispered. "I am a hero. We don't crawl in the scum.

  We rise above it."

  "Always," added a second Carlos from behind Figueroa.

  "But you'll be able to send me thankyou cards for a long time to come."

  "You'll have a lot of time on your hands."

  ###

  The phone rang three times before it was picked up.

  "Good afternoon, Seriatim America, this is reception."

  There was a pause.

  "I ah... I can't get in contact with Alsana."

  "I'm sorry, sir, who are you referring to?"

  Another pause.

  "Ah... right, sure. I'm in Puerto Rico. I... ah, I need to talk with my handler, Alsana Owens. Of Seriatim."

  "Yes sir," the receptionist said. "The person you have mentioned cannot be contacted through this line. You must appreciate that we deal with issues of national security, and that cannot be compromised."

  "You don't understand..."

  "I can tell you that there are several unofficial fan sites on the web which may be able to provide you with mailing addresses for the various public members of the team."

  "... but, I'm not a fan."

  "Thank you for calling."

  The phone went dead.

  Carlos frowned and replaced the phone on the hook in the hotel lobby. He patted down his shorts and pulled out his wallet, frowning further as he realized he didn't actually have any direct numbers for the other duplicators or Alsana. Sure, he had them back in the States, but he was supposed to be on holiday. He remembered deliberately leaving his Tribe wallet on top of the fridge.

  "Crap."

  Looking back into the lobby he wondered what he should do.

  There was something missing inside, some darkness that he didn't want to look at. That morning he had decided to be a single Carlos, something he hadn't done in a long time. Figueroa was gone. The authorities had him under wraps and the Americans were even been called in. He had written out his report in triplicate (apparently the office didn't have carbon paper... something about supplies being a month behind). After giving his deposition Carlos had walked back along the beach to his hotel, enjoying the feeling of sand through his toes, but unable to actually feel much beyond the moment.

  And now, in the hotel, he still couldn't really imagine what lay ahead.

  His airline ticket was ready. His luggage was packed.

  He just needed to move on.

  Yeah, right.

  It was easy to say, but Carlos knew that he had to relive the experience of being murdered. He had to plan for such an eventuality. He had to make sure it never happened again. He had to accept his mortality, but more so, his ability to transcend that mortality.

  Was he a god?

  No.

  He was a man.

  Carlos smiled a little and looked to the sky, to the clouds skittering across the blueness, like crests of waves lifting from the ocean.

  Just a man.

  But a man with a plan. Suddenly.

  ###

  Carlos Teramond stepped out of the cab and sank his hands into his pants pockets, another smile crossing his face. All morning he'd been smiling at the weirdest things. It felt good.

  Looking up to the building which housed Seriatim, Carlos knew he was home.

  It had probably taken him a few weeks to work it out, but he felt he had grown up a little. He no longer felt the need to catch the adrenaline of being a super spy. He no longer felt the need to prove himself with the team, even though he'd probably always be the New Kid On The Block. Up against Gypsy and the others, Carlos knew he must have seemed small-fry, but he also knew that small-fry probably had a place amongst the men and women who could change the world.

  Yes.

  He was home.

  ###

  New York City

  Alonzo Canizares rubbed the cloth into a groove of his trumpet, his legs hanging over the edge of his E23rd Street apartment. Behind him, his suitcase lay open, his clothes scattered across the lumpy bed. The room was small, but opened up to the wide street.

  He lifted the trumpet and licked his lips, eyes closed.

  Tt...ttt.. preparing for the magic.

  He hadn't had the spare time to concentrate on his music since joining Seriatim, although it turned out he was pretty damn good at it. The music came easily... the rhythms and the tempo. Perhaps it was linked to his surfing, the motion of the waves and the balance of the board.

  "Hey, nice tunes, guy!"

  Alonzo opened one eye and looked down to the street where two young kids were leaning against a parking meter. They clapped and then kicked each other, running across the street. Alonzo smiled and closed his eye.

  He probably wasn't a maestro yet, but now he had all the time in the world.

  Money wasn't a problem. All he had to do was stay alive and have fun. Things could be worse.
>
  He was home.

  ###

  Madrid, Spain

  Cristian Nunez bounced the ball from his ankle to his knee and back again, enjoying the warmups. The football team was hanging around the middle of the league with occasional moments of brilliance. Cristian had managed to score a position after a few weeks of training, and the coach was a little worried that he was playing below his ability. Cristian, on the other hand, was happy just playing football.

  He had no real ambition to become the next Ronaldinho. He just wanted to play the beautiful game, enjoy being outside and the odd moment of crowd encouragement. It wasn't television, but it was a little bit like acting.

  He kicked the ball across to the next player and stretched. There was no way Alsana, or the movers and shakers of Seriatim, would approve of his stunt.

  Stunt? No, he thought of it more like insurance.

  Life insurance.

  The ball came back and he played with it for a moment before passing it on again.

  Life was good.

  He was home.

  ###

  San Jose, Costa Rica

  Leonardo Saborio leaned into the wave, his fingers tracing the water, his hair dripping with salt and water. He streamed down the face of the wave, turned and knew immediately that he had mis-timed the turn. With a wide grin, he flipped up and over the crest, leaving his board and diving into the water beyond.

  Under the water he opened his eyes and realized that failure tasted great.

  Kicking to the surface he flicked his hair back and treaded water, pulling on the legline to retrieve his board.

  Other surfers sat around him, but he was new, so they kept apart. Leo knew it wouldn't take long. He was a pro-surfer, he had all the time in the world, and the waves would keep coming. The beach was beautiful. It brought back innocent memories. He had been a teen surfer, touring the world with wide-eyed excitement. It was time to revisit those times. Surf, relax and stay alive.

  He was home.

  ###

  "So, I suppose you think you're a hero now," Alsana asked without looking up from a report on her lap as he pushed open the door and poked his head into her office. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail which was unusual and probably meant that she was running late for something.

  Carlos looked at his watch but nothing came to mind.

  "You're not, of course," she continued. "Apart from the reports coming in from the guys in the Capitol, you've got the Vice President asking questions about ..."

  She stopped and looked up at him, her eyes darting left to right as she tried to understand why he was standing at the door with a dopey smile on his face.

  "You're suspended from active duty for two weeks."

  "Oh well," Carlos said with a shrug.

  "You nearly blew it out there."

  "Nearly isn't quite good enough," he said. "That's your motto, Ally."

  "What's the matter with you?"

  There was the hint of concern in her voice, but Carlos didn't linger on it too much. He sat down in a leather armchair usually reserved for guests or people in uniform, and crossed his legs.

  "Nothing's wrong. I'm home."

  ###

  About the Author

  Ben Langdon lives and works in Portland, Australia. As well as writing short fiction, he is working on a novel, growing three children and teaching at the local high school.

  His website is https://www.benlangdon.net

  Tribe was originally published in Patented DNA, edited by Jessy Marie Roberts (Pill Hill Press, 2010).

  Thank you for reading books on Archive.BookFrom.Net
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