Leblanc #3
“Killed off. By the time any of us knew what was happening, it was too late. Orders came from and were carried out by a hardcore military contingent. But the answer to your question is that many were executed. The neophyte Pawns would have been easy to deal with without much of a fight. Appalling. The Knights, not so much, having been groomed into elite fighting machines. Regular soldiers might eventually have eliminated them with sheer numbers, but the cost would have been too high. Instead, the commanders did the worst thing imaginable.”
“Which was?”
“They locked them into the underground gymnasium and pitted the last six against each other. Ordered one to destroy the other. At the end, one child was left—unconscious and barely hanging onto life—for me to euthanise.”
“You murdered the last of the Knights.”
“Not the last it would seem. And yes, I was instructed to do so.”
I say nothing but consider the magnitude of what he has just told me. Perhaps his world of paranoia is justified.
“Do not judge me, Five. Do you have any idea of the pain you caused? How many lives you took and innocents you murdered carrying out orders? Besides, I said I was instructed. I did not say I went through with those instructions.”
“Are you saying another of us is still alive?”
“I am. And some Pawns, too, if what I heard is true.”
Having met Ivan, I know that much to be accurate.
“If only I had known what they planned earlier, I could have done more…”
A tiredness seems to weigh heavily on Leblanc’s shoulders when he looks away for several moments to consider before turning to study me.
“I need coffee and a cigarette. Do you take coffee?”
I nod my acceptance, and he shuffles off into the kitchen. While I sit there, listening to the water running and cups clinking into saucers, the phone in my pocket buzzes. I pull out the device, but the number is not shown.
Unknown: I see Leblanc in his kitchen. Don’t trust him. He’s only concerned with his own survival. Type YES if you’re reading this.
I pause for a moment, wondering who I am communicating with and if I can trust this person or their advice.
Did Lorenzo follow me down here? This is, after all, the phone he kept safe for me, and I’m not entirely convinced of Leblanc’s trustworthiness.
I type in the words “Who is this?” and wait for the three-dot bubble to appear on the screen. Eventually, another message pops up.
Unknown: Who I am is unimportant right now. Stay focused and leave the phone on. I’ll keep watch.
Moments after I shove the phone away, Leblanc returns with a tray containing a new ashtray, milk and sugar jugs and a cafetière filled with what I assume is coffee.
He balances the tray on the edge of the table and shoves a few documents onto the floor.
Once he has cleared enough space, he slides the tray onto the table and pours two generous mugs of coffee.
“How do you take yours?”
“As it comes,” I answer, and he seems to approve because he does not add anything to his either.
He pushes a mug towards me before picking up his own and taking a gulp.
By the time I reach for my cup and savour the aroma, he is already lighting up a cigarette using a cubed green onyx table lighter that seems to double as a paperweight.
“Can I ask?” I ask. “Why you got involved in the first place?”
Leblanc thumps the paperweight down, exhales a stream of smoke into the room before shaking his head.
“Pride, mainly. That and a mix of gullibility and stupidity. At the time, I may not have been the leader in my field, but I was close to the top. Being repeatedly overlooked and never the first choice for any new research can knock one’s pride.
So when someone comes knocking, strokes your ego and solicits your expertise in doing something pioneering, you jump at the chance.
Hindsight is like a dead albatross around the neck. ”
After taking another deep drag, he stubs the barely smoked cigarette out and reaches for another.
“Let me be more specific. Back then, I worked as a research specialist initially in reproductive biology and artificial insemination and studies into the creation of an artificial womb. It was the latter that brought me to the attention of the Hartfield sponsors and drew me to that cold, dark place. Do you really remember nothing?”
“Not a thing.”
Once again he eyes me, perhaps to judge whether he believes me. After flicking ash onto the floor, he nods once and continues.
“What we did in my eight years there was groundbreaking. Fascinating from a pure research standpoint, creating and studying life from conception to birth without the constraints of a human body, coupled with the chance to design perfect human specimens. Out of multiple experiments, twenty-four fabricants—lab babies like yourself—were successfully birthed using donor sperm and eggs harvested from elite marines, the embryos grown in an artificial womb, a process known as ectogenesis. Four of the fabricants brought to full term developed defects, genetic problems or cognitive failings. Twelve simply did not meet the strict military code. We were assured they had all been released and assumed that meant integrating them into the outside world. The eight remaining became the Knight’s Watch.
You were groomed by the finest military specialists and educators to become highly effective assassins, emotionless killing machines.
Too few of us appreciated what you really were—twenty-four human children.
The military boasted of your superhuman abilities, but they treated you as subhuman.
And there could be no culpability on their part because, legally, you did not exist.”
“What about the sixteen who did not make the grade to become Knights? You say they are out in the world somewhere?”
I wonder if there are many more like me living everyday lives, although, from what Ivan told me about him being smuggled out of the institute, that sounds unlikely. Leblanc shakes his head, confirming my suspicions.
“That is what we were told. Which was not the case. The reality was…very different.”
“Also retired?” I venture.
“You must understand that my remit ended when the foetuses were brought to full term. After that, the military and educators took over the responsibility of raising them. Besides, soon after that, the Pawn programmes were initiated. We were redeployed to monitor the Knights’ biological progress—health checks, degenerative issues, as well as tending to any injuries. ”
While I am considering his words, he shuffles through a pile of documents on the table until he finds what he is looking for.
“Here’s a photograph. Keep it. I am not supposed to have this anyway. I removed a copy when I was let go. I do not trust digital versions because phones can so easily be hacked.”
“But they obviously let you go. You weren’t worried you’d be ‘retired’ like the Knights and Pawns?”
“We had identities. Families, friends and colleagues. We all had medical records, history and ancestry. And we had all been made to sign bulletproof non-disclosures and official secrets documents. Any breach could have had me thrown into prison—or worse—and I am too old for that kind of discomfort. Somebody far braver than me did, though, which is why the operation was shut down.”
I take the large photo from him and look at the joyless young kids staring into the camera, arranged like a military unit, three sitting in the front, five at the back.
They each have their bare right arm raised, the fist bunched in a salute of power, each brandishing the tattoo on his or her wrist. Stern and obedient, two rows of young children with soulless eyes who had probably never laughed or loved or been loved.
How many people died at the hands of these abominations?
And, at the very end, how did they die? I catch myself when I pick myself out among them.
“What happened?”