Blood: There was blood everywhere. It splattered the white walls of the hotel bathroom and dripped from the porcelain sink to pool up in the floor. It was messier than Julian Skeller liked to do things, but he was in a hurry. And more than anything else, he had wanted out of the damned Self-Sustaining Body Mask. It made him look fat and slovenly, something Skeller couldn't stand. He was proud of the body he had built through years of athletics, not to mention his pampered blond curls.

The blood was synthetic. It had come out of the SSBM. The SSBM was a thin layer of artificial flesh that allowed an agent to disguise his entire body. The synthetic blood circulated in it to keep it looking smooth and real in the event that it must be worn for a long period of time.

There were neater ways to remove the SSBM, but the opponent was on Skeller's trail so he simply tore the suit open at the chest and pulled it off. The blood had flown. Who knows, he thought, it might even confuse those bastards and give me a few more minutes to escape. He kicked the discarded skin into the shower and hustled into the bedroom.

To one shin he strapped the waterproof package containing the stolen documents, and to the other an eight-inch, double edged blade. They couldn't be seen under his baggy gray trousers. A shirt of common print and typical worker's coat completed his new disguise. The only other thing he carried from the room was the Slow Kill, or Choice Maker as others called it. He left all of his luggage. It would only slow him down, and besides, he chuckled, the company would pay for it. They always paid.

The elevator hurtled down the two-hundred and sixty four floors with amazing comfort considering it reached the lobby in just over five seconds. It was dinner time and the lobby was unusually empty.

Skeller spotted the tail the second he exited the elevator. He was a completely average looking man, typical of the profession, dressed in a business suit. Skeller grinned and walked right in front of him. They were still looking for a fat, middle aged man. The tail was left waiting for his back-up that would come too late.

Unlike the lobby, the moving sidewalks were packed. Skeller shouldered his way into a small space and ignored the sneers and profanity he received from jostled travelers. He would have preferred a skycab to this crammed mode of travel, but another tail would be watching the skycab's landing pad. It never hurt to be cautious, even if the result was dreadfully slow.

Finally, after twenty minutes at that snail's pace, Skeller hopped off the moving sidewalk at the entrance to the subway. The dinner crowd was backed up to the bottom of stairs, waiting to shove itself onto the subway. Another intolerable wait of eight minutes passed before the mass of commuters piled into the bullet shaped train. Surprisingly, once inside the train, the crowd seemed to thin somewhat. Skeller had to stand and hold an overhead handle which he didn't particularly care for, but otherwise, his range of motion was fairly uninhibited.

Just as the jet-powered train began to accelerate, Skeller felt a hand at his rear pocket. In a blur, his arm shot backwards. The edge of his hand struck a wrist. He heard it snap. Behind him there was a cry of surprise that would soon turn to a cry of pain. Skeller never even turned around. That's one less pickpocket to trouble honest working folk, he thought with a self-satisfied smile.

Skeller looked around for thanks or appreciation from the other people. There was none. In fact, he actually thought he saw a few glances of accusation. That's the last time I try to help you people out, he thought. From now on, I'll just let him rob you blind. But that was the way Skeller was. He had no loyalties. He was a free-agent, a mercenary for hire to the highest bidder. There was always a highest bidder. Skeller, by most opinions, especially his own, was considered the best in the business. If he could be said to have one loyalty, it was to the profession. That's why he carried a Slow Kill instead of a gun. The Slow Kill put a dart into an opposing agent that would release poison into the agent's bloodstream. But if an infected agent could reach a physician in time, the poison could be neutralized. The only catch was, the poison slowly made a agent's joints and muscles stiffen, and after a short time, any type of motion became not only difficult, but agonizing. That's why a smart agent sought a doctor immediately if he was hit by a Slow Kill. So, with a Slow Kill, an agent was effectively eliminated from a situation without necessarily being terminated. In Skeller's mind, any agent bad enough to be hit with a Slow Kill deserved to die, but at the same time, there weren't enough people in the field as it was. So the Slow Kill was his big contribution to society.

The train blasted through fourteen stops before it approached the one he wanted. It was the train's final stop, and the only one it made outside of the city dome. As the train began to slow, a red warning light flashed overhead and a monotone, computerized voice sounded.

"Warning, stop fifteen is outside of the city's protective dome. If you are departing here, a breath mask is strongly advised. The Public Transportation Department is not responsible for any deaths due to lack of precautions. Thank you."

Skeller didn't have one. He didn't need one. Through modern surgery techniques, he had been altered. It was possible for him to breathe any atmosphere with the barest trace of oxygen. After all, he was the best, and the best were always prepared. But to go outside a city dome without a breath mask was to scream for attention, something Skeller didn't need.

He waited, making sure he would be the last one off the train. In front of him stood a young blonde woman, quite pretty in fact. Oh well, he thought, things can't be helped. Just as she was stepping through the train door, Skeller grabbed a handful of her beautiful hair and slammed her head up against the door frame. She collapsed instantly at his feet, but she was still alive. He even managed not to harm her pretty face in the least bit.

It was an easy task from there to roll her back onto the train and take her breath mask. No one saw him. If they did, they didn't care.

The breath mask was cracked from the impact of the blow. It was useless to anyone else, but Skeller only needed it for appearances. He slipped it over his face and walked up the subway stairs into the gray, hazy, outer-dome atmosphere. Nobody really lived out here. Survived, maybe, but lived, no.

Outer-city was the ramshackle remains of the last century's suburbia. Crumbling houses and miniature town centers made up most of outer-city. But everywhere Skeller looked, he saw recent constructions made out of scavenged material. It all looked as if it wanted to collapse on the spot.

As he started into the street, an old leather football bounced in front of him. With disgust, he watched a boy run after the ball. Glancing down a side street, he saw a number of other kids waiting for the return of the ball. It was a sad sight. There they stood with their antique helmets fitted around their breath masks, and their home-made shoulder pads. Here, in outer-city, the kids couldn't afford to play the real game, so they to reverted to this outdated, tame imitation of today's sport. Skeller shook his head and kept walking.

A quarter of a million people lived here. Anyone who failed on their rent in the inner-city was displaced into this atmospheric wasteland. Crime was the outer-city's largest employer, and Seth Grimes was the biggest crime boss around. It just so happened that he and Skeller were cousins of some distance, and also friends. They did one another favors.

Skeller's first destination from the subway was Grimes' place of business. It was located in what passed for down town in outer-city. But about a hundred feet out of the subway entrance, Skeller spotted someone. He was dressed in work clothes, but even through the breath mask, Skeller could see the pale skin and shadow of a beard that obviously marked him as an inner-city resident. Outer-city people tended to have sickly yellow complexions and their beards grew very slowly, if at all. He also had that average, typical-of-the-profession look about him. It was another tail.

Damn, Skeller thought, I didn't give their organization nearly enough credit.

He noticed a narrow alley off to his left. Putting the athletic training of his youth to work, he darted past several gaunt-looking pedestrians, and sprinted into the alleyway. After skirting a trash heap, leaping over a corpse, and almost trampling a passed-out vagrant, Skeller rounded a corner only to find his way blocked. Retracing his steps, he cautiously peered around the corner. There were now two tails slowly following him up the alley. He glanced back at the walls forming the dead-end. There were no hand or foot holds. Climbing was out. This jam was getting a little sticky. It was definitely more than he had expected on this job. The opponent's security might be flawed, he told himself, but damn it if they aren't enthusiastic.

Skeller drew his Slow Kill. In one fluid motion, he swung around the corner, fired twice, and stepped back into cover.

There were two gasps of shock from around the corner. A confident grin spread over Skeller's face. Enthusiasm was no match for talent. Especially his talent.

"It was only a Slow Kill," he shouted to them. "You have time, if you leave now." But not much, he thought, before the pain starts.

There was a momentary pause and then a muted argument from the two tails. Skeller couldn't make out the words, but he knew the gist of it. One of the tails wanted to take Skeller out before seeking a physician. The other wanted to go, now.

Skeller knew which way the argument would end. He drew his knife.

As he predicted, he heard footsteps resuming their way toward him. Skeller dove from his cover, rolled, and came to his feet directly in front of the two agents. Before they could move, he buried his knife in the chest of one, and kicked the gun from the other's hand. The unarmed opponent fled. The other was already another corpse in the alley.

Skeller was disgusted. It was so easy, it made him sick. The profession had fallen lower than he thought in the last few years. Or maybe he had just risen too far above the others.

Just to be on the safe side, he avoided as many main streets as possible on the remainder of his trip to Grimes' office. The enemy now apparently knew his description. Soon, he thought, one of these idiots will figure out who they're dealing with, and then life will be easy. They'll tuck their tails and run the other way. Julian Skeller was very confident.

Seth Grimes' office was a fortress. Built four stories underground, the walls were a double layer of blast-proof tiles. The front door was rigged with Thermax--an explosive, napalm combination that was very nasty. Skeller knew of three bolt holes exiting the office. There were undoubtedly more. It would take an army to reach Grimes. Skeller very much approved of his cousin's security measures.

Across the room from Skeller, Grimes lounged in a refurbished, antique Lay-Z-Boy. All four hundred and some odd pounds of him sprawled across the chair.

"I see you're more grotesque than usual," Skeller greeted. It was no lie.

The fat man was dressed sharply--or as sharply as four hundred pounds can be dressed--in a very fashionable suit. But despite the temperature, which Skeller thought was rather cool, sweat soaked through the light material of Grimes' jacket. But by far, the worst part about Grimes was his bald head. The white, parchment-like skin was spotted with sores that scabbed, sores that bled, and sores that oozed "stuff." Skeller called it "stuff" because he had never seen its like come from another human body, living or dead.

How can we possibly be related? Skeller asked himself for the thousandth time.

"Ah, always ready with the flattery, aren't we, Skeller?"

Skeller smiled. Despite the obscenity of Grimes' body, he still couldn't help but like the fat man.

"I'd love to talk business, but they're pretty tight to my ass this time."

"That's too bad." Grimes chuckled and shook his head. Fifteen chins waved back and forth. "I had a nice little party all set. The girls and drinks were just waiting on you to arrive."

It was Skeller's turn to laugh. Grimes always had girls and drinks set up.

"I'll just have to make up for your absence myself," the fat man continued. "What a pity."

"That shouldn't be too difficult for you," he said with a lewd grin splitting his face. "But to business, where is my vehicle?"

"Lost it," Grimes answered, all humor gone.

Skeller was silent.

"Cops busted one of my runners. They tore the information out of him, along with his fingers, I believe. I've already had the rest of him terminated, of course, but we lost your transport."

"Keep going." Skeller's mouth barely moved. His lips were stiff with rage. He hated mistakes with a furious passion. "I know you wouldn't leave me stranded."

"Not to worry, Skeller. I set you up with my own personal 702 Skyrunner. I can't fit into it anymore, you know."

Skeller's body visibly relaxed. "Sorry to hear that. I know how hard that car was to come by."

"Now granted, the 702 is not as big and ugly, or as slow as that pig you flew in, but do you think it might do?"

"I think she'll do very well indeed." Skeller bent and shook his cousin's clammy palm.

Skeller didn't talk to many people. He found very few of them worth his time. But he always talked to his cars.

"Come on, baby," he coaxed. "Let's get out of here."

The 702 didn't need encouragement. Its twin air-propulsion engines blasted it away from outer-city with fury. Skeller took it up to one hundred feet--just high enough not to blow dust up in his wake--and leveled out. When the digital speedometer read three hundred, Skeller steered into a general southwest heading and locked the control bar into place.

"You are a beauty," he said, leaning back into the leather seat. It was the only seat in the car, and the only thing in it designed for comfort. "No frills about you, are there, honey?" He caressed the arms of the chair. "Speed. Pure speed, that's your game. I feel like I've strapped my ass to a rocket." Skeller was in love. No woman could ever affect him like this car.

He cupped his hands behind his head and propped his feet on the dash. The wrap-around windshield have him one hundred and eighty degrees of vision. It showed him a view of blowing dust and an occasional scraggly tree clinging to life. But even the bleak scenery couldn't diminish his happiness.

"Three hundred is too easy for you, isn't it girl? What can you give me? Four-fifty, five hundred maybe. God, what a car you are. You, me and about a thousand miles to go. They'll never catch us."

Sitting back up in the chair, he flipped the control bar back to manual.

"Let's see what you've got."

He rolled the car over to his left, then back to the right, accelerating through both of them. At three hundred and seventy miles per hour, he flipped it upside down and almost tumbled from his seat. Only his safety harness kept him from cracking his head.

"Oh, baby," he cried, righting the car. "Where have you been all my life?"

A sudden shock slammed the car sideways.

"What the hell!?"

The car danced through the air, out of control. Skeller fought with the control bar. He backed off the accelerator and slowly calmed the car down. During the struggle he dropped below fifty feet--very dangerous. Without ever seeing it, Skeller ripped across the top of a dust dune. The near impact and thrust from the engines combined to send dust geysering skyward. In the midst of the cloud, he jerked the car back up the a hundred feet where he broke free of the dust.

Skeller glanced at his rear view-screen. His enemy was casually gliding along, waiting for Skeller.

"Damn it," he yelled. He checked the damage sensors. At least there was no harm done to the car. The view-screen showed the enemy still where he was, seemingly content for the moment.

"A P4 Falcon." He slammed a fist into the dash. "Military. Where do you get off using military hardware? That's a violation. Definitely, definitely against the rules. Shit, the stakes are going up."

Skeller flew steady, keeping an eye on his pursuer. The P4 stayed close, but made no aggressive moves.

"So you want to play this game, do you?"

His telecom cracked, buzzed and jumped to life. "Agent Skeller? This is Agent Bartaugh. Surely you've realized by now that your 702 is no match for the P4. It would be to everyone's benefit if you would return to Philadelphia and return what you've stolen." The telecom went dead waiting for an answer.

Skeller wouldn't deign to answer Agent Bartaugh, because Bartaugh was a clone. Skeller despised clones. But he said to himself, "You're a fool, Bartaugh. You should have finished me when you had the chance."

He threw the car into a dangerous dive. At the last minute, he pulled out of the dive and shot between two enormous dunes. The P4 followed. Skeller's car threw up a cloud in its wake which must considerably hamper Bartaugh's vision. Realizing this, an idea formed in Skeller's head.

He flew along the valley formed by the dunes for some time before he found what he wanted--a dead-end. At the last moment, he jerked his car into a vertical climb. Momentary dizziness swept over him from the force of the pull. Bartaugh never realized his danger and completely buried his P4 in the dune.

"No match for the P4, my butt," Skeller mocked. "It has nothing to do with the car, you clone imbecile." He sped towards his destination.

The remainder of the trip was peaceful bliss for Skeller. Just him and the car. When he parked it at the company building in inner-city Dallas, he was reluctant to leave it, but there was really no choice. His last view of the beautiful Skyrunner was when the elevator doors closed in front of him.

"What floor?" the elevator asked.

"Three zero one. The executive suite."

"Authorization please."

"Skeller, Julian. Identification number 14763227BXR, code 68H."

"Identification accepted. Have a pleasant day."

In about the time it would have taken him to reply, the elevator was there. The doors slid open to an empty lobby. Nobody sat at the secretary's desk, but the light above the CEO's door indicated that he was in.

Skeller took a breath to steel himself before he entered the inner office. The CEO made him skittery. He never knew what to call him. Did he call him boss or Mr. Moss? Hell, some people still called him "Coach." But he was at least the fifth clone to hold the position of CEO since the passing of the original coach, so Skeller disregarded that option.

He made up his mind and entered. Apparently he had been expected. The CEO greeted him immediately with a firm handshake.

"Julian, it's damn good to see you back."

First name basis. Skeller was instantly on guard. "You know me, Mr. Moss. I got back as swiftly as possible."

"Jake. Please, call me Jake." Now Skeller was definitely suspicious. "Come, come sit down."

Skeller let himself be seated across the desk from Jake. Before Jake could start talking, Skeller unstrapped the documents from his shin and tossed them on the desk.

"Offensive and defensive play books," he announced. "As well as their game plan."

"Excellent work, excellent." Jake beamed.

"I do my best," Skeller admitted graciously.

"Hell, Julian, you are the best. If it weren't for two little flaws, you'd be perfect."

Skeller stiffened, insulted. "Flaws? Two of them?"

"Now don't get mad." Jake put up a hand to soothe Skeller. "Let me explain. One of the flaws I'm talking about is your continual free agency." By that he meant Skeller's mercenary status.

Skeller knew what was happening now. Next would come an offer for permanent employment. And it would be a big offer. But never as much as he earned as a free-agent.

"What I'm trying to say, Julian, is that I'm willing to offer you fifteen million. And I mean per job, not per year. Now what do you say."

Fifteen a job. Whew, Skeller was as tempted as he'd ever been, but the answer was the same as always. "I'm sorry, but you know I can't accept." After all, the contract was probably long term and if market prices rose while he was under contract, someone else might make more than he did, and that was unacceptable.

"That's too bad, Skeller." Jake shook his head, seemingly sad. "Did I say you had two flaws? I meant three."

Something else was coming and Skeller knew it wasn't good.

"Do you remember your last physical?" Skeller nodded. "Well, we paid the doctor for a tissue sample."

"What!" Skeller leapt to his feet. His chair toppled over. He was furious. Any number of things could be done with a tissue sample. Few of them good. It could be used to make designer drugs that solely affected him, or they could even make mutations with the plan of attaching them to his body. "You can't do that, you clone son-of-a-bitch."

"Now, now, Skeller, calm down. Let me show you what we did with that sample." He pushed a button on his desk top. It must have signaled the lobby because, in the door walked -- Julian Skeller. Jake laughed.

Skeller froze, his mouth hanging open. A clone. A clone of himself. This can't happen, his mind raged. "You...you can't do this," he sputtered. "There can't be two of me walking around. The other companies won't allow it."

Jake sighed. "You're right, as usual." He seemed defeated. "We even tried to have you terminated. The P4 Falcon was ours."

"But I proved to you that I was the best, didn't I," Skeller said. He smiled, composed, on top of the negotiations once again.

"You sure did. But then I realized, you fight fire with fire. Who could kill Julian Skeller, but Julian Skeller."

Realization began to dawn on Skeller. He turned to face himself, already reaching for his Slow Kill.

"Do you know your third flaw, Skeller?" Jake asked to Skeller's back. "You carry a Slow Kill. He does not."

The End