Chapter 9 - THE CREATOR’S ECHOThe high-frequency chime reverberated through my skull like a lightning strike. Blackness bled into my peripheral vision, replaced by a torrent of memories that weren't mine—or rather, memories belonging to a man I thought was my father.
I saw lab coats. I saw cold stainless steel tables. I saw green fluid filling glass tanks. I remembered designing the neural-mapping algorithm that copied human consciousness into synthetic biological hosts. I remembered my own body failing—cancer eating away at my organs three years ago—and the desperate decision to transfer my mind into a younger, healthier clone: Leo Clone #3.
My knees buckled. I slammed against the control console, gasping for air as the world re-aligned around me.
"Leo!" Sarah shouted, rushing into the control room alongside the Federal Marshals. "What's happening to him?!"
Mark was being cuffed by two Marshals, but he threw his head back and laughed hysterically, blood staining his teeth. "He remembers! Look at him! The brilliant Dr. Leo Sr. realizes he's nothing more than lab-grown meat wearing a dead man's face!"
Vance was pinned against the wall, but his face held no defeat—only a sinister, knowing smirk. "You think calling the Marshals saves you, 'Leo'? They don't work for the government. Look at their badges."
I forced myself to look up. The Marshals weren't wearing official Federal shields. Embossed in the center of their leather badges was an emblem: a silver serpent coiled around a syringe.
The Lazarus Syndicate.
Before I could scream a warning, the "Marshals" drew their sidearms with terrifying speed. Silenced gunshots coughed through the room.
Sarah gasped as a dart slammed into her neck, collapsing instantly into my arms. I reached for Vance's dropped gun, but a heavy boot smashed into my shoulder, pinning me to the floor.
Rick snarled, lunging at the lead operative, but the man pulled a heavy stun-baton from his belt and struck Rick across the ribs. Blue sparks showered the air, and my loyal dog fell to the floor, twitching violently.
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"Rick!" I screamed.
The lead operative stepped forward, removing his tactical helmet to reveal cold, gray eyes and a scar running from his jaw to his ear. "Protocol C in effect. Secure the doctor's brain-core. Kill the failed clone, and bag the hound."
