47’S record was well above average, and he was rewarded with more applause than most.

Yet that was nothing compared to the standing ovation reserved for number 6. Not only was he the asylum’s most accomplished kickboxer, but 47’s personal nemesis. No matter what the boy did to avoid notice, 6 consistently sought him out, called him names like “my little bitch,” and constantly taunted him. Which was why 47, who was slated to battle 6 during the third round, felt a persistent emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

Once 6 had been introduced and collected his applause, he turned to wink at 47, as if to say, “Here it comes!” before taking a step back into line.

Some of the visitors laughed when they saw that, and the betting was brisk as they put even more money on 6.

The final introductions were made. Then, once the process was complete, the boys were ordered to sit on the cold metal chairs that lined one side of the elevated boxing arena.

The ring measured 20©20 feet square, stood three feet off the floor, and was equipped with an inch of canvas-covered padding. Stained canvas, because it was difficult to get the blood out of the material, no matter how hard the boys scrubbed. There were four posts, each of which stood a little more than four feet high, to which the side ropes had been secured.

Number 47 hated the ring—and more than that, he was afraid of it-but knew better than to let his emotions show. Fear equated to weakness within the closed society he lived in, and weakness invited attack. If not from 6, then from one of his toadies or a wannabe. So all he could do was sit there and shiver, as the headmaster gave the first two combatants their instructions, then left the ring.

As the name would suggest, kickboxing incorporated both the hand-thrown blows typical of boxing, along with the power kicks, knee strikes, and leg sweeps common to Asian martial arts. Which, to Ort-Meyer’s way of thinking, meant kickboxing was the perfect form of unarmed combat for the clone-soldiers of the future to master. Each round of the competition would be supervised by the headmaster, Lazlow. He was a big man, one of the reasons the boys feared him and always did what they were told. Lazlow wore his hair in a comb-over that failed to conceal a large bald spot, and he stared out at the world through a pair of Coke-bottle-thick glasses.

Round one-which was intended as little more than an appetizer-ended quickly as Number 21 threw three rapid-fire volleys of head blows, spun, and delivered a reverse kick to 9’s solar plexus. Then, as the boy known as “Niner” struggled to recover, 21 hammered the youngster to the floor.

Round two was a bit more entertaining, as the combatants traveled the length and breadth of the ring before 32 finally managed to run a younger boy into a post, thereby knocking his opponent unconscious.

That brought up round three as what felt like an ounce of liquid lead trickled into the pit of 47’s stomach and continued to lay there as he scrambled into the ring. Lazlow’s expression said that he already knew who was going to win the third round as he checked to make sure both boys had their protective mouthpieces, cups, and hand wraps.

“All right,” the headmaster said, as 6 danced around the ring. “Don’t kill each other.” And with that admonition, he was gone.

47 had a plan—a fantasy, really—in which he would find a way to beat 6’s defenses down and kick the other boy in the head. But that’s all it was—a fantasy. Which quickly became apparent when the fight began. Even though both boys were made of the same genetic stuff, it was as if 6 had been imbued with an extra something that gave the bully a distinct advantage.

While 47 attempted to put Number 6 on the defense with a series of body blows, the other boy was able to reach around and grab him behind the neck, delivering a series of knee strikes to the groin.

“Take that, bitch,” 6 said, “and that, and that, and that!”

He was going to lose, that much was certain, so 47 did the only thing he logically could. And that was to take just enough punishment to make the fight look convincing, take a fall, and walk away with the fewest number of injuries possible.

But 6 seemed determined to polish his image as the toughest student in the school. So rather than put his opponent down immediately, he pushed 47 away, and subjected him to a succession of front kicks, side kicks, and a fancy roundhouse that landed 47 on his back. A blow so hard, and so well delivered, it left 47 gasping for air.

That brought Ort-Meyer and his associates to their feet as 6 accepted a loud round of applause and grinned from ear to ear.

It took the combined efforts of Lazlow and another staff member to remove 47 from the blood-splattered ring, and load the injured youngster onto a squeaky gurney that carried him to the infirmary. It was there, while recovering from the beating, that 47 made a fateful decision.

After months of being victimized, the boy had arrived at the point where he was willing to do whatever was necessary to end the abuse. No matter what that entailed.

The decision produced both a sense of determination and a feeling of freedom as 47 left the infirmary and returned to the long, narrow dormitory he shared with eleven other boys. A pile of human feces had been left on his pillow, and there was no need to read the note to know which one of his peers had placed it there.

“Hey, shit head!” 6 said, as he and his toadies filtered into the area. “Oops! What’s that? It looks like the turd fairy left you a present!”

That produced gales of laughter as the other boys left and went to dinner.

But even if 47 wasn’t the fastest boy in the dorm, he was among the smartest, and he began to formulate a plan. From his training he knew how dangerous habits could be. And Number 6 had habits. One of which was to get up at roughly 3:00 a.m. every morning and take a pee before returning to bed.

With that opportunity in mind, 47 spent the next two days making careful preparations.

At the end of the second day he waited until everyone else had gone to sleep, got up long enough to get dressed, and returned to bed. At that point he set his mental alarm clock for 2:30, but was so amped up that he couldn’t sleep, and was still awake when Number 6 padded by at 2:53.

That was the moment when the youngster slipped out from between the blankets, swung his still-bare feet onto the floor, and padded silently down the hall as he followed his enemy in the lavatory. Number 47 knew that one mistake, one errant sound, would be sufficient to alert the bully and cause him to glance back. And if that occurred, an even worse beating would come his way.

Adrenaline flooded his body, and his heart beat like a trip-hammer as he tiptoed into the dimly lit bathroom. And that’s where 6 was, directing a powerful stream into one of the urinals, as the loop fell over his head.

Number 6 was fast, but he was sleepy, and his first instinct was to try to tuck his penis away. So his hands didn’t come up until the ligature had already begun to constrict at his throat. The homemade garrote consisted of a length of cord from a window sash, affixed to two four-inch lengths of wood, both of which had been surreptitiously removed from one of the custodian’s brooms.

Urine sprayed left and right as 47 pulled the handles in opposite directions, and the two of them performed a slow pirouette as the struggle continued. They turned toward the long row of sinks on the other side of the room. Suddenly the attacker could see both himself and his victim in the big wall mirror. Because the boys were identical in appearance, it appeared as though 47 were strangling himself. At that moment, he knew why 6 liked to brutalize people. It was all about control. He discovered how addictive such power could be as 6 made gargling noises and attempted to stomp 47’s bare toes.

Then the bully’s eyes began to bulge, his lips turned blue, and a long, drawn-out, farting sound was heard as he soiled himself. That was when 47 expected to feel a sense of regret. But there was nothing other than a feeling of satisfaction as all life departed the other youngster’s body.

Number 47 wanted to release the garrote at that point, not out of a sense of revulsion, but to speed his escape. Especially since some other boy could enter the lavatory at any time and discover the grisly scene. But 47 knew that the only thing worse than a dead enemy was one who came back to life, filled with a burning desire for revenge. So in spite of the stench, the young assassin continued to pull the wooden handles in opposite directions, and counted to sixty.

Finally, confident that Number 6 was truly dead, 47 let go.

Then, in keeping with a boyish impulse to send a message to his clone brothers, he wrestled 6 into one of the stalls. The body was limp-a dead weight-so it was difficult to push the head into a toilet and make sure it remained there. But that’s what the newly minted killer was determined to do.

Finally that chore was accomplished, and it was time to return to the dorm. There he gathered up two pairs of socks, plus his boots, and a heavily loaded daypack. After having taken one last look around, Number 47 slipped out of the room.

A flight of stairs led down into the front hall, where Mrs. Dorvak was asleep behind the big desk, her head back, hands clasped over her protuberant belly. Number 47 smiled thinly as he tiptoed past. Maybe, if everything went especially well, Lazlow would fire the old cow for sleeping on duty!

Once in the hall beyond, he had to pause and pull on socks and boots before following a corridor to the side entrance. The much-abused door normally produced a horrible screeching sound whenever someone went to open it. But thanks to the grease lavished on its hinges the previous day, the door opened silently, and a blast of frigid air invaded the hallway.

But that was the easy part, 47 knew, because the real threat was patrolling the grounds outside, and his name was Bruno. The exact nature of the dog’s ancestry was unknown, although he was huge and resembled a mastiff. A bad-tempered mastiff that prowled the asylum’s grounds at night to keep intruders out, and to keep the boys in. Which Bruno managed to do with great efficiency. As far as 47 could remember, there had been only one escape attempt. It had concluded in a cacophony of horrible screams followed by a brief memorial service two days later.

So 47 had reason to be frightened as he left the protection of the asylum building and made straight for the pump house. That was where he had stashed a bow he had stolen from the gym-along with a single steel-tipped arrow. Dry snowflakes fell all around him, the air was bitterly cold, and his boots made a crunching sound as the ice-crusted snow gave under his weight.

Had Bruno heard him? Or caught his scent? There was no way to know, because everyone knew that Bruno’s hunts were silent, until his jaws closed on something, and it began to squeal.

Of course, since he didn’t want to attract any attention, that was good—or it could be, provided that 47 was able to pull the weapon out from under the pump house in one smooth motion, string the bow with cold fingers, bring the modified target arrow up into the proper position, pull the string all the way back, and let loose before Bruno could close with him.

After what seemed like hours of crossing the open ground, 47 skidded to a halt, fell to his knees in the snow, and stuck his right hand in under the dimly lit pump house. There was a brief moment of joy as his cold fingers closed around the arrow, but it was quickly followed by a sense of despair as he felt for the bow, and realized that it wasn’t there! Most likely the groundskeeper or a maintenance worker had come across the weapon while performing some chore, missed the arrow during the process, and returned the bow to the sports equipment room.