I came to this world six months ago. I landed with another scriff induced head ache along the North/South border of Vietnam near a Viet Kong training camp. They had taken my weapons but hadn’t found me. A few hours later some Green Berets and Montagnard irregulars were moving toward it. They accidentally set off a captured claymore and had snipers bearing down on them in no time. With two wounded compatriots and no way to get out I couldn’t just sit there.



I stole some rather caustic cleaning supplies from the camp while troops were out trying to deal with the Green Berets. Mixing some them together in large stew pot, it sent off fumes into the bunker, which made up most of the compound. I lit a match and all that was left after the flash was a sink hole and twisted stumps around the blast crater. I got my weapons back.



I introduced myself as a fellow American to the astonished soldiers. I asked them not to report my assistance and back at HQ they paid my way under the table to Hong Kong.



In Hong Kong I made some quick bucks by starring in martial arts films. Bruce Lee is amazing on film, but even greater when you meet him in person. I made it to London through some mutual friends and a job as a body guard for a British business man.



London had changed much since its Roman days, but I could still find my way around some of the streets. It was there that I had that eerie some-is-watching-you feeling when a verser is around. I parted amicable with my employer and followed it until I reached the



I had self-admitted myself three days back. Let me tell you, it is very fun to be a mimic. Three days of juggling fake mental illnesses and I had them guessing left and right with no room left to write in my file. I figured I could take my time. Right about the time the Major walked in I asked for the release forms and gathered my bags, which had been sealed in boxes (luckily…because they would have put me in steel reinforced concrete room if they saw what was in there).



A slender and wiry man came marching into the lobby with a PPK service pistol and a very relieved expression. He turned and seeing his face was both a joy and something of a horror. The sunken cheeks and fierce eyes said more than wrinkles and liver spots ever could.



Those first spoken words seemed to change his whole expression to one of joy, “I’m a verser, Major.”



“Indeed he is,” I said, “I just arrived here. And I sensed one of us, and thought I would drop in for a visit. What are you doing here?”



“Just passing through. Look, guy, the Major has a problem. The Evil Empire is trying to strangle goodness and apple pie. You think we could help him?,” Eric said.



“Hey wait a minute. I still do not know you are not a Russian spy,” the Major said.



“Him, the Hammer of Tyrants? Ha, ha, ha, you gotta be joking.”



I didn’t wait around for him to get the confused look off of his face so I threw him over my shoulder and walked out the front door. Security would have stopped us by the Major was polite enough to flash his credentials and allow us to pass. Outside the grey of the London sky parted and the Sun hit the dust bitten asphalt of the warehouse district.



I was glad to leave the pale plumb linoleum floors and bay windows behind. A flustered Major (who gave us his last name of Clark) pointed toward his Land Rover and we departed.



I started off, “Major, obviously your government has been studying this for some time. Let me just give you the abbreviated version of how this tuff got here. We are transients between worlds. We are infected with a substance that doesn’t allow us to fully die. It only lets us travel to another world once we reach the point of death. We happen to collect things from world to world. We were born into a parallel earth that was ahead of yours. Let me answer your other questions ahead to time. Yes, we can show you how to use all of it. No, it won’t all work. Equipment reliability varies from world to world. Physics.” Clark gave a grunt and Eric handed him his pistol back.



We arrived at a non-descript warehouse thirty miles outside of London. There were four average looking security guards in a small booth that straddled a chain-link fence. As soon as the Land Rover pulled up the stepped out. The regularity of their steps gave them away as British Marines and flashes of machine pistols hidden from plain sight confirmed it. Eric chimed in, “Hi boys. Mind if you just pull it round back while we go eat.” Even the Marines, who were leery of Eric and I, cracked a brief smile at that one.



Inside they had the piles of Eric’s equipment set out on tables, tagged, bagged, and catalogued in large paper ledgers with schematics and drawings. They had set up an ad hoc indoor firing range with was riddled with small blast craters from Eric’s various weapons. Small digital trinkets with small entertainment value were treated like holy relics in this place. A couple of dozen technicians whispered behind us while they circled this field disjointed memorabilia.



“This way. There is something else for you to see.”, Clark said.



In a separate enclosed insulated lab sat clear-acrylic tanks with full grown white males in alcohol preservative. Before the tanks were the same type of utilitarian tables with Russian-style uniforms (no patches or tags on them) and personal effects.



“These bodies in the vats were members of a new Russian Spetsnaz unit operating out of Siberia. They killed several of our SAS and MI:6 teams in ways that shouldn’t be humanly possible. We opened them up and found their organs were more or less modified. We came across Mr. Ashley’s equipment and we wanted to know about it. We think the Russians might be far ahead in some areas.”



I had the first look at the autopsy report. The changes were subtle, but very carefully balanced. I could tell off the bat that the modifications were for pure physical boots, temperature resistance, and redundancy. Eric had a look and said, “Yeah, this isn’t Russian at all. It’s the same style of the bio-Syndicate on Tanlus 3. They loved their efficiency. What do you think David?”



“I’m with you on that. The problem being is that mods obviously haven’t been done by a master bio-sculptor which means its probably a verser. Clark…er…Major, any more info?”



“Just one name we have. The lead scientist there. He goes only by Gavin.”



My blood chilled…