Chapter 3
Diane struck the pad with the back of her fist, ducking as the trainer behind her swung another pad at her head. Sweat was dripping down her face, soaking the shirt that clung to her back. Another trainer jabbed at her midsection with a trick knife; she dodged the blade, grasping the trainer’s wrist and twisting hard enough that he had to drop the weapon. That was the most difficult part, to neutralize the trainers without harming any of them.
The Handlers around the edges of the practice ring were cheering on the fight, several nudging one another and pointing out her technique or accuracy. Only Damian was silent, his critical eyes following her as she threw the last trainer out of her way. Reaching the table at the other side of the ring, Liane seized the training gun from its holster and fired twelve times in as many seconds. A buzzer went off, and the trainers all sagged with relief, their padding and clothes dotted with blue paint from the mock bullets.
“Four minutes and three seconds,” Damian noted, joining her inside the ring. “You shaved off five seconds from your record time.” He handed her a bottle of water, nodding as he said, “Well done.”
Liane smiled slightly, taking a sip from the bottle and using another handful to cool down her face. Never mind that they hadn’t spoken since their last argument after the opera; it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Damian was never generous with praise, so she savored even this small compliment.
“Your girl isn’t bad, Damian,” called out another Handler as they left the ring. The Agent at his back was an empty-eyed bruiser, all defined muscle and towering height. There was a challenge in the Handler’s eyes as he suggested, “Why not have her face mine next? I’ll give you good odds.”
Damian looked at the man coldly. “I don’t bet with Liane. Excuse us . . .”
The other Handler flushed, scowling at the snub, as Damian led Liane away from the practice ring. She glanced up at him, noting, “I’ve seen that Agent spar. You should have let me fight him. I could have broken a few ribs, at least. Sent a message.”
“I have nothing to prove to them,” he said with a shake of his head. “Besides, we’re late for your blood work.”
They headed away from the practice arena, but not before Liane glanced at the ranking wall, where a screen listed the mission success of each and every team. She and Damian were listed at the very top, as they had been for years. Satisfied, she shouldered her bag and followed after her Handler.
He led the way, winding through the series of corridors past a variety of Agency offices and laboratories. Their destination was the medic bay, a large, open room filled with curtained partitions. Liane headed automatically to one of the evaluation areas, and Damian called out for a medic as she lay back on the white paper-covered gurney.
A chipper young female medic walked in, wearing a white coat and an equally bright smile. “And how are we today, Liane?”
Liane remained silent and unsmiling as she extended her arm. Damian shot her a look, one that meant, Be pleasant.
“Fine,” Liane answered at last, admitting, “A little hungry.”
“Well, let’s get that blood drawn and get you to the canteen,” beamed the medic, wrapping a rubber cord around Liane’s upper arm. In moments she had filled several vials with blood, and then motioned for Liane to sit up.
One of the vials went into the machine next to the bed, which whirred for a few seconds. On the screen above, the analysis appeared in thin blue script. Damian went over to it, silently reading over the statistics alongside the medic.
“Everything looks very good,” said the woman, unlocking a drawer in the wall and drawing out a fresh needle and a squat vial filled with clear liquid. “We’ll just give you some B12 for now.”
“I thought the numbers were in the correct range,” Liane noted, looking to Damian.
“Low end of normal,” Damian said, eyes drifting away from the screen and back to her. “Go ahead.”
The medic nodded, slipping the needle into the muscle of Liane’s shoulder. A burning sensation spread through her as the plunger depressed, but it only lasted a moment before the medic removed the needle with a cheery smile. “All set. I’ll have the numbers sent up to the canteen so the nutrition can be in line with your panel.”
Liane nodded, rubbing her shoulder as the burning faded. Damian gestured, and she fell in step with him as they walked from the medic center.
“You’ll have some downtime for the next few weeks,” Damian said as they walked, keeping his voice low despite the hum of conversation around them. “Some idiots over at the news centers have lit upon the disappearances and deaths within the city. We’ll need to scale back our efforts.”
“I can do surveillance,” she suggested.
“Our tech Supporters are on that already.” He glanced over at her, eyes softening. “Besides, you’ve earned some time off. Use the weeks to rest, train, and research. Practice your Russian; it’s terrible.”
“Po’shyol ‘na hui,” Liane retorted. A rueful smile escaped Damian, and she rolled her sore shoulder in irritation. “I don’t like being useless.”
They had reached the canteen, but Damian paused outside of it. Turning to her, he said, “If you want, I can make time in my schedule for you.”
“To what purpose?”
Damian shrugged. “You said that you wanted a friend. Perhaps if I was more of one to you, you wouldn’t need to look outside the Agency.”
Liane searched his face, asking with hesitancy, “What would we do?”
He smiled faintly. “Go for a run . . . have lunch . . . attend an exhibition or two . . . Whatever we want. It’s a rare opportunity to have a chance to spend time together. We should take advantage of it.”
Still doubtful, Liane asked, “Would you truly want to?”
He looked surprised. “Of course. Apart from each other, who else do we have?”
She finally nodded, admitting, “I’d rather be with you than be alone for weeks on end.”
Damian gave a short laugh. “Your compliments could use some work. Alright, then. I’ll call you soon.”
He walked past her, heading towards the offices of the Administrators. Liane watched him go, then turned and headed into the pristine, stainless steel canteen. The kitchen Supporter scanned her arm, frowning at the screen for a moment and then quickly assembling a tray of carefully weighed portions for her. Liane took it without question, going to one of the small tables. They only sat two apiece, so that Handlers could sit and eat with their Agents. Liane had seen pictures of large tables, ones where families happily ate together. She wondered, as she pulled the plastic wrap from her portion of chicken and brown rice, what that must feel like. She had no memory of her parents, and meals at the orphanage had been eaten in silence and wherever one could find room on the floor.
She remembered the day that the Agency recruiters had come for her, however.
A woman in a dark suit had visited, watching through mirrored glasses as the children ran around the desolate asphalt lot beside the orphanage. Liane remembered how the woman’s head had turned, following her as she’d run and jumped with the others. Liane had been called to the headmistress’s office soon after, though she’d answered to another name at that time. Inside the office, more men and women in suits were waiting. A medic had drawn her blood; it had hurt, but she had grown used to hiding pain. After running the vials through a scanner, they seemed impressed with the findings and began to ask her questions and gave her logic puzzles to solve. Liane had enjoyed that, and her heart had nearly skipped a beat when the woman in the mirrored glasses smiled and said, “We’ll take her.”
The car ride had been exhilarating; she had never been inside of one. She had stroked the smooth leather upholstery and unbroken glass windows in wonderment. When one of the women offered her a glass of juice, Liane had been so excited that she drank the entirety in one gulp. After that things grew fuzzy, and the last thing she remembered was her eyes closing on their own.
She woke up in a bed in a white room. Her skin and hair felt clean and cold, and the scent of alcohol lingered around several bandaged needle-marks on her arms. She sat up, looking down at her white pajamas, confused but not afraid. Then the door had opened, revealing a tall, grave-looking young man with dark hair and dark eyes. She stared up at him, slightly dazed; next to the half-starved adults who ran the orphanage, he looked almost inhumanly perfect. She felt small, ugly, and insignificant next to him, but his eyes held nothing but interest as he stepped towards her.
“Liane, I’m Damian,” he said as the door closed automatically behind him. “I’m your Handler.”
Light-headed, she said, “That’s not my name.”
“It is now.” He came over and sat next to her on the bed, looking steadily at her as he went on, “You’ve been recruited into the Program. You’ll be trained by the instructors here, and by me. If you successfully complete your training, you’ll become an Agent.”
“Is that what you are?”
“It’s what I was, until recently,” he said, hesitating slightly as he admitted, “I was made a Handler a month ago. You’re my first assignment.”
She had realized, then, that underneath the impassive face and clipped words, he was nervous as well. She looked around the room. The walls were perfectly smooth and inescapable, and there was no handle on the inside of the door. It was clear that the only way out lay with the young man in front of her. She sat up a little straighter, asking, “What do Agents do?”
“Protect this country from those who would harm it,” Damian answered. “Sometimes that means hurting bad people.”
Her voice went hard. “Most people are bad.”
“Not all. I’m not.” He slid an inch closer to her, saying frankly, “Training here won’t be easy. You’ll follow orders even if it means pain, and there will be consequences if you fail to meet our expectations. But you’ll also learn to do extraordinary things, become exceptional. I can help you do that, Liane.”
Her small mouth clenched, and she said childishly, “I don’t trust you.”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “Honesty is one of the basic tenets between a Handler and Agent; it’s intrinsic to how we work.”
She shook her head, feeling muddled by his words. “I don’t understand.”
“Understand that I will never lie to you.”
She watched him, wary, then asked, “If I don’t want to be an Agent . . . then could I go home?”
Damian regarded her for a moment, then said, “Your intelligence tests were impressive. Consider what you would be going back to.”
She thought about the orphanage then, the cold nights when she’d shivered under thin blankets, fought for scraps with the other children. No one had ever loved her there, or even given her a second glance. They’d certainly never looked at her like Damian was now; with consideration, with care.
She pondered it all for a moment, and he didn’t try to interrupt. Finally she raised her irregular eyes to his and asked, “Will you be with me while I train?”
Damian nodded, and gave her the first smile he’d allowed himself since entering the room. “Every step of the way.”
She drew in a breath, then nodded. “Alright. Then I’ll be Liane . . .”
“. . . Liane?”
Back in the canteen, Liane looked up, jolted back to reality. One of the tech Supporters was standing next to her table, and he was holding a new phone out to her. As she took it, the tech explained, “Start using this one today. Return the old one the next time you’re here.”
The tech was already turning away and didn’t hear her murmur of thanks. Liane set the phone on the table with a sigh, turning back to her cooling meal and trying to keep her thoughts on the present.
|| | || | | || |
Damian moved through the darkened office, sitting in the black, high-backed chair and turning on the monitors of the computer. Five screens glowed a faint green, then sharpened to reveal the programs he’d left open. Police databases, news feeds, and government dailies . . . Some Handlers used their downtime to get drunk, or find willing, anonymous partners for sex.
Damian liked to work.
The recent murders caught his attention fairly quickly. The media had moved on from the deaths of politicians. Now the story flashing across the feeds were the disappearance of at least ten people. Not particularly interesting in itself, except for the fact that all ten were suspected of being mods.
Damian’s fingers flew over the keyboard, expertly maneuvering around the firewall that protected the files of the police. He was unsurprised to find out that bodies had actually been found. The missing, or parts of them, at least, had been found in no particular pattern. One was unearthed in a dustbin, the other in Hyde Park, the next floating in the Thames. Troubling, but not enough for worry for either civilians or Liane. She was more than capable of defending herself. Damian leaned back in his chair, a small smile curving his lips. He’d seen her go up against experienced thugs over twice her weight and dispatch them easily. It would be an entertaining diversion to set her against a serial killer.
But not yet. Ten was nothing, and they were supposed to be resting.
He moved his hand over the keyboard, and the programs diminished to reveal the feed from Liane’s flat. Each room flashed by at his command, all of them empty. He drew up another program, and a grid of the city streets appeared. A green dot was drifting down one of the streets, moving steady along her usual route from the Agency to her home. He looked at it for a moment, then moved on to a museum website. An exhibition of weapons, a private collection, was opening the week after next. Damian nodded to himself, knowing she would like that, and then picked up the phone to order tickets.
|| | || | | || |
The first thing Liane did after returning to her flat was to take a long, hot shower, letting water pound against her shoulder in an attempt to chase away the lingering pain from the injection. As she walked into the living room, her hair still damp on her neck, she rotated her shoulder. Still sore. She would work it that evening until the ache faded.
The housekeeper had been there. The white and black flat was spotless, and within the fridge were her meals for the week, carefully wrapped in plastic. Liane stood looking down at the trays distastefully, then turned to the television and said, “Screen on.”
The screen flared to life, revealing another coiffed newscaster smiling as he said, “Police have recently made a number of arrests for modding abuse. The suspects were arrested in the ruins of Old London and could face up to ten years in prison for drug abuse. Prosecutors alluded to the potential for suspects to also be charged with distribution of mod serum, an offense that carries the death penalty.”
Liane leaned against the kitchen island, watching as the screen switched to a lawyer in an expensive suit who was saying angrily, “This is another disgusting example of how the Prime Minister’s war on mods is misusing manpower both within our police departments and in our courts. These are upstanding citizens who have never harmed anyone. The time has come to accept that individuals with genetic modification deserve acceptance, not prosecution.”
The image switched again, this time to footage of five or six handcuffed men and women being pulled from police cars. The suspected mods were covering their faces, while the police shoved aside cameras and reporters to reach the headquarters. Liane didn’t recognize any of the mods, nor, she realized with disappointment, any of the officers.
It was the first Cardinal Rule of the Agency; no contact with civilians. But the rule said nothing about keeping an eye on them. With that thought in mind, Liane went to the hall closet, opened up the hidden panel in the wall, and pulled out a surveillance kit.
|| | || | | || |
Seth proved laughably easy to follow. He lived in a rambling, crumbling loft in Shoreditch above a coffee shop, where he stopped every day before heading out on his shift. He walked almost everywhere, which made it easy for Liane to track him. She wished he were taller, as his average height and slim build made him difficult to pick out in a crowd. But following on foot was a challenge, since he seemed hyper-aware of everyone around him. He was forever stopping and greeting neighbors, welcoming faces that he didn’t recognize. So Liane stayed to the rooftops, using binoculars to silently shadow him.
Most days he spent at work, passing long hours in a basement desk with the rest of the Genetic Modification Task Force. At least he seemed to be enjoying himself. Whether he was filling out paperwork or eating cheap street food with his fellow officers, she usually found him laughing and joking. He didn’t seem to care that he was working in the lowest ranked police station, or that the press regularly derided the Task Force as a useless gesture from the Prime Minister meant to silence political critics. It was inexplicable to Liane how content he seemed with mediocrity. It made her think back to the only time she had failed on a mission.
The mission had gone bad from the start, then went completely wrong when she lost her target in a labyrinthine slum. When she regrouped with the other Agents she could see it in their eyes: the disappointment, the disgust with her failure. She had gone back to her flat sick with shame, ready to put a gun in her mouth. The only reason she hadn’t was that Damian had been waiting there for her and had managed to sedate her before she could draw her weapon.
Afterwards, as she laid in his arms slowly drifting into unconsciousness, was the only time in her life that Liane had cried.
So seeing Seth go happily about his life, which was so unremarkable, made no sense to her. She waited until he was assigned the graveyard shift, and then broke into his flat to seek the answer to it all. He left his windows open, which made it easy for her to scale the walls from the roof down to the ledge and slip inside.
Liane had never been inside a civilian home before that didn’t belong to a target, and stood for a moment taking it in. The loft was a wreck. Dirty dishes filled the sink, the couch was piled with laundry, and half-empty glasses dotted nearly every surface. But there were photos on the wall, and Liane stepped through the mess to better see them. Most showed Seth with a man and woman who resembled him, but there were also others . . . him with friends, with dogs . . . at a lake . . . making faces with teammates . . . One of the largest showed Seth in his uniform, beaming at a captain as he accepted his badge. The photographs memorized, Liane finally turned away and went to the computer station.
It seemed that this was how Seth spent his money, for the arrangements of screens and the panel touch board was all top of the line. Liane brought it out of sleep mode, browsing through files for a few minutes before pulling up his search history. She realized, with faint shock, that he had been looking for her. He had tried every spelling variant of her first name through the databases, had even viewed the security feeds at the Royal Opera and the surrounding streets in an attempt to get a still of her face to run through a recognition program.
“Oh, you idiot,” she whispered under her breath. “Why not just draw the Agency a map to your door?”
Her gloved fingers moved over the smooth, illuminated keyboard, and in a matter of minutes she had erased his searches for her. Someone like Damian or a tech would be able to find the thread through the net, but only if they were already looking for it. Standing, she drew out a small, silver case from her coat pocket. Inside were minute listening devices smaller than a fingertip. She placed several around the flat, then secured one to every coat in Seth’s closet. Satisfied, she returned to the window and left the same way that she had come.
|| | || | | || |
All Agents had a routine when not on missions. For Liane, it always started with a morning run. Afterwards she would go to educational sessions in the Agency, mostly focusing on weapons, tech, and languages. The afternoon was for training and physical testing, and by six she would be free to do what she wanted. Usually that consisted of riding her cycle through the city and reading in her flat. That was why Liane preferred missions; better the danger and variety of those rather than the monotony of downtime.
The morning after she’d rigged Seth’s apartment, Liane put on her running clothes and headed down to the ground floor. When she spotted Damian waiting in the lobby, she felt a momentary rush of panic that her trespasses had been discovered. But then she noticed that he was smiling and dressed in running clothes as well.
“I thought I might join you today,” he said, falling in step with her as they headed out into the city. “You set the pace.”
“Where do you want to go?” Liane asked, still surprised that he was there.
Damian put on his smog-filtering sunglasses, saying, “Anywhere you want. And don’t worry about outstripping me; I’ll keep up.”
Liane nodded, and set them out at a steady pace. To anyone else it would have looked like the two were sprinting, but to Liane it was no more strenuous than walking. Liane took them towards the river, running alongside the polluted, oil-slicked water of the Thames. There were signs along the crumbling walls, proclaiming that the Libertas Party was dedicated to restoring London to its full glory. Liane ignored the pedestrians and cars that they passed, but she did sneak glances over at Damian. It was strange to have someone else with her, but after several minutes Liane found that she liked the company.
They had reached kilometer five when Damian gestured, saying, “You can see the Agency from here.”
Liane looked across the river at the skyscraper, noting, “And the Libertas Headquarters behind it.”
Damian gave a dry smile. “It wouldn’t do to have us too far away from our masters, would it?”
“I heard that the Agency Director has been at odds with the Prime Minister,” Liane noted. “Is that true?”
“Powerful people rarely get along with one another,” Damian said with a short laugh. “By the end of the year, we might answer to a new Director.”
“Will that affect us?” Liane asked.
“Potentially.” When he caught her frown, he said, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you. You trust me to do that, don’t you?”
Liane nodded, not wanting to voice the worries crowding her mind.
They crossed the river soon after, heading for another six kilometers back to Liane’s building. While Damian was sweating and breathing hard when they finally slowed to a walk, Liane was completely unaffected by the run. Damian shook his head, saying, “Sometimes I wouldn’t mind having your advancements. Don’t misunderstand, I’m happy with my own, but yours . . .”
He trailed off, shaking his head in silent admiration. Liane glanced at a passing jogger on the other side of the seat, asking quietly, “What do you think it feels like?”
Damian tilted his head, wordlessly inviting explanation.
Somewhat longingly, she clarified, “Being normal.”
Shrugging, Damian answered, “I wouldn’t know. Nor would anyone else in the Agency.”
“It must be nice,” she went on, her mismatched eyes on the pedestrians, “Knowing that everyone else is like you, not having to hide . . .”
“Perhaps before genetic modifications were a possibility,” Damian said dismissively. “But now . . . I imagine they just feel like sheep amongst wolves.”
Disquieted, Liane asked, “What made you come with me today?”
“That’s what I promised, wasn’t it? To be a better friend to you.” He took off his mirrored glasses, observing, “Besides, you’re not the only one who gets lonely, Liane.”
Liane tried to conceal her surprise; she had never considered Damian capable of feeling loneliness. It seemed too weak of an emotion for him. She scanned her print, and the door to her building opened. She paused, saying, “Thank you for keeping your promise.”
He gave her a small smile, then said, “I got tickets to the weapon exhibition at the Kensington Center. Do you want to go?”
“Is that an order?”
“No,” he said quietly, “It’s a request, one that you can refuse if you wish.”
Liane thought for a moment, then nodded, “I’d like to see it with you.”
Damian smiled, moving away as he said, “I’ll send a car.”
|| | || | | || |
That evening, after her training exercises were complete, Liane headed back out into the city. Her cycle zipped through the busy streets, skirting traffic accidents and roadblocks until she crossed into Shoreditch. She parked her cycle in an alley, then climbed up to the roof of the building across from Seth’s. She sat on the brick ledge, her legs dangling above the ten-story drop to the street below. After accessing the surveillance program on her tablet, she put in the attached earbuds and then raised her binoculars.
The sound of laughter filled her ears, and through the binoculars she could see Seth sitting on the floor with several other people. Boxes of take-away food littered the coffee table, and candles burned around the room. Seth was laughing loudest of all, and when a knock came at the door he jumped up, welcoming five more people to the mix. Liane watched him hug them in welcome, accepting bottles of wine and ushering them inside. To her eyes the room was uncomfortably crowded with people, but none of them seemed to care.
The group made small talk, something Liane had never really grasped. They asked about mutual friends, families, and then the conversation turned to work.
“Heard you’ve been busy lately, Seth,” said a large man with a thick beard, helping himself to the chips.
“Unfortunately,” Seth said, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window. “I’ll be glad when I can get back to arresting dealers.”
One of the girls gave a shudder, rubbing a hand against her gooseflesh-covered arm. “You hear stories about serial killers, but you never think it will happen near you, you know?”
“Just don’t mod to excess,” said another girl, handing the first a glass of wine. “At least not enough that you head out to the ruins to be with those freaks. I heard the killer is one of their own, that they’re killing each other.”
The first girl didn’t look comforted. “It’s still creepy as hell.”
“Don’t worry—Seth is going to catch whoever it is,” the second said, nudging Seth as she added, “Aren’t you?”
His eyebrows rose as he gave a sigh. “I hope so.”
“You’d think with a killer on the loose you’d drink something other than this crap,” said another man, grabbing at Seth’s beer. “America ruined you.”
Seth laughed, choking as he tried to hold onto his drink. “Hey, don’t undervalue a cold, cheap beer. Now we’ve got time to kill before the concert; who wants to order pizza?”
Liane watched until they all spilled drunkenly out of the apartment an hour later. As they headed off in cabs, she quietly folded up her equipment, replacing it in her bag. They had been so . . . happy. Carefree, even in the midst of everything going on. They weren’t rich or privileged; just normal, everyday people who took pleasure in one another’s company. Seth most of all, whose natural state seemed to be one of joy.
Liane climbed down from the roof to her cycle, frowning and lost in thought. She knew, in her rational mind, that Damian was right; that in this world, it was a far better thing to be a wolf amongst sheep than the other way around. But sometimes, like tonight, she couldn’t help wishing that it didn’t have to be true.