Chapter 8
Damian was alone in the darkened training arena of the Agency, his exercise clothes soaked with sweat as he practiced kicks, punches, and knife strikes on a humanistic dummy. The sensors in it announced the damage he inflicted, a crisp, female voice echoing alongside his grunts and breaths.
Kick. “Shattered ribs, lacerated liver . . .”
Punch. “Severe head trauma, unconsciousness . . .”
He drew a knife and stabbed it into the back of the dummy. “Spine severed, paralysis from the shoulders down.”
From his nearby training bag came the electronic beeping of a phone call. Damian paused in his attack, walking over to retrieve the device and breathing hard as he answered, “Yes?”
“Your next assignment is ready,” said a male Administrator. “In recognition of your recent success, you’ve been tasked with a matter of great importance to the Agency and the Party itself. Activate speaker for projection.”
Damian put the phone on speaker, setting in on the table as a small hologram was projected from it. A photo of a grey-haired man with a goatee emerged, and the Administrator said, “Your target is Tomas Richta, the ambassador from the United Germanic States, who will be visiting London in a week.”
Damian said nothing. He recognized the name and knew enough of Richta’s politics not to wonder why the man had become a target. The Germanic States had fought against Britain in the Third World War, and Richta had long made baseless accusations regarding the Libertas Party. Just last week Damian had seen the man on the news railing against the British Prime Minister, throwing around terms like ‘war criminal.’
Truly, the only remarkable thing was that the ambassador hadn’t been assassinated earlier.
The voice of the Administrator went on, “Richta will meet with officials at the Party headquarters and then walk to a nearby courtyard for a photo-op.” Three-dimensional models of several buildings replaced the photo, with a small group of animated people walking between them. One was highlighted in red, glowing faintly as the voice said, “He needs to be handled while he’s standing alongside the Party escorts. They may be wounded, but not seriously.”
“It will be difficult,” Damian observed, moving to get a better angle of the projection.
“That is why we selected you for this assignment. Your Agent holds top marks in sniping.”
“I’ll need communication to the Party members.”
“Acceptable.”
“Liane wants the new Arctic Warfare rifle as well; I’ll need to expedite that request.”
The Administrator gave an annoyed sigh, but said, “Acceptable. We will deliver it as well as the details to your office.”
The projection flickered, and then vanished completely as the call ended. Damian turned back towards the dummy, realizing that he was still holding the practice knife in his hand. Flipping it to grip the blade, he hurled it at the dummy. The knife slammed into the dummy directly between the eyes, the force of it so great that the figure toppled heavily to the ground.
Damian stood still for a moment, the corded muscles in his arms tensed as he fought to regain the iron control he’d always possessed. Soon; soon he would be the one handing down orders, and not taking them. Just a little bit longer . . . He rotated his head, willing the tension out of his shoulders. Then he turned, picked up his bag, and headed out to tell Liane of their next task.
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After much debate amongst assistants and PR managers, the photo-op between Richta and the Party members was scheduled for noon following an overly cordial round of morning meetings and before a luncheon at a local banquet hall. The media, always eager for something to fill in the twenty-four-hour news cycle, followed the short procession of Richta and the Party members from the moment they left the headquarters. The reporters shouted out questions and shoved microphones towards the group, who tended to simply smile benignly and give short answers. Spectators, happy for a distraction, followed as well from behind the police escort. Amongst them was Damian, his dark eyes following Richta. When they were within a block of the photo-op location, he put in his ear-piece and dialed Liane.
Atop the apartment building opposite the photo-op, Liane tapped a finger against her earpiece and said, “I’m in position.”
“Good,” said Damian, drifting with the crowd. “We’re on our way now. How are conditions?”
“It’s windy, but it shouldn’t be a problem,” Liane said, stretching out across the cement roof near the tripod that held her rifle. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she slid her arms into position around the gun and looked through the scope. The clear sight of the photo-op platform came into view. It was strewn with hothouse flowers in red and white, providing a perfect target for her. Liane shifted without looking away from the scope, trying to get as comfortable as possible. The black body-armor didn’t make it easy. She had done plenty of sniping missions, enough to know that the slightest discomfort would increase exponentially within minutes. Inside her leather gloves, her palms had begun to sweat in anticipation.
She could see the crowd now and scanned it through the scope until she spotted Damian. He glanced up at her, and then made his way to a side-street from where he intended to oversee the mission. Liane focused her aim on Richta, tightening the butt of the gun against her shoulder as the politician climbed the steps to the platform.
On the ground, Damian stood pretending to browse on his phone as he asked, “How is the positioning?”
“I need the Senior Cabinet member to take a step to his left,” she murmured.
Damian switched channels on his com, ordering, “A step to your left.”
On stage, Cabinet Member Rothschild adjusted his stance slightly, his bright smile at the crowd never faltering.
Liane’s view to Richta was now unobstructed. She settled into her grip, carefully lining up the shot. But before she was ready to fire, Richta began gesturing out to someone in the crowd, motioning for a pretty woman in a powder blue suit to join him. The woman laughed and obliged, walking up to stand just behind her husband. The cameras clicked away, the media loving every moment of it.
Liane looked through her scope once more. Her shot was still there; the woman was standing just far enough that she wasn’t in the way, nor in danger of the bullet passing through her. But Liane hesitated. She kept seeing the faces of the murder victims’ families, hearing their tears as they’d spoken of their dead loved ones. If she pulled the trigger, Richta’s wife would be doing the same, and it would all be because of Liane.
“Do you have the shot?” Damian asked, his voice hard now that the moment had arrived.
“Yes,” Liane said softly.
He turned away from the square, beginning to walk towards his car. “Then take it.”
She looked out from behind the scope, then back again, before saying haltingly, “His wife is right beside him . . . she’ll see everything . . .”
“That’s not your concern,” he said, pulling his coat closed against the wind. “Take the shot.”
“I don’t . . .” Liane took a breath, then blurted out, “I don’t want to.”
Down in the alley, Damian’s stride slowed and then stopped. He had reached his waiting car, ducking into the driver’s seat and closing the door. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and venomous, as if he wanted to shout but was fighting not to. “I don’t care what you want. You’re under orders; we both are.”
“I don’t want to,” Liane repeated desperately, though she still kept a tight grip on the rifle as she looked through the scope.
Damian’s voice rose as he rapped out, “If you don’t do it, then we’re both terminated. Now unless you want to die instead of him, take the goddamn shot!”
Down on the podium, Richta’s wife flinched as several drops of liquid hit her face. She brushed them away in irritation, worried for her makeup in the rain. Then she saw that her fingers were smeared with red. She turned, her mouth open in horror, as her husband toppled forward to the ground with the back of his head a mess of blood and matter. Her hands froze into claws on either side of her face, and she began to scream.
Liane turned away from the pandemonium, unable to stand the sound of the screams. She quickly stowed her rifle in the open carry case, then tossed the strap across her body. She was down through the elevator shaft just as quickly, and out on the street in a matter of minutes, her trench coat tied tightly to hide her armor. People were running towards the sound of screams, and police cars with wailing sirens raced past her. Few took a second glance at the blonde girl, and those that did only wondered what had happened to so upset her.
She reached the nearest safe-room, an underground chamber concealed within the foundation of an office building. The door opened at her touch, revealing a short flight of stairs that led to a low, sound-proofed room. In it stood a few tables alongside weapon racks and lockers; her civilian clothes were waiting for her in one of them. Liane walked mechanically into the room, her rifle case thrown to the floor before she collapsed on a bench in front of her locker. She sat staring blankly at the floor, wondering why; why she hadn’t argued more with Damian, why she had simply done as she was told, and why the screams of Richta’s wife were still haunting her.
The door at the top of the stairs banged open, and Damian all but raced down them. She only had time to look up before he was on her, fists clenched in her coat as he jerked her to her feet and snarled into her face, “What the hell was that?”
“I didn’t want to shoot him,” she said, feeling a tremor of worry in the face of Damian’s anger.
“That’s what you do!” he shouted, enraged, “You kill the people I tell you to—that’s what we are, and you’ve known that since the beginning!” He seemed to remember the cameras then and shoved her away before reaching for his phone. She stood stock still as he dialed and ordered, “Handler override on safe-room 554 surveillance. Directive zero-zero-charlie-twelve.”
Around the room, the power indicators of the cameras went dark. Damian waited for a moment, then turned back to her. He was still clearly furious, but there was worry in his voice as he said, “The Administrators can pull the log of our communication, Liane. Do you know what will happen if they find out you nearly disobeyed an order?”
Liane stayed still, her pale hair obscuring her face as she stared at the floor.
Damian moved closer, relentless. “Re-education, at best. At worse, they’ll mind-wipe you and then re-educate you. If they mark your file for that, even I won’t be able to stop them. If you hadn’t completed the assignment . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head at the thought as the muscle in his jaw tightened.
Very softly, Liane said, “I don’t want to hurt people anymore.”
Bewilderment filled his eyes. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve never hesitated following orders before, not once in ten years.”
Liane didn’t want to look at him, ducking her head. She could think of nothing to say, no line of reason that wouldn’t betray both Seth and herself.
Damian watched her for a moment, then reached out and brushed the hair away from her face, gaze softening as he said, “Just a few more weeks, Liane, and we’ll plan missions; we won’t execute them.”
Liane raised her eyes to his, whispering, “Why do we do this? Why are we doing nothing but what they tell us?”
He moved closer, saying, “Because the Party controls everything. Every aspect of government, every official, every part of this country. All of us, every single one, does what it tells us to do. You know that.”
She turned away from him, pulling off her coat and starting to remove her body armor piece by piece. Damian’s voice was sharp as he demanded, “This isn’t coming from you, is it? Someone else put these thoughts in your head.”
“I can think for myself,” Liane retorted, ripping off her chest armor and tossing it onto the floor.
Damian’s hand clamped on her arm, turning her and shoving her back against the lockers. She stood rigid, glaring at him as he warned, “Even if you don’t tell me, I’ll find out anyway.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Really?” Damian leaned in closer, dark eyes narrowed as he scrutinized her face. “So this sudden change of heart isn’t due to a distraction?”
“No,” she said, defiant.
“I hope not.” He stood there for a moment longer, then stepped back with one last look of warning at her. “I have to reactivate the cameras in a few seconds. Is there anything else you want to say before I do?”
Liane lifted her head, saying with quiet certainty, “I don’t think we’re making this world a better place by killing people. And if what we do isn’t making this world better, then what’s the point?”
Damian looked at her silently for a moment, then answered, “There’s more danger to be found in chaos than in the most corrupt government. Maybe Libertas isn’t perfect; maybe it’s wrong, even. It’s still better than nothing.”
He raised his phone again, giving the command override. The cameras flared to life, tracking across the room and capturing Damian as he walked to the stairs, saying, “Debrief tomorrow at eleven. Use the time until then to get your head back where it needs to be.”
He left, shutting the door behind him. Liane stood for a moment, still half-dressed in her armor. Mechanically, she changed into her civilian clothes. She picked up the case that held her new rifle, making it a few steps to the stairs before she appeared to change her mind. Carrying the case over to the nearest table, she unzipped it and stood looking down at Tomas Richta’s murder weapon . . .
When the Supporter arrived later that day to perform his regular sweep of the room, he found something strange. On the table nearest the staircase was a sniper rifle that looked like it had been snapped in half before being bent into a series of impossible shapes. Unable to do anything to salvage it, the Supporter threw the pieces in a trash bag before carting it off for incineration.
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The officers of the Genetic Modification Task Force played their regular pick-up game of basketball after the evening shift. Seth stayed until the end, needing an outlet for his extra energy. He also needed to get out of his flat; he found that he was making excuses to stay inside, waiting for Liane to show up. But he hadn’t heard from her for days, and as he walked back through the rubbish-strewn streets of Shoreditch, he was merely content to have made a few good shots in the game.
Once inside the flat he grabbed a beer from the fridge, carrying it into the shower with him. He stayed there until his hot water ran out, then walked out in nothing but a towel. He pulled open his shirt drawer before he noticed the dark figure sitting on the end of his bed.
Seth leaned forward against the bureau, shaking his head with a smile, “I should have known you’d come at the least opportune time. Can you turn your back, let me get dressed?”
Liane looked up at him, her narrow face grave. She didn’t even seem to register the fact that he was half-naked, but turned so that her back was to him. Seth dressed quickly, tossing the damp towel into a corner before saying, “Alright, I’m decent.”
She turned back around, tucking her knees up to her chin and wrapping her lean arms around them. Seth frowned, walking over and asking, “Are you okay?”
“Can I stay here tonight?” she asked, her voice and stare vacant.
Seth smiled slightly. “You live in Knightsbridge—your parking space is likely nicer than this. Why would you want to stay here?”
“The flat’s not really mine,” she said in that same hollow voice. “They just keyed it to my print and told me to stay there. There are cameras . . . I didn’t want to go back to that.”
Seth’s smile faded and he sat down next to her, asking in a soft voice, “Who is ‘they’?”
“I disabled the tracker in my phone,” she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him. “They’ll replace it tomorrow, but I should be able to get away with a night off the grid.”
Seth frowned, and felt gooseflesh rise on his bare arms. “Liane, tell me what’s going on. You’re freaking me out.”
Liane neither answered nor looked at him. For the first time, Seth realized how small she was. It was easy to forget when she was facing down criminals and leaping out of windows, but at the moment she just looked like a young girl. A girl who was dealing with a hopelessness far larger than herself. She ducked her head even more, mumbling, “I don’t want to do it anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Hurt people,” she said, finally looking over at him. “Kill people.”
Seth inhaled sharply. So now he knew; now the suspicions he’d had were proven right. He did his best to keep his voice calm as he asked, “Who makes you hurt people, Liane?”
She shook her head. “They’d kill you if I told you. Damian would put a bullet between your eyes if he even knew I was here.” Looking away, she said miserably, “They’re never going to let me stop.”
Seth went quiet, then asked, “Would you ever hurt me, Liane?”
She turned her head sharply, the pain in her eyes reassuring him more than her declaration of, “No. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had . . .”
He nodded, then stood and walked to the bureau. Her eyes followed him as he returned with an armful of linen, saying, “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Liane straightened, looking at him with an expression of faint confusion. Seth smiled, explaining, “Of course you can stay. You can stay as long as you want.”
He busied himself with clearing the couch and making it up, while Liane mechanically went to brush her teeth. She removed her boots and jacket, staying in her pants and tank top before crawling into Seth’s bed. It smelled strange, different from the bleached white linen in her flat. But she lay down and drew up the sheets, curling up as if the threadbare cotton could shield her from the rest of the world.
Seth turned off the lights soon after, the loft going dark save for the glow of the streetlamps outside. Liane raised her head from the pillows, looking over at the lump under the blankets on the couch. Her voice was soft, tentative, as she asked, “Aren’t you afraid of what might happen to you?”
Seth gave a small, sleepy, “No, I’m not.”
Liane settled back down, thinking to herself, Maybe you should be . . .