Chapter 11
Deep under the skyscraper that housed the Agency, Damian walked into a tiny observation room. A team of techs were seated at the control panel, their faces illuminated green by the keyboard. The room itself was dark, the only other light source coming from the large window that looked down into a spacious chamber padded in black fabric. Damian moved to look through it, asking, “How is she doing?”
One of the techs chuckled, adjusting the controls. “Brilliant as always. Your girl’s been going for nearly six hours. She’s unstoppable.”
Another tech looked towards Damian, the green light glowing against his face as he announced, “We’re beginning the next simulation now.”
Damian said nothing, his eyes on Liane down in the chamber.
Liane stood in the center of the room. Perspiration was already darkening her hair, and her eyes were narrow and focused. The black walls shimmered slightly, and then vanished completely. It faded into a dark, dank cellar, the air around her turning stale. Liane barely had time to take it in before a shape emerged ahead, a gun raised level with her head. She ducked, the bullet striking the distant floor as she rolled to the side. She drew a simulation gun from a back holster, shooting her attacker in the chest with a blast of light. The figure disintegrated into a shower of green pixels as she turned, spotting two more gunmen running out from a distant doorway. A simulated bullet struck her shoulder, but she ignored the ferocious stinging and fired twice, dissolving the two gunmen.
Liane heard a noise behind her and fired three more times; three more assailants fell. She aimed at the fourth and the gun jammed. She tossed it aside, getting a running start and aiming a flying kick at the gunman’s head. The figure was struck to the ground and vanished in a flurry of green.
She crouched on the ground, breathing hard. As she stood, the walls shimmered and the cellar faded into the practice chamber. A door opened and Damian walked inside. Even though he wasn’t smiling, she could tell he was pleased.
“Twenty simulations beaten with only minor injuries,” he noted. “Not bad.”
Liane said nothing, focused on removing her holster. Damian watched her, observing, “You weren’t scheduled for simulation. Why the request?”
She shrugged. “Too much energy. I needed to burn it off.” It was a half-truth, at least; without Seth and the murders to occupy her mind, she’d felt adrift, full of restlessness. She’d hoped the simulations would help, but she felt no more settled now than when she’d walked into the chamber.
Damian pointed out, “You know you have hand-to-hand combat in ten minutes. Are you up for it?” Liane nodded, and he gestured to the door. “Well, then . . . no sense in waiting.”
The practice rings were crowded when they arrived. Agents and heavily padded trainers faced off against one another, shouts and grunts filling the arena. Damian joined the other Handlers at the edge of the mat, while Liane went out into the ring. One of the older Agents, the same burly blond man she’s snapped at during the Vienna mission, turned as she entered, taunting, “This area’s for the grownups.”
Liane ignored him, facing off against a trainer. The trainer started easy, allowing Liane to warm up with blocks and punches. Liane kept her eyes on the padding, putting her entire body into every strike.
The blond Agent moved past her, saying under his breath, “You too good to talk to me, bitch?”
Liane picked up the pace, the trainer forced to move fast to keep up with her. For a moment there was just the movements, and Liane could feel the blood pumping through her veins as she hit again and again . . .
A noise came from behind her, the unmistakable sound of a body turned, a fist cutting through the air towards her. Liane whirled, blocking the blond Agent’s punch and clamoring up his bent leg to clamp her thighs around his head. She threw her weight backwards, and the Agent went crashing to the floor at a twisted angle as she leapt safely away. The practice area had cleared, and Agents and Handlers were shouting around her, egging on the fight. The blond Agent was getting to his feet, face red with rage. She ran towards him, kicking him in the chest with the heels of both feet. He went flying backwards to the mats, giving her the time she needed to grasp his arm and twist it back into a submission hold. Liane looked through her disheveled hair at him, her teeth bared as she growled, “Come at me again and I’ll break your fingers off one by one.”
She twisted his wrist, snapping the joint to the side. The Agent screamed, cradling his broken wrist as she moved off of him. He lay on the floor sobbing in pain, his Handler rushing towards him. Liane looked across the room to Damian, who merely gazed back at her and smiled.
They left the arena soon after, passing the medics who were hurrying to see to the wounded Agent. Liane was still angry, her pulse thumping loudly as she walked down the corridor to the showers.
Damian stopped her before she could enter them, cautioning, “You’d best not be alone here today. The other Agents are already jealous of your rank; they won’t hesitate to pay you back for hurting one of your own.”
“He attacked me,” Liane said stubbornly.
“Nevertheless, no sense in tempting fate.” Damian looked to the distant elevators, saying, “My place is close. You can get cleaned up there.”
Liane considered arguing, but in the end decided that it was pointless. Sighing, she settled her bag on her shoulder and said, “Lead the way.”
A car carried them to one of the larger skyscrapers in the center of the city. Liane had never been to Damian’s residence before; during her training he had lived with her in the dormitories, and he had only moved into a place of his own three years previously. His flat was on the top floor, and they had to take a private elevator to reach it. As soon as the doors opened Liane walked through them, her eyes drifting with interest over the space.
The flat was far larger than hers, the floor a bronzed, polished marble and the walls almost completely black. To her right was a kitchen that looked just as untouched as hers, while ahead was a wide, open living room with high ceilings and plush, dark red carpet underfoot. Liane wandered through it, sweeping a hand over the back of the leather couch. There was very little furniture otherwise, and even fewer signs of a human presence. Other than the massive bookshelf, of course, which was filled to bursting with antique, leather-bound volumes. Across the room, an entire wall of windows stretched from floor to ceiling. Liane walked towards the sight, looking across the expanse of the city to the distant ruins.
Behind her, Damian flipped a switch and light flared to life in several chandeliers made of twisting, colorful glass. He gestured down a hallway, saying, “The bathroom is over there. I’ll get you some clean clothes.”
Liane went where he had pointed, finding a darkened bathroom. She turned on the lights, but the black walls and tile just seemed to absorb it rather than reflect it. Closing the door behind her, she let her bag fall to the floor and then leaned her hands on either side of the sink, her head falling forward.
The fight was catching up with her, both the physical aches and pains as well as the disturbing realization that another Agent wanted to do her harm. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it was the first to trouble Liane. Her thoughts strayed to Seth, to his angry accusation that maybe she belonged in the Agency.
I do, she thought ferociously. Pushing away from the sink, she headed to the large, glass-enclosed shower. She stayed under the water for longer than necessary, filling the room with steam and heat. When she emerged, there was a folded shirt and pants on the counter. Liane dried her hair before putting them on. They fit loosely, and she had to roll up the black sleeves of the shirt in order to use her hands. She noted that between the soap and the clothes, the scent of Damian almost threatened to engulf her. Taking a breath, she returned to the living room and her Handler.
Damian was standing by the windows with two wine glasses. He handed one to her, saying, “Just one glass. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”
Liane looked moodily out of the window at the city, asking, “Does it matter?”
“You know it does,” he chided. “But you deserve to enjoy your victory, small though it may be.”
“You call that a victory?” she asked, more to herself than to him. “I brought down a bully and will have to watch my back for months because of it. Where’s the victory in that?”
“You won,” Damian observed, glancing over at her approvingly. “You proved yourself the strongest yet again.”
Liane left the window to sit on the couch, her glass clutched in both hands. She stared down at it, asking with a note of desperation, “Is that what you think I should do with my life? Fight to be the strongest?”
Damian walked over, sitting down beside her and leaning back. “For now. Not always, though. One day you’ll have a new role to play.”
Liane set aside her untouched glass and drew up her legs, her arms encircling them as she asked tonelessly, “What role is that?”
He smiled to himself, as if sharing in a private joke, before saying, “I think we’ll leave that discussion for when the day arrives. Better to keep your thoughts on the present where they belong.” When Liane just sat frowning, he said insistently, “I’m going to need you, Liane. Can I count on your help when the time comes?”
“Yes, but . . .” She raised her head, turning her mismatched eyes to him. “I need to tell you that you were right; I was distracted.”
Damian’s gaze seemed to burn as he demanded, “Who is he?”
“It was something, not someone,” she said with a shake of her head. “But you don’t need to worry. It’s over now. I have my priorities in order.”
“Are you certain?”
She nodded, conviction in her voice as she answered, “Everything is going to be like it was.”
Damian didn’t seem entirely convinced, asking, “And where do you stand?”
Liane looked over at him, her face solemn. “With you. Always with you. That’s how it must be, isn’t it?”
He searched her face for a moment, then a slow, confident smile spread across his face. He moved closer, sliding a hand along her jaw and leaning forward to capture her mouth with his. Liane turned, lowering her tucked legs and grasping his head, pulling him towards her. Wanting to want him; wanting to forget. Damian made a soft noise in the back of his throat, his knee sliding between her legs as he moved even closer. Kissing her over and over, whispering things she didn’t understand. His left hand was braced on the couch arm behind her, while his right trailed down to slide under her shirt, smoothing over her stomach. Liane closed her eyes, feeling and smelling and tasting him all around her. She was drowning and she didn’t care, just so long as she could feel something . . .
Damian leaned into her, and her aching back pressed against the couch arm. She gave a soft hiss of pain against his mouth, and Damian drew back with a frown.
“Don’t stop,” she said, her breath ragged.
“You didn’t tell me you were injured,” he said, still frowning.
“Because it’s nothing.”
“Turn around,” he ordered, pulling free of her. Liane did so grudgingly, feeling him lift up her shirt and applying light pressure to where the latissimus dorsi muscle met her spine. Liane winced again, and he murmured, “I should have had you checked by the medics before we left.”
“It will be healed by morning,” she said, turning to face him and saying bluntly, “Keep kissing me.”
Damian gave a soft laugh, shaking his head. “We’re going to fix that back, and then go to dinner.”
Her face fell in frustration, and Damian leaned in, brushing a single, gentle kiss against the corner of her mouth. He stayed there, murmuring, “There’s no hurry. We’ve waited four years already. One night is hardly going to kill us.”
He made her lie face-down on the living room carpet, sitting next to her and using a miniscule needle to inject the muscle with a relaxant. He then used a hand-held tissue regenerator on it, the machine making a low hum as pulsing waves moved deeply through her muscles. The treatment made Liane drowsy and heavy, and she nearly fell asleep on the floor before Damian reminded her, “Dinner first, and then you can rest.”
Sleepily, she asked, “Alone?”
“For tonight, yes,” he said, pulling down her shirt and helping her up. His dark eyes were slightly guarded as he explained, “I have a meeting late tonight.” She had just opened her mouth to ask more when Damian added, “It’s classified, so I can’t tell you any more than that. Besides, you need time to heal properly.” He drifted away, already bringing his phone to his ear as he said, “There’s a new sushi restaurant that just opened. I’ll let the stylists know to expect us.”
Liane nodded vacantly; as if her consent mattered.
It was late by the time they arrived at the restaurant, walking past the long queue of eager patrons to skip to the front of the line. Liane wore a gown of grey that shimmered with thousands of tiny glass beads. Against the minimalist, Japanese-influenced décor, she shone like a star. Damian had dressed up as well and looked impossibly handsome in black tie. They sat by the beautiful moss garden growing in the center of the restaurant, while deferential servers brought them plate after plate of exquisite, expensive food. Liane tried to act as normal as possible. She felt she owed it to Damian, who was as cheerful and pleasant as she had ever known him to be. They spoke of books and history, and Liane did her best to choke down the food that she had always disliked.
Afterwards the car drove them both to Liane’s building. Damian walked her to her door, saying, “I’m glad you’re feeling more yourself. Whatever the distraction, you made the right decision by getting rid of it.”
Liane looked up at him, her face solemn. “I want to ask you something. Why do you think I was born this way? Do you think it was because I was meant to do something?”
Damian cocked his head. “To do what, exactly?”
“That’s what I need to know,” Liane said miserably. “That’s what I can’t answer myself.”
“Then don’t wonder,” he said. “You’re where you need to be.”
“But how do you know that?” she demanded.
“Because you’re the missing half of my soul,” he said simply, without embarrassment or hesitation. “And I’ve known for some time that as long as we’re together, nothing else matters.” Damian leaned forward, kissing her once very softly. Liane shivered, feeling as if every inch of her was blazing to life. Before he pulled away, he whispered against her skin, “I’ll see you soon.”
Through the fog of her tingling nerves Liane nodded, but he was already returning to the car.
She took the stairs up to her floor, climbing the thirteen flights slowly. Her back ached by the time she arrived in her flat, and as soon as she was inside she changed out of the gown, tossing it in a corner of her closet.
Stretching her sore muscles, she walked into her kitchen, turning on the television and letting the flash of lights illuminate the flat.
Without warning the program changed, a news bulletin filling the screen. A serious newscaster appeared, saying, “Breaking news in London tonight; a mod acceptance march, originally aimed at being a peaceful protest of the recent mod arrests and murders, has erupted in violence in the Docklands District.”
Liane froze where she was, staring at the screen.
“Officers of the Genetic Modification Task Force were dispatched to disperse the crowd but were quickly overwhelmed by the angry mods. Riot control police are currently en route to the location. We must warn you that the images of the event are quite shocking and may disturb some viewers . . .”
The video cut to a jittery live feed of police and citizens clashing on a street. Mods were throwing Molotov cocktails at heavily armored police, while others leapt on individual officers. Screams, shouts, and gunfire rang out atop it all.
Liane leaned closer, her eyes scanning the faces of the police. One of them turned, revealing oddly colored eyes in a frightened, familiar face.
The newscaster reappeared, saying, “The Prime Minister has advised that citizens remain in their homes until the rioting has been contained. Under no circumstances should anyone attempt to go into the area . . .”
The program continued, but there was no one there to hear it. Liane had already gone, racing out into the night.
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Liane’s cycle roared through the city, ignoring traffic laws and lanes in her haste to get to the riot. Behind her helmet, her face was pale and determined; she would make it to him before anything happened. If she didn’t . . .
Liane pushed the thought aside, gunning the throttle and racing into the district.
Docklands hadn’t truly been rebuilt after the war, and the buildings bordering the street were no more than ten stories tall, many with broken windows, pockmarked brick and concrete walls, and peeling paint on the doors. People were leaning out of windows and doorways, trying to catch a glimpse of the distant fires. It wasn’t hard to find the center of the riot; Liane just had to follow the screams.
She parked her cycle in an alley, keeping her mask on as she ran up the street. A news van was blocking the way, a cameraman and a reporter chatting excitedly as they caught live footage of the carnage. Liane looked into the fight, her eyes darting from person to person. Finally she spotted Seth, his nightstick out as he tried to beat off several mods snarling and lunging at him.
Liane reached into her belt, pulling out a small, black disc with razor sharp edges. She flicked it through the open door of the news van; it lodged in their control panel, and in a few seconds a shower of sparks and explosions burst out of the vehicle. The cameraman swore, rattling his dead camera. With them distracted, Liane removed her mask, letting out a breath before running into the fight.
She moved far too fast for most to even see her, slamming mods and police aside in her haste. She bumped into an enormous man, and when he turned, his fierce expression changed to bewilderment as he said, “Liane?”
She realized with shock that it was Ox, and she shouted over the noise, “Riot police are going to be here any minute. Get the mods out!”
Ox nodded, sweat and blood dripping down his face as he turned back to the fight. Liane darted towards where Seth had been, her eyes desperately raking the crowd. Then she spotted him; he was down, being kicked and pummeled by no fewer than five mods. The first cried out when she tossed him aside, and the others turned to attack her. Liane let rage fuel the fight, forgetting her aches as she punched and kicked the mods out of her way. When they were all down and hurt, she moved to Seth, lifting him up and tossing him over her shoulder. He was shouting and twisting, but she held on, running into a nearby alley away from the fight.
“Let me go, damnit!” Seth shouted, but Liane was already crouching and launching them both up to a rusting fire escape. Another leap took them up onto the roof ledge.
It was quieter there, but she didn’t set Seth on his feet until she was certain the roof was empty and safe. Liane expected him to be frightened, grateful; she didn’t expect him to flail wildly, his eyes blazing with anger as he shouted, “Get off of me, Liane!”
He yanked free from her hold; Liane stood looking at him, slightly stunned. When she found her voice, it came out sharp with anger, “I just saved your life!”
“Well no one asked you to, did they?” Seth snapped, forcefully straightening his stab vest. “You made it pretty clear last time that you were done with our partnership.”
“I . . .” Liane trailed off, glancing away. Her cheeks were growing warm, and a sudden feeling of shame welled up within her. Haltingly, she said, “I shouldn’t have kicked you.”
“That’s your great revelation?” Seth said, incredulous. “No shit you shouldn’t have kicked me, or thrown me out, or threatened to shoot me! Jesus, what did they teach you in that Program of yours?”
“You provoked me,” Liane said hotly.
“How?”
“You asked too much!” she burst out, “You forced your way into my life, into my home . . . Do you have any idea what a risk I took letting you in? What they’ll do to me if they find out, or even suspect that I broke the rules?”
“And what about the risks I took?” Seth demanded. “I’m sticking my own neck out on this too. The only difference is I’m not capable of fighting them off like you.”
Liane looked at him, sincerely wondering at his words. Quietly, she asked with hesitance, “Then why do you try at all? If you know that you could die at any moment, why bother?”
“You’ve asked me that before,” he said hotly. “My answer hasn’t changed.”
Liane shook her head. “But I still don’t understand . . .”
He looked at her, something like pity in his eyes. “I know you don’t; I feel sorry for you that you can’t. I try because that’s what good people do. They try to make the world a little better, just the smallest bit. The only other option is to give up and let it end up in the hands of the monsters.” Seth sighed, voice somewhat muted as he went on, “Maybe it’s not much, and maybe it won’t matter in the end, but I’m doing my part. Better that than just giving up.”
Liane looked away, her cheeks uncomfortably hot.
Seth pulled off his helmet, asking, “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I saw you on the news,” Liane said quietly. “I didn’t want . . . I couldn’t watch you die. I didn’t want to sit back and do nothing . . . like I usually do.”
Seth sighed. “Much as I hate to admit it, I think I might be in a body bag right now if you hadn’t. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
For a moment they stood there, neither certain of what to say next. Liane finally looked up at him, several strands of blonde hair escaping her braid and blowing across her face. Mutedly, she asked, “Did you mean what you said? Do you really think I belong in the Agency?”
“If you did, you wouldn’t have come here tonight, would you?”
“No,” she said. “That’s the first of the Cardinal Rules; no contact with civilians.”
“What are the others?”
“Do not discuss your assignments,” Liane recited by heart, “Obey your Handler and Administrators. No assignment or order may be refused. Escape is impossible; death is the only way out.”
Seth seemed shaken, staring at her as he breathed, “No wonder you don’t want to get on their bad side.”
“But I already am,” she observed. “I’ve broken every single rule already. What are they going to do if I break them a little longer? Kill me deader?”
Seth grinned, then laughed. Liane smiled, feeling a warm rush of pride; she’d never made anyone laugh before.
“So what now?” Seth finally asked.
Liane thought for a moment, and then said, “We finish what we started. We solve the murders; find out why people are dying and who’s killing them. After that . . . we reevaluate.”
“That’s fair,” he nodded.
A series of sirens wailed nearby, and Liane walked to the edge of the roof to see riot vans pulling to a stop at the edge of the fighting. The side doors swung open, and cops in bulky, black armor poured into the fray. Liane glanced back at Seth, noting, “I think you’ll be safe now. Do you want to go back?”
They made their way down the rusted fire escape to the littered alley below. Liane stayed in the shadows, while Seth took several steps towards the street. Replacing his helmet, he asked, “Out of curiosity . . . what made you change your mind?”
Liane pulled up the hood of her coat, her eyes downcast as she answered, “The fact that you can see what my purpose should be when I can’t. One thing I know: if you can’t do a task yourself, go to the person you trust to help you.”
A cheer from the riot police sounded behind Seth. He turned to look at towards the street; when he glanced back where Liane had been, he found that he was alone in the alley.