The Sapphiri

by R Gene Curtis

  6 Army

  Lydia

  Quint leads us quickly away from the house, navigating through the dark streets easily. We jump into an alleyway when we hear footsteps, and two men in uniform pass us, each carrying a sword in one hand. The men laugh casually. They don’t look like they expect to find anyone.

  “We could have taken them out easily, you know,” Karl says after they’ve passed.

  “A great way to get discovered,” Quint says. “We need to get to the barracks.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask.

  “Look,” Quint says, “I know the soldiers. The ones who were always talking about getting power aren’t our friends. But many of my comrades vowed they’d never support the power-seekers. Those men are the men tied up in the barracks, I’m sure of it. They’re the men we can trust—the beginning of our army.”

  An army. Quint has decided that we’re going to fight for the city. “Do we have to build an army?”

  “Lydia, did you ever pay attention in history class?” Karl asks. “The only way to keep peace is to have a balance of power. As long as our army doesn’t exist, we don’t have power. It’s the first principle in political science. We can’t rely on you to defeat the entire civilization. Even Wynn had a complex network of power set up.”

  I don’t like it. “Even if we do get these men, we won’t have a balance of power.”

  Quint shrugs. “We’ll be better off than we are now, though. Vinnie said the people in Sattah are locked indoors. That tells us the soldiers don’t know what they’re doing, either. The faster we move, the more likely we are to stay ahead of them.”

  “You think we can trust information from Vinnie?”

  Quint nods. “She’s never led me wrong before. She’s one of the best sources for information in this city.”

  I roll my eyes. “Best sources of information, or one of the best kissers?”

  Quint laughs, “No, there are better kissers.”

  “The guards aren’t well trained,” Karl says. “Wynn never wanted a trained army, just one to keep the people scared.”

  Quint sighs. “I wouldn’t bet on that. You’d be surprised what we learned to keep from Wynn. Though, I admit, I’d like to see what I could learn from you as far as training goes.”

  I picture Karl teaching the men what he learned when he was a man of Wynn. He would make a good teacher.

  We spend the next twenty minutes dodging behind Quint between alleyways through the city. He knows every hiding place, and he hears guards coming from a mile away.

  “How did you get so good at this?” I ask as we crouch in one of the alleyways waiting for the guards to pass.

  “I snuck out a lot.” He laughs.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “To visit Vinnie and some other friends.”

  “Which was illegal,” Somrusee says.

  “So was sneaking out,” Quint says.

  “So was killing Wynn,” Karl says. “We’re all felons.”

  I’m exhausted when we finally get to the barracks. Fortunately, they aren’t well guarded. Two men drink together out at the front gate. We don’t see anyone else.

  “The mess hall is just behind the gate,” Quint says.

  “We need to take these guys out quickly,” Karl says.

  I cringe. Is violence really the answer every time?

  “Yeah, it might be best to rush them.” Quint pulls out his sword.

  “Wait, I want to talk to them first.” I grab Quint’s arm and stop him. A feeling of annoyance and surprise fills me.

  “What would you say?” Karl asks skeptically.

  “These guys aren’t smart,” Quint says. “I know them. They only do what they’re told to do. They won’t listen to you.”

  I let go of his arm. His lack of confidence in me isn’t helping.

  “I just feel like we should give them a chance before we kill them. Try to maintain some humanity, you know.”

  “I don’t know. This is war, Princess.” Quint smiles awkwardly. He’s trying to look amused. “These guys were crazy loyal to Wynn, and they probably are loyal to whoever is in charge now.”

  But I’m going to try anyway. “Yes, and I’m the princess. I order you to stay here.”

  I leave them and walk alone across the street to the guards. I hope Karl can’t see my knees shaking as I go. At least he doesn’t follow me.

  “Ho! Girl,” one of the men shouts. He has dark hair and a steel cap.

  “Hi.” I reach down and stick my fingers in the dirt. My heart beats rapidly, and the dirt clings to the sweat on my palms. If these guys are smart, they will listen to me. I’m a princess, I’m a diplomat, and I can do this.

  “I’m Princess Ria. My army is tied up in your mess hall, and I’m here to retrieve them. If you want to come with us, we’d love to have you as well.”

  The men laugh. “Princess who?”

  “Ria. I’m the lost daughter of King Togan.”

  “Toe what?” The man with the hat chortles.

  The other guard stops laughing. He has a thick beard and long hair that covers his eyes. “You know, there is a legend about a daughter of Togan coming back. My mom used to tell me the story when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah, and my mom told me some chickens lay eggs all winter!” The hat guard laughs again, though his companion doesn’t join in.

  “So, it looks like I have one recruit?” I ask. I can’t really look the guard in the eyes, since his face is covered with hair. He hesitates, but he doesn’t say no.

  “You cut that out girly,” Hat says. He pushes himself off his chair and rocks a little. Drunk, but not wasted. He’s dangerous, but I still have dirt on my fingers. “No one leaves their post tonight.”

  I don’t back away.

  “You both are leaving your post.” My voice wavers, embarrassingly. Hopefully Karl can’t hear me from here. “You can come with me, or you can stay here. I’m taking these men, and I’d like you to come with us. Are you with me, or not?”

  Hat grabs my arm. Tight. “Are you threatening me? Because I will break you in half.” His breath is rancid. Alcohol. I fight the urge to panic. Images of my shirt ripping and flying over the dishwasher break my concentration.

  But this is not Dad, and I’m not the little girl who flew across the room. I flick dirt at the man and then I burn his arm. The man screams, but I keep it burning. I’m no longer a victim. I will not be beaten by drunken men.

  The man hasn’t let go yet. I burn him again. He screams again.

  I move the pain up his arm and into his shoulder. Finally, he lets me go, falling back into his chair and cursing. The other man stays silent, but he stands and moves slowly away from me.

  “I’ll kill you,” Hat yells.

  “No, you won’t.” I slide the pain into his side.

  Surprise and then fear registers in the man’s face. “You’re an Azurean?” he whispers. He falls to the ground.

  “I said I’m Princess Ria, the daughter of King Togan.”

  “I will kill you!” he yells. In his eyes I see the same fear I saw in Vinnie’s dad. “No one will ever support you.”

  His fear scares me. Will everyone I meet hate me? Am I really just another Wynn?

  “I’m going to save you,” I say.

  “Why do you say that like you’re trying to convince yourself?” Hat draws his sword. I pop his arm out of its socket and sprain his ankle. I’m done talking to him.

  “Do you have keys?” I ask the guard with the long hair.

  He looks at his fallen comrade. His face is pale in the moonlight. He’s scared of me, too.

  “Do you have keys?” I ask again.

  “Okay. I’m in,” he mumbles. He unlocks the gate and takes me to the mess hall. We are joined a moment later by Quint, Somrusee, and Karl. There are at least a hundred men in the mess hall, all tied up together.

  “Are these your men, Quint?”

  “Yes,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “Let m
e talk to them first, and then you can talk to them.”

  I have the first part of my army.

  I go back to find and heal Hat, but he’s managed to get away. With a dislocated arm and sprained ankle.

  Am I the monster he thinks I am?

  7 Alive

  Bob

  Connected.

  I fill my lungs with air and let them deflate slowly. Hours and hours of work, and the result is one word on the screen in front of me. Connected. I hate technology.

  It isn’t that I don’t use technology. In my last lives I used technology a lot. That’s science now-a-days. Science is done on computers with datasets so big if you did things by hand you wouldn’t finish in ten lifetimes. Unfortunately, I showed up long after the days of science with lab notebooks, and I’ve suffered the consequences. How many hours of my life have I spent awkwardly shifting around in an office chair while configuring computer settings?

  But if I was thinking about science today, I probably wouldn’t be in such a bad mood. Today wasn’t about science, it was about the idiocy of the League. When the mailwoman knocked on my door this morning, my entire day was doomed for sweat, tears, and pain. At least the lady was cute. I flirted with her for a few seconds before she ran away, leaving me standing in the doorway with the package. The package of pain. An entirely new internet connection and communications system. What was wrong with the other system that was good enough just a few weeks ago?

  The hours ticked by. I rebooted the hardware and read the manual. All the day’s plans were flushed down the toilet one by one. Including my next attempt to get another date with Pearl. She walked by my apartment about an hour ago. The lights are on in her apartment now, but I can’t think of a single reason to go over there. My serendipitous meeting at the mailbox tonight was supposed to be that ticket.

  I need to go out with her again. For my job. But I also want to go out with her again, which is bad. Everyone knows the number one rule of murdering people. You can’t like people you’re going to kill. It’s dangerous. If you start thinking a woman is attractive and fun, if you start to look forward to hanging out with her, if you find yourself thinking about her when you’re not working, that’s bad.

  Yeah. Really bad.

  But my, uh, small attraction to this lady isn’t the only thing that’s bad. She knows something I don’t. I’m sure of that. In every interaction we’ve had so far, she’s called the shots. It’s impossible, but it’s true. It shouldn’t happen. My training came from the best, my protocols took millennia to develop. Since day one on job one, I’ve always been completely in control. Until Pearl. I haven’t asked for her first name, and I haven’t made any progress on learning about this Ler character.

  There has only been one other time in fifteen years that someone got the best of me. And apparently, it runs in families. Karl Stapp got away from me in the Mellon Institute. I didn’t see that one coming, and I lost major points at headquarters because of it. Another failure at the hands of the Stapps could mean my death.

  Next time I talk to Pearl, things will go differently. I’m sure of it. It was supposed to be today, but I’ve been a bit busy even before this computer arrived. We did a hit operation on the Brit girl up in Seattle a few days ago. Headquarters decided she was dangerous, and we had all we needed from her. Unfortunately, I oversaw the project. The disease was successfully administered, and the victim was isolated. Tonight, I’ll talk to my field agent and tidy up the final report.

  Brit’s death is too bad, really. I’m sure she had nothing to do with Karl’s disappearance. But I get it. She had contact with me over an extended period, and her social media analysis suggested it would be risky to keep her around. Our algorithms can predict how likely a person is to stand up for moral principles based on their social media pages, and the analysis on Brit was condemning. She had a lot of really solid friends. Even though her mannerisms come across as uncertain, if the algorithms were right, she was going to find herself eventually. She would have become the kind of person who would fight for what she believed in. If she ever figured out I wasn’t a cop, the League would have to do a lot of damage control.

  So, they followed protocol, ordered the hit operation, and now she’ll be put in the ground. This hit operation was developed shortly before I started, and it’s effective. Death comes via a modified common virus. At autopsy, it looks like the victim contracted stomach flu and died naturally. However, while structurally similar, the administered virus is aggressive and the survival rate is zero unless you’re immunized. The virus can’t live without a host, so within twenty-four hours of contamination, all remnant of it dies. Victims are isolated, the virus doesn’t spread, and no one ever figures out how the victim died.

  Working out the timing of the hit operation is the main difficulty. Everything must be just right, which can be a bear. I spent more than a week planning this one with a contact up in Seattle. We had to make sure the operation was timed when the roommate was out of town and at a time when Brit wouldn’t be missed at a social event. In the end, we juggled around the roommate and soccer schedule and found a good time, and the actual hit operation went smoothly. Sequestration ended this afternoon, and I just need to get the final report. Now that I’ve struggled all day and the system is finally connected, it should be a piece of cake and I can forget about Brit.

  I log in and click on my contact in Seattle. There is a green circle next to his avatar, telling me he’s online. That’s a relief, considering that I’m two and a half hours late. Stupid technology.

  “Ternian’s revenge,” I type. You’d think with all the fancy security I spent all day setting up, we wouldn’t need to type in code words.

  “Revenge assured,” my contact replies. As per norm, I have no idea who the contact is. When anything is sent to a front-lines operative, our identities are completely protected—even from each other. We make contact through the system with strange avatar faces. The person on the other end of the line could be one of my brothers, for all I know. I like to think that sometimes—it helps me feel connected to my family.

  We don’t need to chat long today, though. I just need the final report. Subject dead, authorities perplexed, yada, yada.

  My contact seems to type forever before his next chat comes through.

  She’s still alive.

  My fingers rest on the keys, as still as my frozen body. My eyes scan the message again and again.

  She can’t be alive. We confirmed the eating of the contaminated granola bar and the appropriate symptoms afterward. The operative broke into her apartment, cut her phone cord, drained the battery on her phone, and performed the blood test. It came back positive: the virus entered her blood stream successfully.

  There isn’t any possible way she could still be alive.

  I comb my fingers through my beard and try to think of how to respond. A conversation about someone you killed, but who is still breathing, isn’t normal. Not that anything about my life is or has ever been normal.

  I stare back at the screen. A hit operation failed. Impossible. The Sapphiri don’t fail.

  You’re sure?

  Sequestration disabled at 2:00 PM. Target emerged an hour later. Standing, walking, peeing. Last seen in dorm cafeteria.

  She should have been dead twenty-four hours before that.

  May your eyes be blue, I type to close the thread. I don’t know what else to say.

  She’s alive. I need to talk to my superior. I don’t know what he’ll do, but this constitutes an emergency. It isn’t hard for me to find him in the system. He’s offline—it’s late already on the east coast. Well, he was the one who sent me the new technology equipment. I hate to call him late, though. As far as superiors go, he isn’t so bad. He doesn’t complain too much, and he stays out of my business for the most part.

  I ping him three times before he answers.

  What? He skips all the code words. Maybe they aren’t that important after all.

  The hit operation on the
Sorenson girl is complete, I tell him.

  Then why are you calling me about it, you idiot? Send in the report. You’ve been doing this for years, man, what’s wrong with you?

  She lived. I type quickly. I don’t want to have to call again.

  A long pause.

  Impossible.

  Confirmed on the front lines. Subject is eating normally. I don’t know the protocol, so I called you.

  Of course, there’s no protocol you idiot! No one survives the virus. You know that as well as I do.

  Well, at least this seems to have caught him off guard, too. Unless somehow she’s immune to it, I type.

  Impossible. There’s no way she could have come in contact with the vaccine, and there is no natural human immunity to the virus. She was isolated for the full length of time?

  I take my time typing a response to make him think I’m confirming the detail, even though I’m not. According to the front-line contact.

  I’m going to have to call this up the chain. I’ve never heard of anything like it. Return to your front-line, have him get a genetic sample, and send it in. Standard protocol on that. Do you have the social media report on this girl?

  It was delivered two months ago. You’d think he could check that himself—it should be on his computer.

  A long pause.

  There it is. Yeah, that’s all we need. We’ll need a full human genome sequence on this girl. Get that sample in as soon as possible.

  Yes sir.

  And, Bob?

  Yes?

  Don’t tell a soul about this.

  Yes sir. Like I would have anyone to tell. I wonder if superiors ever stop to think about what it is like to be a League control agent. You live in the field with limited contacts. You don’t know half of your contacts’ names, and you have no idea what happened to your family or where you fit into Sapphiri society. And then your superiors say things like “Don’t tell anyone about this.” Who am I going to tell? Am I going to leak top-secret information to civilians?