The Titan Strain

by Virginia Soenksen

  But a hand closed around her arm, tightening just enough to be painful. Liane turned, unalarmed to see Crispin. He was smiling, open and unconcerned as he asked, “Where are you going with the non?”

  “Giving it a quick death,” she answered.

  “Why? The new ones have never killed anything. Why not give it to them for practice?”

  Liane pulled her arm free. “They’re careless. Unless you want to leave a trail for the police to follow, you should let me handle this . . .”

  Crispin frowned, considering her words. She knew he had a good non life; so much to lose if he was caught. She wasn’t surprised when he said, “You don’t need any help? I could have Ox go with you.”

  “I’ve done this before,” she said, turning back towards the door. This time Crispin didn’t follow.

  She dragged Seth by his throat until they were past the range of the flood lamps, then let him go and slowly ran to the nearest pile of rubble, not stopping until she was hidden from view. He followed her, hugging his broken arm to his chest. She let him rest against a fragmented section of wall for a moment, watching him silently.

  Finally he looked over at her, his mismatched eyes distrustful, “Who are you? Are you a plant?”

  She smiled slightly at the absurd suggestion. “No, I don’t have any dealings with the police.”

  His fear was diminishing, leaving an irritated sort of confusion. “Then why are you helping me?”

  Liane glanced around the rubble, back at the abandoned church. She could hear the usual sounds; laughs and snarls intermixed, along with the scrape of feet across dusty ground. Moving in a low crouch, she headed further into the darkened ruins. Seth followed, making far too much noise for her liking.

  They moved for several minutes in silence, pausing only for Liane to scan the ruins around them and determine which way they needed to go. Seth kept up well enough, though he was still breathing hard and kept glancing back the way they had come.

  “I don’t think they’ll follow us,” Liane finally told him.

  He didn’t look convinced, demanding, “Why not?”

  “Because they’re afraid of me.”

  “Even the one in charge?”

  She jumped gracefully off of an elevated section of concrete, down into a small trench-like pathway. As Seth scrambled down, groping with his good arm for handholds, she said, “Crispin bothered me once and only once.” She waited until he caught up with her, then asked, “Why were you spying on them?”

  He frowned faintly as he looked away from her, struggling with his answer for a long moment. In the end, however, he reached awkwardly into his pocket and drew out a leather case. When he unfolded it, Liane saw the gunmetal gleam of a police badge. Seth refolded the badge, saying, “I’m on the Genetic Modification Task Force.”

  Liane shook her head in dismay. “You patrol a known mod area alone and with your badge on you? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “This area was supposed to be clean,” he protested. “I thought I was going on a routine patrol.”

  “Well, you don’t want to know what would have happened if the mods had found that badge.”

  He didn’t blink, and his voice was steady, “You talk as if you aren’t one of them.”

  Liane just looked at him, wondering if he knew exactly how much danger he was in. If he found out, or even guessed, that she wasn’t a mod, she would have to kill him. There was no way around it; that had been one of the first things she had learned in the Agency. An Agent whose cover was blown to civilians was one with no use. And the Agency didn’t keep useless things.

  Oblivious to her considerations, Seth asked, “So what do we do now?”

  She turned and kept walking, saying over her shoulder, “We head back to the city. Then you and I go our own ways. If you try to follow or arrest me, I’ll take you back to the ruins and let them finish you off.”

  But he didn’t seem to hear the threat, for he laughed softly as he stumbled over the rubble underfoot. “Arrest you? How could I possibly arrest you when I don’t know your name, ID number, or anything else about you? The only thing I know is that you’re fast and strong enough to kill me.”

  She forced herself not to smile, merely nodding, “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

  Seth walked faster, trying to look into her face as he asked, “Is that all because of the modding?”

  Liane kept her eyes forward as she answered, “I don’t think you’re in a position to interrogate me.”

  “I’m an officer; I’m paid to be curious.”

  “Do they pay you to talk as well?” she said shortly, leaping up to walk on the broken concrete above his head.

  He looked up at her in amazement, asking, “How high can you jump?”

  “What? I don’t know.” She shook her head, flustered. “Five metres; more if I have a running start.”

  Seth’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know modding could do that.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t tried it yourself.”

  “Too poor,” Seth said, scrambling up to walk alongside her. “Modding’s for the rich. What do you do that you can afford it?”

  Liane glanced at him, giving a half-smile as she answered, “I’m a highly trained assassin for a secret government organization. And I’m very good at what I do.”

  Seth laughed, too loudly for safety. She hissed at him to be quiet, and he said with a chuckle, “Right. And I’m the Queen Mother.”

  Liane looked over at him, still unable to puzzle through his accent. Her curiosity piqued enough for her to ask, “Where are you from? Your accent is . . . different.”

  Seth grinned. “I’m a mutt. London born, but my father was from Dublin. We all moved to the States, though, when I was young. Spent almost eight years in Boston before the Third World War broke out. We got out just before the implosion of the country and came back here. What about you? Where were you when the war happened?”

  “Here, I think,” Liane answered.

  “You think?”

  “It’s hard to remember that far back.”

  “It was only twelve years ago,” Seth protested. “Everyone remembers it, even if you were nowhere near any of the battles.”

  Liane thought back, but was unable to remember anything but starving in the orphanage, wanting to get out, and then the day the black car had arrived . . .

  Seth seemed to mistake her silent considerations for discomfort, saying kindly, “Hey, it’s okay if you can’t. The war was hard on everyone; it’s not just you who doesn’t want to get wrapped up in bad memories.”

  Liane frowned at him, confused as to why he would bother to be kind to a stranger, when she heard the low hum of a patrol helicopter in the distance. Without bothering to explain, she leapt down into a small crevice, pulling Seth by the shirt after her. He left out a shout of surprise, falling into her. Liane yanked him upright and under a low concrete overhang, shoving his back against the wall of rubble. There was so little cover that she had to stand pressed against him in an attempt to fit in the shadows. The noise of the propeller rose to a roar as the helicopter swooped overhead, spotlights passing over the ruins. The rubble underfoot shifted, and Liane nearly slipped; then Seth’s free arm came around her, pressing against her lower back and holding her to him. Liane held her breath, but the light only touched the back of her boots before it moved away.

  They stayed there, motionless, as the noise of the helicopter faded. As her adrenaline levels lowered, Liane became conscious of how close they were standing. Her body was pressed to his; she could feel the hardness of his muscles against her own, the warmth of his quickened breaths on her neck. He hadn’t yet released his arm, his hand splayed out and gripping the material of her shirt. Liane had never been so close to anyone before and found that she didn’t want to pull away. W
hen she looked up, she found that he was staring at her.

  “Who are you?” he asked softly.

  Liane jerked back from him, until she was out from underneath the overhang and well beyond his reach. No contact with civilians; that was the rule. Forcing herself to turn away from Seth, she said firmly, “I’m no one. I don’t exist.”

  Frowning, Seth followed her as they continued on their way.

  In a few minutes they had reached the edges of civilization, the ruins giving way to the small, sad shacks of London’s slums. Liane walked fearlessly through it, though she spotted glimmers of movement from behind torn curtains and rickety shutters. Seth followed her until their feet hit pavement. Then she turned to him, saying, “You’ll be safe from here on in. Find a passing patrol, have them take you to a hospital.”

  “What about you?” he asked, hugging his wounded arm. “Will you be alright?”

  Liane shook her head, mildly exasperated. “You’ve seen what I can do, and still you worry?”

  “My mother raised a gentleman,” he grinned. “Tell me your name, at least. I like to know to whom I owe my life.”

  She shook her head, turning and walking down the street towards the city center. But her footsteps slowed, then stopped. She turned back to find him watching her.

  “Liane,” she said, somewhat shocked at her willingness to answer.

  Seth smiled, nodding, “Maybe I’ll see you again, Liane.”

  “I hope not,” she said, continuing on her way. In her head, she added, For your sake . . .

  || | || | | || |

  The phone was ringing when she unlocked the door to her flat. Liane shut the door behind her and stood looking across the room at the receiver; only one person knew the number, so only one person ever called it. Shrugging her coat from her shoulders, Liane walked over and picked up the sleek handhold, saying, “Damian?”

  “Liane,” Damian said perfunctorily, his deep voice pausing for the briefest of moments before he quoted, “‘I have been one acquainted with the night’ . . .”

  Automatically she replied, “‘I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.’”

  “‘I have outwalked the furthest city light.’”

  All of their conversations started this way, with codes designed to ensure that it was safe to communicate. Any deviation or mistake by the Agent would tell the Handler that something was wrong. For reasons he never shared with her, Damian used old poems as their codes. Though considering that historians would be the only ones likely to have ever heard the prose, they certainly made for a secure source.

  She heard him lean back in his chair before he asked, “And where have you been?”

  Liane put the phone on speaker, walking into her bedroom. Speakers throughout the flat allowed his voice to follow her. “I went to the ruins. Tonight was the full moon.”

  “That’s right . . . how are you fitting in?”

  “Fine. Better with the wolf mods than any of the others.”

  “Do they seem suspicious of you?”

  Liane pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it into the laundry chute. “No, they think I’m like them. I’ve been careful.”

  “Don’t slip up. You don’t want a repeat of Prague, do you?”

  She paused in the midst of undressing, remembering the incident. She had been very young when she had gone to Prague on assignment. The mission had gone badly, one of her targets had run . . . and she had chased him down on a busy street full of witnesses. Truly chased him at speeds no human could ever achieve, not even a modified one. Afterwards there was so much damage control to be done; interrogations, adjustment of the memories of witnesses, and finally executing those resistant to mind-wiping in as natural a way as possible.

  Damian told her the paperwork had been a nightmare.

  “Liane?” he said, impatience tingeing his voice.

  “I’m listening,” she said, tossing the rest of her clothing into the chute and going to the bathroom. “And I’m not going to make any mistakes this time.”

  “Good. So was there anything eventful about tonight’s meeting?”

  Liane hesitated, turning on the water in the shower to cover the silence. She wasn’t accustomed to keeping secrets from Damian, but she knew that he wouldn’t be pleased to hear of Seth. As casually as she could, she lied, “Nothing of note. Crispin thinks mods will be able to go public soon.”

  “I’d call that wishful thinking.”

  “He doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “The Prime Minister is building a re-election campaign around modification restriction. The day of acceptance is still a long way off.” Damian waited for a moment, then sighed, “So are you going to bring up your new friend or shall I?”

  Damn those city cameras to hell, Liane thought in mutinous silence. To buy time she stepped into the shower, letting the torrent of hot water run over her face and wash away the grime of dirt and sweat. Over the speaker, Damian said, “I thought we had worked beyond the lies, Liane. Who is he?”

  She leaned out of the water and reached for the body wash. “No one. He wandered into the meeting and nearly got himself killed. I saw that he made it back to the city alive. That’s all.”

  “You know what happens if you talk to people, Liane. There are consequences if you break the rules, even with the best intentions.” It wasn’t said as a threat; Damian didn’t have to threaten those who knew him. All he had to do was make promises.

  “No rules were broken. He doesn’t know who I am, where I live, or what I do. My status is uncompromised.” Chafing under the interrogation, Liane suggested irritably, “Go question him if you’re concerned. I’m sure you have his file as well as a containment unit on standby.”

  “Speaking of his file, an officer should be more careful during a patrol . . . I doubt he’ll last long on the force.” Seemingly mollified, Damian said, “For now, I’ll leave him alone. Just be careful.” There was a faint click of a keyboard on the other end of the line. “I’ve received your next assignment. Sending you the details now.”

  Liane shut off the water, toweling dry as she walked into the bedroom and opened the computer resting on the nightstand. A file opened as she watched, blueprints and photos swimming across the monitor. One of them enlarged, showing a man in his late fifties wearing an expensive suit.

  “Nikolai Banbridge,” Damian said, “He’ll be alone at his estate tomorrow. You’re looking at moderate security; armed guards, dogs, a fairly advanced alarm system. You might be able to finish the mission long-range, but plan for close combat anyway.”

  Liane’s eyes shifted quickly from document to document, memorizing the intricate details in minutes. Address, schedule, passcodes . . . soon she knew Nikolai Banbridge better than most of his business associates.

  And she also knew exactly how she was going to kill him.

  “Finished,” she said, and the screen went blank as Damian shut it down remotely. A push of a button on the underside of the nightstand made several decorative panels on the bedroom wall rotate, exposing a vast display of weapons and ammunition. She selected a precision-rifle and her preferred telescopic scope, setting them on the nearby bed before turning to handguns.

  “After you’re done, return to the Agency for debriefing.” On his end, he turned the speaker off and picked up the handhold instead. It made his voice more resonant, more intimate, as he went on, “It’s been a week since our last face-to-face. There’s a performance of Puccini’s ‘Turandot’ at Covent Garden on Friday. We’ll have dinner before the show. I’ll send a car.”

  Liane placed a semi-automatic pistol next to the rifle, frowning at the caprices of her Handler. She leaned her head back, asking with genuine curiosity, “Why do you always take me to these things?”

  “Because when Agents do nothing other than spying, killing, and infiltrat
ing, it shows.” Damian went quiet for a moment, then added, “And if you can believe it, I also enjoy your company. The car will be there at four.”

  There was a click, and the line went dead.

  Chapter 2

  The Banbridge estate stood far east of the city, in an enclave of mansions surrounded by high gates and patrolled by guards. Outside of the gates, refuse and dust gathered, along with the occasional beggar. Liane parked her Agency car in a knot of trees several minutes away from the estate. She walked quickly towards her destination, her rifle encased within a tennis bag on her back and a duffel bag on her arm. She was dressed like a young housewife returning from a session with a trainer, her blonde hair braided off of her face. Despite her precautions, the main road was deserted, as was the service road that led her to the backside of the estate’s wall.

  She looked up at the wall as she went, taking stock of cameras and microphones. Reaching a blind spot between them, she knelt and unzipped the duffel. The device inside was switched on, the green light telling her that it was already scrambling every electronic within a hundred yards. Sliding out a silenced handgun, she slid it into the holster in the waistband of her pants. The rifle was removed from its case before she shouldered it again. Looking up at the walls, she took a running start and leapt up. She cleared the barbed wire at the top with ease, landing on hands and knees and rolling to a stop. The rifle was immediately up, and four guard dogs dropped dead without time for even a single growl.

  Liane ran towards the house, moving so fast that the world seemed to blur. She leapt up when she reached it, gripping a decorative overhang and using her momentum to swing up to the second-floor balcony. Crouching by the French doors, she pulled out a thin, razor-sharp knife and jammed it into the top of the electronic keypad. It shorted, and the door swung open.