The Titan Strain

by Virginia Soenksen

  Liane swung the rifle around her body, positioning it against her shoulder as she moved through a bedroom and towards the hall. It was nearly three; Banbridge would be swimming laps in the outdoor pool. She walked silently down the hall, eyes moving back and forth for any sign of servants or guards. Finally she reached the secondary bathroom, drifting through the black and white room to the window in the far wall. It provided an unimpeded view of the pool, and she slid the glass aside to find Banbridge swimming far below. She could just barely hear the music being piped in through underwater speakers. Slowly she raised the rifle, peering through the scope and following him from one end of the pool to the other. Her finger had just tightened on the trigger when he stopped, hoisting himself up out of the water and walking to the nearby towel warmer. Liane shifted her shoulders, getting comfortable as her sights settled right between his eyes . . .

  The sound of a car on the drive was followed by the slam of several doors. Liane swore under her breath, moving to the other set of windows to look out at the drive. A woman, a ravishing brunette with unnaturally smooth skin, was climbing out of a chauffeured car with two young girls. They were laughing and moving around the side of the house to the pool. Liane went back to the window and her shot, but by the time she had it, the youngest girl was rounding the corner of the house, shrieking for her father.

  Damn it. Liane lowered her rifle as Banbridge picked up his daughter, laughingly asking her about her day. Liane caught the words of the wife as she said, “We finished up early. I tried to call, but the phones are down . . .”

  The Banbridges were moving back towards the house. Liane moved to the other window, and in a matter of seconds the chauffeur lay dead in the drive, a single gunshot wound to the head. As quickly and as silently as possible, she moved to the hall and the staircase. The voices came from the kitchen now. Slowly, excruciatingly so, Liane began to inch down the staircase. She kept her eyes up, following the shadows through the frosted glass door that separated the kitchen from the dining room.

  “Hold on, I’ll get my cell and try that.” Liane crouched as Banbridge walked out of the other door, heading towards his study.

  Liane pushed the door open a fraction of an inch, simultaneously seizing a small, metal cylinder from her belt. Depressing a button on it, she rolled it through the narrow opening. The device skidded to a stop at the feet of one of the girls, who looked down at it with a frown. Liane looked away, though she was still able to see the flash of light as the flare ignited. Three thuds of unconscious bodies hitting the ground sounded from the kitchen, and Liane leapt up and ran towards the study.

  She found Banbridge frowning at his unresponsive phone, and she raised her rifle before ordering, “Drop it, and get to your knees.”

  He turned, shock filling his eyes. The phone fell from his fingers, and he pleaded, “Please; I have a family.”

  “And they’ll live,” she said, gesturing again with the rifle. “On your knees.”

  Slowly, Banbridge knelt next to his desk. She moved behind him, but could still hear him as he asked helplessly, “Why are you doing this?”

  Liane had lost count of the number of times she’d been asked that. As she pulled the trigger and Banbridge fell dead, she wondered at the answer herself.

  || | || | | || |

  The Agency stood in the city center, a skyscraper no different from any of the others. On the upper floors, the ones that people could see from the streets, were normal-looking offices and meeting rooms. Those were for paper-pushing, for show; the real work occurred far underneath the building.

  Ten stories down, Liane stepped off of the elevator, hands in the pocket of her coat. Moodily she pushed through the Agents, Handlers, and Supporters and headed towards the debriefing chambers. As usual, Damian wasn’t there, so she went through the door alone.

  The chamber was small, only large enough to comfortably hold one Agent and Handler. A light was centered on a single, metal chair, where she sat down and faced the blank, white wall. Over a speaker, a voice ordered, “State your name and identification number.”

  “Liane, Agent six-four-three-eight-nine-thousand,” she said.

  “Report on the status of your target and mission.”

  Liane remembered the little girl running to her father, how he had smiled and laughed to see her. Taking a breath, she recited the account as factually as possible, finishing with, “. . . target was terminated, and the mission complete.”

  There was a pause, and the voice said, “Well done, Agent. You’re dismissed.”

  Liane stood, walking from the room as quickly as she could.

  The hallways were unusually busy, and she ended up waiting as part of a small crowd for an elevator to arrive. As she stood shifting her weight, anxious and eager for fresh air, Liane found herself next to a Handler she vaguely recognized. He gave her a toothy, too bright smile, asking, “You’re Damian’s, aren’t you?”

  Liane nodded, wishing that he would leave her alone.

  “Listen, I know we’re not supposed to talk to one another,” he said, still smiling, “But I have to tell you that I saw you in the practice arena the other day. Your speed is incredible.”

  The elevator opened and she shoved her way inside. But the Handler followed her, pushed up against her due to the crush of people. “You entered the Program at age ten, right? Has Damian been your Handler since then?”

  She kept her eyes ahead, saying shortly, “Since my first day.”

  “Pretty impressive that you’re both still alive,” the Handler noted, leaning uncomfortably close to her. “Rumor has it that you just dealt with Banbridge. Clean shot, and with his wife and kids in the house, too. Nice work.”

  Liane turned to glare up at the Handler, snarling, “It was a goddamn mess. Now shut up and get away from me before I decide to put a bullet in you, too.”

  The man drew back, clearly shocked, while Liane faced ahead once more, her nails digging into the palms of her hands until the elevator opened and she was free to escape.

  || | || | | || |

  Friday came, and at four a long, black car pulled up in front of Liane’s building. She got inside without question, staring vacantly out of the tinted windows as it drove her to the dressing salon in the city center. Damian always sent her there before their meetings. Liane would just as soon have done without all the fuss and bother of the stylists and makeup artists, but Damian insisted that appearances were important. She let them work on her without complaint, and when they ushered her to a dressing room she wordlessly put on the dress Damian had selected for her. Once, years ago, she’d refused to wear the gown he’d chosen for an excursion. When she walked into the art exhibition in her own clothes, he’d taken one look and sent her back home. For the next two weeks, Liane was ordered out on mission after mission. The pace had been brutal, punishing, but then that’s what he’d intended. By the time it was over, her body had nearly shut down from exhaustion and injury.

  She hadn’t refused an order from him since.

  The car dropped her off in front of the exclusive French restaurant near the theatre, and bystanders stared as Liane emerged. Her long, dark green gown trailed along the pavement behind her, and her hair had been smoothed until it shimmered. Liane walked directly into the restaurant without a glance at any of her admirers, holding out her arm to the bouncer at the door. He scanned the underside of her forearm, the scanner beeping as it processed the white-ink tattoo with her identification number. A photo of Liane along with one of her many pseudonyms appeared on the screen, and the bouncer nodded her through.

  The interior of the restaurant was dark, harp music playing softly over the loudspeakers. A hostess immediately appeared, ushering her through the tables. Liane spotted Damian before they actually reached him. He was seated near the rear wall of the dining room, distracted by the phone in his hand. Sitting didn’t qui
te hide his height, nor did the lines of his tuxedo entirely hide the well-toned muscles of his arms and chest. His neat dark hair brushed the white collar of his shirt and was almost the exact shade of his eyes. In an age where plastic surgery was common and physical perfection was attainable, Damian still stood out as devilishly handsome. He looked up at her, instinctively knowing that he was being watched. He didn’t smile, but his fathomless eyes did brighten somewhat at the sight of her. He stood as she approached, sitting only after a waiter had pushed in her chair for her and draped a napkin over her lap.

  “You look well,” Damian said, his eyes drifting over her as he sat back in his chair. “I like the dress.”

  Liane gave him a look. “You should; you chose it.” The waitress appeared, and Liane said, “Bourbon, neat.”

  Damian cast an admonishing glance at her, then told the waitress, “We’ll both have white wine, dry. The Albariño will do.” As the waitress drifted away, he looked at Liane and asked, almost amused, “Since when do you drink hard liquor?”

  “Since you started ordering me wine every time we meet,” Liane retorted.

  “It will pair well with the fish we’re having,” Damian answered smoothly. “Your last nutrition panel showed that you’re low in fatty acids.”

  “I’m healthy enough.”

  “And as your Handler, I have to ensure that you stay that way.” The waitress reappeared with their wine, and Damian waited until after she had gone before saying, “You did fine work on Banbridge. You adjusted to the complications nicely.”

  Liane thought back to the little girl and remained silent.

  Damian’s dark eyes narrowed slightly over the rim of his wineglass. “What’s wrong?”

  Liane hesitated, then asked, “What did he do? Banbridge; why was the order for termination given?”

  Damian set his glass down carefully, observing, “It’s not our job to question why, Liane.”

  Her jaw tightened, and she lifted her chin as she persisted, “I want to know.”

  Damian raised an eyebrow at that; almost a rebuke, but not quite. “He was selling mod serum on the black market and was being stupid about it.”

  “Why kill him? Why not send a warning instead?”

  “This was a warning,” Damian corrected, “A warning to anyone else trying to deceive and subvert the Libertas Party.” Liane fell silent, frowning to herself, and Damian commented, “You’re very questioning tonight. This doesn’t have to do with the influence of the mods, does it?”

  “No,” she said quickly.

  “Because if it does,” Damian said, his voice holding a warning, “We’ll need to reconsider your involvement with them.”

  She looked up at him in alarm, protesting, “They’re the only friends I have, Damian, the only people in the city like me.”

  “They’re not like you, Liane,” Damian said flatly. “No one is, apart from a few other Agents. You were born extraordinary. Your genetic advancements were why you were recruited into the Program to begin with. Mods are nothing but junkies.”

  Liane sat back, her nails creasing the napkin in her lap as she murmured, “If I could just spend time with the other Agents, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “You know the rules; no interactions between Agents. Interactions lead to friendships, and from there to weakness.” Damian leaned forward against the table. “Besides, you have me. That used to be enough.”

  She raised her eyes to him, challenging, “Maybe I’m outgrowing you.”

  Damian gave her a cutting smile in return. “Then we have a problem, since I’ll be your Handler until either you die or are promoted to a Handler yourself. Given your tendency to break rules, I’d say that the latter is highly unlikely.”

  The waitress reappeared with their dinner, forcing the conversation to be dropped. As they ate, Damian told her about new efforts to reclaim the ruins outside of the city. Liane listened in near silence, trying to pay attention despite her thoughts constantly straying to the police officer she’d met.

  They walked to the theatre after dinner. As they wound their way through the performers, hawkers, and tourists, Liane rested a hand on Damian’s arm, knowing his insistence upon formality. Soon the white, stately edifice of the Royal Opera House loomed above them, and the two of them walked through the magnificent doors into the building.

  It was crowded, the performance having sold out hours previously. Damian led them to their box seats, where Liane occupied herself by leaning on the railing and looking out at the crowd. As usual, soon she was picking imaginary targets for herself, silently running through the logistics of killing to keep her skills sharp.

  The performance proved interesting, at least. Damian mouthed the words of the libretto by heart, while Liane tended to close her eyes and lose herself in the music.

  Intermission came, and they walked back to the lobby to stretch their legs. Damian went to get them drinks, while Liane wandered through the foyer of white iron and glass. She gazed upwards at the lights of the city visible through the panes. Her sharp vision allowed her to pick out the myriad colors within the reflected lights, and she was as distracted as she ever allowed herself to be.

  “Hey, Liane!”

  She turned sharply, taking in mismatched eyes and a crooked smile before she actually recognized the man in front of her. Seth’s grin widened, and he said, “You know, of all the places I thought I might run into you, I didn’t think it would be the opera.”

  Without thinking, she blurted out, “What are you doing here?”

  He gestured to the arm that had been broken, the edges of bandages just visible at the cuff of his dress uniform. “My captain felt guilty about sending me into mod-infested territory without backup. Tickets to this were his way of an apology.”

  Liane glanced around, relieved when she caught sight of Damian still at the bar, his back to them. Turning back to Seth, she said firmly, “We shouldn’t be speaking here.”

  “How else am I supposed to thank you for saving my life?” Seth asked. “Tell me your last name and I’ll send flowers instead.”

  She gave him a withering look. “Do that and you really will prove that you have a death wish.”

  Seth laughed far too loudly for her comfort. “Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I just have a natural curiosity for women capable of breaking my neck with one hand.”

  “That curiosity is going to put you in the ground one day.”

  “Then save me from myself,” he smiled, “If you give me your number, we can arrange for a normal date rather than an ambush. There’s this expat pub in Bethnal Green that makes great burgers. We could go some time, have a conversation without mods and police patrols on all sides.”

  Liane stared at him, lost for words as her cheeks began to burn. Her thoughts drifted back to the moment in the ruins when they had stood pressed against one another. Seth was looking into her face with a slightly hopeful expression; she wondered if he was thinking the same.

  “I’d like to,” she said softly. “But I can’t.”

  Seth looked disappointed. “Boyfriend?”

  “Work,” she said, suddenly remembering Damian. She glanced back at the bar only to find that Damian was no longer there. Panic rose up in her throat, for she knew that they didn’t have much time.

  “You need to leave,” Liane said, grasping Seth’s arm and pushing him towards the door.

  “Watch it!” he said, wincing away from her. “Jesus, you’ve got a grip.”

  She loosened her hold, apologizing, “Sorry, but you really do have to—”

  “Here you are.” Damian stepped out from behind a nearby knot of people, a broad, false smile on his face and two glasses of champagne in his hands. He handed one to Liane, his dark eyes honing in on Seth as he asked, “A friend of yours?”

  Liane’s legs felt numb, as they
often did when she was on assignment. Damian’s smiles could fool others, but not her; she could feel his anger building on the air. She nodded to Seth, saying, “Damian, this is Seth . . .” She trailed off, unknowing of his last name.

  Seth reached out his good hand to Damian, saying with his usual friendliness, “Officer Seth Laski, though off-duty tonight.”

  “Of course. I remember speaking to Liane about you,” Damian said softly, gripping the officer’s hand for a few seconds longer than necessary. As he released Seth’s hand, he noted, “But she didn’t mention that you would be here tonight.”

  “A happy accident, I think,” Seth said, slightly more reserved than before.

  “Shouldn’t we be getting back to our seats?” asked Liane, taking a step towards the staircase.

  But Damian didn’t move, instead asking Seth, “Tell me, where did the two of you meet, again?”

  Seth looked steadily up at the taller man, saying with a small shrug, “I was out on patrol, and we happened upon one another.” His eyes filled with a challenge as he went on, “And how do the two of you know one another?”

  “Oh, we go far back, don’t we?” Damian said with a cutting smile at Liane that she didn’t return. “Ten years, almost.”

  Seth was now regarding Damian warily, able, at least subconsciously, to sense the hostility and warning behind the smiles. Seth nodded to Liane, saying, “Well, you know my last name, at least, should you ever need to track me down.”

  “Goodnight, Seth,” she said firmly, already taking Damian’s arm and turning them towards the staircase. He let her lead him away, leaving their untouched champagne on a tray by the railing.

  They passed the rest of the performance in silence. Liane was fidgeting by the time it was done, eager to get Damian away from the opera house and Seth. She couldn’t even put into words why she wanted to protect the officer; she just knew that she did. As soon as the curtain came down she was up and pulling Damian towards the exit. He let her, getting into the black car without a word of protest or a look back. They sat on opposite sides of the car, both staring out of their respective windows.