The Titan Strain

by Virginia Soenksen

  When they arrived at Liane’s building, Damian got out, walking wordlessly with her through the side door next to the reinforced gate. They walked to the elevator, riding in silence until they reached her floor. Only when they came to a halt in front of her door did Damian look at her, his handsome face perfectly blank as he said, “That won’t happen again, Liane. If it does, I’ll hand down the order for his termination. I might even do it myself.”

  Liane turned to face him. Hot, irrational anger was pulsing through her veins, making her voice low and harsh as she said, “He didn’t do anything wrong, Damian. He just spoke with me.”

  “You’re letting him in,” Damian returned. “The incident at the ruins was bad enough; now he’s seeking you out.”

  “Why is that so bad?” she asked, a plea in her voice. “You didn’t have any issue with me socializing with the mods; why is this different?”

  “I gave you leave to spend one night a month with them,” he pointed out. “And that was only on the condition that you have no contact with them outside of that night. If I’d known it would just make you demand more and more, I wouldn’t have even allowed that.”

  Liane could feel the beginnings of fury boil up within her, each word growing louder as she said, “I follow orders, I complete missions, I do everything you ask. Why can’t I have one friend if it’s what I want—”

  Damian seized her shoulder and slammed her back against the wall, his other hand coming up to hold her there by the throat. Liane didn’t struggle; the blackness in his eyes was a warning not to do anything but stand there as he said in a low voice, “You don’t get to want, or feel. You get to follow orders, like every other soldier within the Agency. Do you understand me?”

  Through gritted teeth, she spat out, “Yes.”

  He released his grip on her neck, fingers gently smoothing the hair that he had tangled. His eyes drifted over her face; whether he was searching the truthfulness of her answer, or searching for something else, she couldn’t say. Then he pulled away, walking towards the elevator as he said over his shoulder, “We’ll have another face-to-face in three days, to make sure that you remember this conversation.”

  Liane looked after him, frustration welling up in her throat. Then she turned and pressed her thumb to the keypad, hearing the door unlock. Yanking it open, she walked through and slammed it shut behind her.

  || | || | | || |

  On the other side of the city Seth pushed open the door to his flat, tossing off the heavy dress jacket from his shoulders with a groan of relief. Throwing it onto a lumpy armchair full of laundry, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Without thinking, he twisted the cap with his injured hand and gave a hiss of pain before shaking out the arm. It would be fully healed in a few days, but right now even the smallest movement seemed to sting. Seth carried the beer back to the couch, kicking off his shoes and collapsing back against the cushions. Tucking his free hand behind his head, he thought back to Liane.

  Odd, certainly; something wasn’t quite right in those strange eyes that were so similar to his own. But her face was too tempting to resist a little flirting. Too bad about her overdressed, hulking escort with his condescending smiles. But then, Seth had always liked a little healthy competition.

  He sat up, retrieving his computer and carrying it over to the crowded kitchen table. Shoving aside the mail and unpacked groceries, he sat down and tapped a few keys. The police databank appeared, and he quickly logged in. Taking another swig of his beer, he set it aside and said to himself, “Right, Liane, let’s find out who you really are . . .”

  Chapter 3

  Diane struck the pad with the back of her fist, ducking as the trainer behind her swung another pad at her head. Sweat was dripping down her face, soaking the shirt that clung to her back. Another trainer jabbed at her midsection with a trick knife; she dodged the blade, grasping the trainer’s wrist and twisting hard enough that he had to drop the weapon. That was the most difficult part, to neutralize the trainers without harming any of them.

  The Handlers around the edges of the practice ring were cheering on the fight, several nudging one another and pointing out her technique or accuracy. Only Damian was silent, his critical eyes following her as she threw the last trainer out of her way. Reaching the table at the other side of the ring, Liane seized the training gun from its holster and fired twelve times in as many seconds. A buzzer went off, and the trainers all sagged with relief, their padding and clothes dotted with blue paint from the mock bullets.

  “Four minutes and three seconds,” Damian noted, joining her inside the ring. “You shaved off five seconds from your record time.” He handed her a bottle of water, nodding as he said, “Well done.”

  Liane smiled slightly, taking a sip from the bottle and using another handful to cool down her face. Never mind that they hadn’t spoken since their last argument after the opera; it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Damian was never generous with praise, so she savored even this small compliment.

  “Your girl isn’t bad, Damian,” called out another Handler as they left the ring. The Agent at his back was an empty-eyed bruiser, all defined muscle and towering height. There was a challenge in the Handler’s eyes as he suggested, “Why not have her face mine next? I’ll give you good odds.”

  Damian looked at the man coldly. “I don’t bet with Liane. Excuse us . . .”

  The other Handler flushed, scowling at the snub, as Damian led Liane away from the practice ring. She glanced up at him, noting, “I’ve seen that Agent spar. You should have let me fight him. I could have broken a few ribs, at least. Sent a message.”

  “I have nothing to prove to them,” he said with a shake of his head. “Besides, we’re late for your blood work.”

  They headed away from the practice arena, but not before Liane glanced at the ranking wall, where a screen listed the mission success of each and every team. She and Damian were listed at the very top, as they had been for years. Satisfied, she shouldered her bag and followed after her Handler.

  He led the way, winding through the series of corridors past a variety of Agency offices and laboratories. Their destination was the medic bay, a large, open room filled with curtained partitions. Liane headed automatically to one of the evaluation areas, and Damian called out for a medic as she lay back on the white paper-covered gurney.

  A chipper young female medic walked in, wearing a white coat and an equally bright smile. “And how are we today, Liane?”

  Liane remained silent and unsmiling as she extended her arm. Damian shot her a look, one that meant, Be pleasant.

  “Fine,” Liane answered at last, admitting, “A little hungry.”

  “Well, let’s get that blood drawn and get you to the canteen,” beamed the medic, wrapping a rubber cord around Liane’s upper arm. In moments she had filled several vials with blood, and then motioned for Liane to sit up.

  One of the vials went into the machine next to the bed, which whirred for a few seconds. On the screen above, the analysis appeared in thin blue script. Damian went over to it, silently reading over the statistics alongside the medic.

  “Everything looks very good,” said the woman, unlocking a drawer in the wall and drawing out a fresh needle and a squat vial filled with clear liquid. “We’ll just give you some B12 for now.”

  “I thought the numbers were in the correct range,” Liane noted, looking to Damian.

  “Low end of normal,” Damian said, eyes drifting away from the screen and back to her. “Go ahead.”

  The medic nodded, slipping the needle into the muscle of Liane’s shoulder. A burning sensation spread through her as the plunger depressed, but it only lasted a moment before the medic removed the needle with a cheery smile. “All set. I’ll have the numbers sent up to the canteen so the nutrition can be in line with your panel.”

  Liane nodded, ru
bbing her shoulder as the burning faded. Damian gestured, and she fell in step with him as they walked from the medic center.

  “You’ll have some downtime for the next few weeks,” Damian said as they walked, keeping his voice low despite the hum of conversation around them. “Some idiots over at the news centers have lit upon the disappearances and deaths within the city. We’ll need to scale back our efforts.”

  “I can do surveillance,” she suggested.

  “Our tech Supporters are on that already.” He glanced over at her, eyes softening. “Besides, you’ve earned some time off. Use the weeks to rest, train, and research. Practice your Russian; it’s terrible.”

  “Po’shyol ‘na hui,” Liane retorted. A rueful smile escaped Damian, and she rolled her sore shoulder in irritation. “I don’t like being useless.”

  They had reached the canteen, but Damian paused outside of it. Turning to her, he said, “If you want, I can make time in my schedule for you.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Damian shrugged. “You said that you wanted a friend. Perhaps if I was more of one to you, you wouldn’t need to look outside the Agency.”

  Liane searched his face, asking with hesitancy, “What would we do?”

  He smiled faintly. “Go for a run . . . have lunch . . . attend an exhibition or two . . . Whatever we want. It’s a rare opportunity to have a chance to spend time together. We should take advantage of it.”

  Still doubtful, Liane asked, “Would you truly want to?”

  He looked surprised. “Of course. Apart from each other, who else do we have?”

  She finally nodded, admitting, “I’d rather be with you than be alone for weeks on end.”

  Damian gave a short laugh. “Your compliments could use some work. Alright, then. I’ll call you soon.”

  He walked past her, heading towards the offices of the Administrators. Liane watched him go, then turned and headed into the pristine, stainless steel canteen. The kitchen Supporter scanned her arm, frowning at the screen for a moment and then quickly assembling a tray of carefully weighed portions for her. Liane took it without question, going to one of the small tables. They only sat two apiece, so that Handlers could sit and eat with their Agents. Liane had seen pictures of large tables, ones where families happily ate together. She wondered, as she pulled the plastic wrap from her portion of chicken and brown rice, what that must feel like. She had no memory of her parents, and meals at the orphanage had been eaten in silence and wherever one could find room on the floor.

  She remembered the day that the Agency recruiters had come for her, however.

  A woman in a dark suit had visited, watching through mirrored glasses as the children ran around the desolate asphalt lot beside the orphanage. Liane remembered how the woman’s head had turned, following her as she’d run and jumped with the others. Liane had been called to the headmistress’s office soon after, though she’d answered to another name at that time. Inside the office, more men and women in suits were waiting. A medic had drawn her blood; it had hurt, but she had grown used to hiding pain. After running the vials through a scanner, they seemed impressed with the findings and began to ask her questions and gave her logic puzzles to solve. Liane had enjoyed that, and her heart had nearly skipped a beat when the woman in the mirrored glasses smiled and said, “We’ll take her.”

  The car ride had been exhilarating; she had never been inside of one. She had stroked the smooth leather upholstery and unbroken glass windows in wonderment. When one of the women offered her a glass of juice, Liane had been so excited that she drank the entirety in one gulp. After that things grew fuzzy, and the last thing she remembered was her eyes closing on their own.

  She woke up in a bed in a white room. Her skin and hair felt clean and cold, and the scent of alcohol lingered around several bandaged needle-marks on her arms. She sat up, looking down at her white pajamas, confused but not afraid. Then the door had opened, revealing a tall, grave-looking young man with dark hair and dark eyes. She stared up at him, slightly dazed; next to the half-starved adults who ran the orphanage, he looked almost inhumanly perfect. She felt small, ugly, and insignificant next to him, but his eyes held nothing but interest as he stepped towards her.

  “Liane, I’m Damian,” he said as the door closed automatically behind him. “I’m your Handler.”

  Light-headed, she said, “That’s not my name.”

  “It is now.” He came over and sat next to her on the bed, looking steadily at her as he went on, “You’ve been recruited into the Program. You’ll be trained by the instructors here, and by me. If you successfully complete your training, you’ll become an Agent.”

  “Is that what you are?”

  “It’s what I was, until recently,” he said, hesitating slightly as he admitted, “I was made a Handler a month ago. You’re my first assignment.”

  She had realized, then, that underneath the impassive face and clipped words, he was nervous as well. She looked around the room. The walls were perfectly smooth and inescapable, and there was no handle on the inside of the door. It was clear that the only way out lay with the young man in front of her. She sat up a little straighter, asking, “What do Agents do?”

  “Protect this country from those who would harm it,” Damian answered. “Sometimes that means hurting bad people.”

  Her voice went hard. “Most people are bad.”

  “Not all. I’m not.” He slid an inch closer to her, saying frankly, “Training here won’t be easy. You’ll follow orders even if it means pain, and there will be consequences if you fail to meet our expectations. But you’ll also learn to do extraordinary things, become exceptional. I can help you do that, Liane.”

  Her small mouth clenched, and she said childishly, “I don’t trust you.”

  Damian raised an eyebrow. “Honesty is one of the basic tenets between a Handler and Agent; it’s intrinsic to how we work.”

  She shook her head, feeling muddled by his words. “I don’t understand.”

  “Understand that I will never lie to you.”

  She watched him, wary, then asked, “If I don’t want to be an Agent . . . then could I go home?”

  Damian regarded her for a moment, then said, “Your intelligence tests were impressive. Consider what you would be going back to.”

  She thought about the orphanage then, the cold nights when she’d shivered under thin blankets, fought for scraps with the other children. No one had ever loved her there, or even given her a second glance. They’d certainly never looked at her like Damian was now; with consideration, with care.

  She pondered it all for a moment, and he didn’t try to interrupt. Finally she raised her irregular eyes to his and asked, “Will you be with me while I train?”

  Damian nodded, and gave her the first smile he’d allowed himself since entering the room. “Every step of the way.”

  She drew in a breath, then nodded. “Alright. Then I’ll be Liane . . .”

  “. . . Liane?”

  Back in the canteen, Liane looked up, jolted back to reality. One of the tech Supporters was standing next to her table, and he was holding a new phone out to her. As she took it, the tech explained, “Start using this one today. Return the old one the next time you’re here.”

  The tech was already turning away and didn’t hear her murmur of thanks. Liane set the phone on the table with a sigh, turning back to her cooling meal and trying to keep her thoughts on the present.

  || | || | | || |

  Damian moved through the darkened office, sitting in the black, high-backed chair and turning on the monitors of the computer. Five screens glowed a faint green, then sharpened to reveal the programs he’d left open. Police databases, news feeds, and government dailies . . . Some Handlers used their downtime to get drunk, or find willing, anonymous partners for sex.

 
Damian liked to work.

  The recent murders caught his attention fairly quickly. The media had moved on from the deaths of politicians. Now the story flashing across the feeds were the disappearance of at least ten people. Not particularly interesting in itself, except for the fact that all ten were suspected of being mods.

  Damian’s fingers flew over the keyboard, expertly maneuvering around the firewall that protected the files of the police. He was unsurprised to find out that bodies had actually been found. The missing, or parts of them, at least, had been found in no particular pattern. One was unearthed in a dustbin, the other in Hyde Park, the next floating in the Thames. Troubling, but not enough for worry for either civilians or Liane. She was more than capable of defending herself. Damian leaned back in his chair, a small smile curving his lips. He’d seen her go up against experienced thugs over twice her weight and dispatch them easily. It would be an entertaining diversion to set her against a serial killer.

  But not yet. Ten was nothing, and they were supposed to be resting.

  He moved his hand over the keyboard, and the programs diminished to reveal the feed from Liane’s flat. Each room flashed by at his command, all of them empty. He drew up another program, and a grid of the city streets appeared. A green dot was drifting down one of the streets, moving steady along her usual route from the Agency to her home. He looked at it for a moment, then moved on to a museum website. An exhibition of weapons, a private collection, was opening the week after next. Damian nodded to himself, knowing she would like that, and then picked up the phone to order tickets.

  || | || | | || |

  The first thing Liane did after returning to her flat was to take a long, hot shower, letting water pound against her shoulder in an attempt to chase away the lingering pain from the injection. As she walked into the living room, her hair still damp on her neck, she rotated her shoulder. Still sore. She would work it that evening until the ache faded.