The Titan Strain

by Virginia Soenksen

  The housekeeper had been there. The white and black flat was spotless, and within the fridge were her meals for the week, carefully wrapped in plastic. Liane stood looking down at the trays distastefully, then turned to the television and said, “Screen on.”

  The screen flared to life, revealing another coiffed newscaster smiling as he said, “Police have recently made a number of arrests for modding abuse. The suspects were arrested in the ruins of Old London and could face up to ten years in prison for drug abuse. Prosecutors alluded to the potential for suspects to also be charged with distribution of mod serum, an offense that carries the death penalty.”

  Liane leaned against the kitchen island, watching as the screen switched to a lawyer in an expensive suit who was saying angrily, “This is another disgusting example of how the Prime Minister’s war on mods is misusing manpower both within our police departments and in our courts. These are upstanding citizens who have never harmed anyone. The time has come to accept that individuals with genetic modification deserve acceptance, not prosecution.”

  The image switched again, this time to footage of five or six handcuffed men and women being pulled from police cars. The suspected mods were covering their faces, while the police shoved aside cameras and reporters to reach the headquarters. Liane didn’t recognize any of the mods, nor, she realized with disappointment, any of the officers.

  It was the first Cardinal Rule of the Agency; no contact with civilians. But the rule said nothing about keeping an eye on them. With that thought in mind, Liane went to the hall closet, opened up the hidden panel in the wall, and pulled out a surveillance kit.

  || | || | | || |

  Seth proved laughably easy to follow. He lived in a rambling, crumbling loft in Shoreditch above a coffee shop, where he stopped every day before heading out on his shift. He walked almost everywhere, which made it easy for Liane to track him. She wished he were taller, as his average height and slim build made him difficult to pick out in a crowd. But following on foot was a challenge, since he seemed hyper-aware of everyone around him. He was forever stopping and greeting neighbors, welcoming faces that he didn’t recognize. So Liane stayed to the rooftops, using binoculars to silently shadow him.

  Most days he spent at work, passing long hours in a basement desk with the rest of the Genetic Modification Task Force. At least he seemed to be enjoying himself. Whether he was filling out paperwork or eating cheap street food with his fellow officers, she usually found him laughing and joking. He didn’t seem to care that he was working in the lowest ranked police station, or that the press regularly derided the Task Force as a useless gesture from the Prime Minister meant to silence political critics. It was inexplicable to Liane how content he seemed with mediocrity. It made her think back to the only time she had failed on a mission.

  The mission had gone bad from the start, then went completely wrong when she lost her target in a labyrinthine slum. When she regrouped with the other Agents she could see it in their eyes: the disappointment, the disgust with her failure. She had gone back to her flat sick with shame, ready to put a gun in her mouth. The only reason she hadn’t was that Damian had been waiting there for her and had managed to sedate her before she could draw her weapon.

  Afterwards, as she laid in his arms slowly drifting into unconsciousness, was the only time in her life that Liane had cried.

  So seeing Seth go happily about his life, which was so unremarkable, made no sense to her. She waited until he was assigned the graveyard shift, and then broke into his flat to seek the answer to it all. He left his windows open, which made it easy for her to scale the walls from the roof down to the ledge and slip inside.

  Liane had never been inside a civilian home before that didn’t belong to a target, and stood for a moment taking it in. The loft was a wreck. Dirty dishes filled the sink, the couch was piled with laundry, and half-empty glasses dotted nearly every surface. But there were photos on the wall, and Liane stepped through the mess to better see them. Most showed Seth with a man and woman who resembled him, but there were also others . . . him with friends, with dogs . . . at a lake . . . making faces with teammates . . . One of the largest showed Seth in his uniform, beaming at a captain as he accepted his badge. The photographs memorized, Liane finally turned away and went to the computer station.

  It seemed that this was how Seth spent his money, for the arrangements of screens and the panel touch board was all top of the line. Liane brought it out of sleep mode, browsing through files for a few minutes before pulling up his search history. She realized, with faint shock, that he had been looking for her. He had tried every spelling variant of her first name through the databases, had even viewed the security feeds at the Royal Opera and the surrounding streets in an attempt to get a still of her face to run through a recognition program.

  “Oh, you idiot,” she whispered under her breath. “Why not just draw the Agency a map to your door?”

  Her gloved fingers moved over the smooth, illuminated keyboard, and in a matter of minutes she had erased his searches for her. Someone like Damian or a tech would be able to find the thread through the net, but only if they were already looking for it. Standing, she drew out a small, silver case from her coat pocket. Inside were minute listening devices smaller than a fingertip. She placed several around the flat, then secured one to every coat in Seth’s closet. Satisfied, she returned to the window and left the same way that she had come.

  || | || | | || |

  All Agents had a routine when not on missions. For Liane, it always started with a morning run. Afterwards she would go to educational sessions in the Agency, mostly focusing on weapons, tech, and languages. The afternoon was for training and physical testing, and by six she would be free to do what she wanted. Usually that consisted of riding her cycle through the city and reading in her flat. That was why Liane preferred missions; better the danger and variety of those rather than the monotony of downtime.

  The morning after she’d rigged Seth’s apartment, Liane put on her running clothes and headed down to the ground floor. When she spotted Damian waiting in the lobby, she felt a momentary rush of panic that her trespasses had been discovered. But then she noticed that he was smiling and dressed in running clothes as well.

  “I thought I might join you today,” he said, falling in step with her as they headed out into the city. “You set the pace.”

  “Where do you want to go?” Liane asked, still surprised that he was there.

  Damian put on his smog-filtering sunglasses, saying, “Anywhere you want. And don’t worry about outstripping me; I’ll keep up.”

  Liane nodded, and set them out at a steady pace. To anyone else it would have looked like the two were sprinting, but to Liane it was no more strenuous than walking. Liane took them towards the river, running alongside the polluted, oil-slicked water of the Thames. There were signs along the crumbling walls, proclaiming that the Libertas Party was dedicated to restoring London to its full glory. Liane ignored the pedestrians and cars that they passed, but she did sneak glances over at Damian. It was strange to have someone else with her, but after several minutes Liane found that she liked the company.

  They had reached kilometer five when Damian gestured, saying, “You can see the Agency from here.”

  Liane looked across the river at the skyscraper, noting, “And the Libertas Headquarters behind it.”

  Damian gave a dry smile. “It wouldn’t do to have us too far away from our masters, would it?”

  “I heard that the Agency Director has been at odds with the Prime Minister,” Liane noted. “Is that true?”

  “Powerful people rarely get along with one another,” Damian said with a short laugh. “By the end of the year, we might answer to a new Director.”

  “Will that affect us?” Liane asked.

  “Potentially.” When he caught her frown, he said, “Don’t worry.
I won’t let anything happen to you. You trust me to do that, don’t you?”

  Liane nodded, not wanting to voice the worries crowding her mind.

  They crossed the river soon after, heading for another six kilometers back to Liane’s building. While Damian was sweating and breathing hard when they finally slowed to a walk, Liane was completely unaffected by the run. Damian shook his head, saying, “Sometimes I wouldn’t mind having your advancements. Don’t misunderstand, I’m happy with my own, but yours . . .”

  He trailed off, shaking his head in silent admiration. Liane glanced at a passing jogger on the other side of the seat, asking quietly, “What do you think it feels like?”

  Damian tilted his head, wordlessly inviting explanation.

  Somewhat longingly, she clarified, “Being normal.”

  Shrugging, Damian answered, “I wouldn’t know. Nor would anyone else in the Agency.”

  “It must be nice,” she went on, her mismatched eyes on the pedestrians, “Knowing that everyone else is like you, not having to hide . . .”

  “Perhaps before genetic modifications were a possibility,” Damian said dismissively. “But now . . . I imagine they just feel like sheep amongst wolves.”

  Disquieted, Liane asked, “What made you come with me today?”

  “That’s what I promised, wasn’t it? To be a better friend to you.” He took off his mirrored glasses, observing, “Besides, you’re not the only one who gets lonely, Liane.”

  Liane tried to conceal her surprise; she had never considered Damian capable of feeling loneliness. It seemed too weak of an emotion for him. She scanned her print, and the door to her building opened. She paused, saying, “Thank you for keeping your promise.”

  He gave her a small smile, then said, “I got tickets to the weapon exhibition at the Kensington Center. Do you want to go?”

  “Is that an order?”

  “No,” he said quietly, “It’s a request, one that you can refuse if you wish.”

  Liane thought for a moment, then nodded, “I’d like to see it with you.”

  Damian smiled, moving away as he said, “I’ll send a car.”

  || | || | | || |

  That evening, after her training exercises were complete, Liane headed back out into the city. Her cycle zipped through the busy streets, skirting traffic accidents and roadblocks until she crossed into Shoreditch. She parked her cycle in an alley, then climbed up to the roof of the building across from Seth’s. She sat on the brick ledge, her legs dangling above the ten-story drop to the street below. After accessing the surveillance program on her tablet, she put in the attached earbuds and then raised her binoculars.

  The sound of laughter filled her ears, and through the binoculars she could see Seth sitting on the floor with several other people. Boxes of take-away food littered the coffee table, and candles burned around the room. Seth was laughing loudest of all, and when a knock came at the door he jumped up, welcoming five more people to the mix. Liane watched him hug them in welcome, accepting bottles of wine and ushering them inside. To her eyes the room was uncomfortably crowded with people, but none of them seemed to care.

  The group made small talk, something Liane had never really grasped. They asked about mutual friends, families, and then the conversation turned to work.

  “Heard you’ve been busy lately, Seth,” said a large man with a thick beard, helping himself to the chips.

  “Unfortunately,” Seth said, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window. “I’ll be glad when I can get back to arresting dealers.”

  One of the girls gave a shudder, rubbing a hand against her gooseflesh-covered arm. “You hear stories about serial killers, but you never think it will happen near you, you know?”

  “Just don’t mod to excess,” said another girl, handing the first a glass of wine. “At least not enough that you head out to the ruins to be with those freaks. I heard the killer is one of their own, that they’re killing each other.”

  The first girl didn’t look comforted. “It’s still creepy as hell.”

  “Don’t worry—Seth is going to catch whoever it is,” the second said, nudging Seth as she added, “Aren’t you?”

  His eyebrows rose as he gave a sigh. “I hope so.”

  “You’d think with a killer on the loose you’d drink something other than this crap,” said another man, grabbing at Seth’s beer. “America ruined you.”

  Seth laughed, choking as he tried to hold onto his drink. “Hey, don’t undervalue a cold, cheap beer. Now we’ve got time to kill before the concert; who wants to order pizza?”

  Liane watched until they all spilled drunkenly out of the apartment an hour later. As they headed off in cabs, she quietly folded up her equipment, replacing it in her bag. They had been so . . . happy. Carefree, even in the midst of everything going on. They weren’t rich or privileged; just normal, everyday people who took pleasure in one another’s company. Seth most of all, whose natural state seemed to be one of joy.

  Liane climbed down from the roof to her cycle, frowning and lost in thought. She knew, in her rational mind, that Damian was right; that in this world, it was a far better thing to be a wolf amongst sheep than the other way around. But sometimes, like tonight, she couldn’t help wishing that it didn’t have to be true.

  Chapter 4

  Beth knew it wouldn’t be good news the moment he was called into the captain’s office with the rest of the Task Force. But he went all the same, nervously sweating in his uniform. They all gathered around the desk, standing while the captain sat and looked at them with his piggy little eyes.

  “You’ve all heard about the mod murders by now,” the captain said, scrutinizing each of them in turn. “The eleventh and twelfth victims were discovered today in our district. That means we have jurisdiction over the majority of the cases, so the whole damn thing is now ours.”

  The captain turned towards the evidence screen against the wall that now held a list of victims, photographs, and maps with marked locations. Pointing at the screen, the captain said, “All of these victims were known mods. And not the regular junkies who just inject the stuff monthly in order to turn heads. These would dose weekly, and all had incurred permanent genetic alteration. One had incisors so long he couldn’t even close his jaws. All were rumored to be regulars at the mod meetings in the ruins.”

  The captain turned to Seth, barking out, “Laski, I’ll expect you to take the lead on this, seeing as how you’re the only one here who’s gone into a mod meeting and come out alive.”

  No thanks to my own skills, Seth thought as he nodded.

  The captain looked back at the screen, gesturing with the hand in a remote keyboard glove. Images of severed limbs filled the screen, and he went on, “Same M.O. for each. Dismembered post-mortem and then scattered. So far there hasn’t been a single complete corpse found, just bits and pieces, so cause of death is uncertain.”

  The captain gestured again, and the screen went blank as the lights went up. “The dosage of mod serum in all of them was off the charts. You’re likely looking for a dealer, or another mod. Now get to work. The media is already all over my ass on this.”

  The Task Force did so immediately, beginning a long string of interviews with the families and friends. Seth was at most of them, nodding sympathetically as he listened to the widows, the fathers, the roommates. It was exhausting work, one that left more questions than answers. None of the victims had anything in common. One was a doctor, the other a low-level thief. There was a beautiful former model, and an eighteen-year old kid barely into university. There was no pattern, no thread linking them, other than the modding.

  And then, two weeks after the investigation began, the body of a child was found. Seth went to the morgue to get the autopsy report firsthand. The tiny arm and leg were draped with a sheet, which the harangued medical exa
miner only pulled back for a few minutes as she explained, “The kid was identified by the genetic profile. Turns out she was born with Beckwith–Wiedemann syndrome, diagnosed pre-natal. Developed pancreatoblastoma when she was five, didn’t respond to treatment. Parents started dosing her with mod serum. It cured the cancer, but now here she is on a slab. What a waste . . .”

  That evening, Seth wearily climbed the stairs to his flat. His feet were aching and the cold beer in the grocery bag under his arm was the only thing that promised to get him through another night of pouring over the case docs.

  The door keypad was an old one, and he mashed his thumb against it several times before it opened. The loft beyond was dark, save for the faint green light from the evidence screen he’d carried in from work. Seth closed the door, kicking off his shoes and moving towards the kitchen.

  “You’re off track.”

  The grocery bag went crashing to the floor, glass breaking as Seth drew his gun and leveled it into the dark corner of the kitchen. A figure was standing there, shrouded in shadow. Then the person shifted slightly, the light from the window falling across a familiar face and white-blonde hair.

  Still gripping the gun, Seth stared at Liane and gasped, “Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you—how did you get in here?”

  Liane gestured to the window. “You leave it unlocked.” She eyed his weapon, saying, “I can disarm you in three point five seconds.”

  Still breathing hard, Seth finally lowered the gun. He noticed the bag was now leaking all over the floor, soaking his socks. Swearing, he carried the dripping bag to the sink and dropped it in with a rattle of broken glass. Holstering his gun, he turned back and demanded, “What are you doing here?”