The Titan Strain

by Virginia Soenksen

  “Just a friend,” Liane said.

  Ahmad leaned forward on his elbows, some of the jovial humor vanishing as he looked intently at Seth. “I know you, I think. City of London Police?”

  Seth returned the gaze, asking, “Is it a problem if I am?”

  “Depends,” Ahmad said. “If you’re here to do business, we’ll talk. If you’re here in any official capacity, we might have to send you back to your station in pieces.”

  “He’s fine, Ahmad,” Liane interjected. “I wouldn’t have brought him if he wasn’t.”

  Ahmad turned his eyes to her, warning softly, “Don’t think you’re entirely safe either, sweetheart. Just because I like a pretty face doesn’t mean I won’t cut it off if need be.”

  Liane shrugged, pulling out the nearly-empty container from her pocket. “I thought you might need a challenge. But if you’d rather make threats, I’ll take this to Hideo instead.”

  Ahmad scoffed indignantly, and Seth caught a glimpse of wounded pride underneath the bravado. “Hideo? You’d take business to that idiot?”

  Liane glanced away, as if bored. “He’s not nearly as good as you, but he doesn’t threaten dismemberment.”

  “He’s a thug with a chemistry set,” snapped Ahmad.

  Seth couldn’t keep from asking, “What does that make you, then?”

  Ahmad grinned, spreading his arms. “An artist, of course. Now what is this?”

  “That’s what we need to know,” Liane said, taking out the full vial as well. “I’ll need the composition of this serum as well.”

  The dealer nodded, eyes alight as he headed towards the back room. “Come on, you know the way.”

  He led them through an equally small and grimy back room, scanning his thumbprint on a hidden keypad. The wall slid aside, revealing a pristine, stainless steel staircase. Ahmad flipped a switch, and a faint blue light illuminated the stairs. They walked down, the door sliding shut behind him. Seth looked around in faint awe as they came to the end of the staircase. Beyond a small sterilization chamber was a brightly-lit laboratory, one as spotlessly clean and modern as any he had ever seen. Several techs in clean suits were working and didn’t even glance at Seth and Liane.

  The three of them stayed in the antechamber for a moment, blue lights sweeping over them and neutralizing any bacteria or contaminants. Then Ahmad opened another door, and they walked into the cool confines of the lab.

  Ahmad walked over to a table full of equipment, looking at both vials as he sat on a backless stool. “Now where did this come from?”

  “The home of a murder victim,” Liane said, following him and watching as he began to work.

  “One of the mods on the news?” When she nodded, Ahmad shook his head, “Poor bastards. I knew some of them; good people.”

  “So they weren’t on the odds with any dealers?” Seth asked.

  Ahmad laughed, extracting a few milliliters of the full vial with a syringe. “Not with me. If they were having trouble with a middleman, well . . . that’s their business.”

  He carefully squeezed out a few drops into several thin containers, then began mixing and heating them. Liane sat nearby, not paying any attention, while Seth frowned and asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Deciphering these serums is a delicate business,” Ahmad said, his voice filled with reverence. “Complex, tricky little concoctions, these are. You have to coax out the individual components one by one. This, my friends, is artistry.”

  Ahmad worked for over an hour, wholly absorbed in his work to the point where he stopped even answering their questions. Eventually Seth and Liane drifted over to sit on the floor nearby, their backs against the wall as they watched him. He began to call over individual lab workers, murmuring to them and gesturing at various vials and microscopes. Soon all the workers within the lab were crowded around Ahmad, their heads all lowered and deep in conversation.

  Finally, Ahmad swiveled to look at the two spectators, a look of amazement on his face. “What in God’s name did you bring me?”

  Liane stood, frowning, “Tell me what you found out.”

  Ahmad held up the full vial. “Standard issue wolf serum. High grade, low level of fillers; mine is far superior, of course. But this . . .” He held up the near-empty vial, gazing at the pearly drops as he said, “This is very special.”

  Seth stood as well, asking, “It’s mod serum?”

  Ahmad laughed, shaking his head. “Mod serum is dross compared to this gold. No animal genetic material, at least not crude enough for me to extract. It’s synthetic, I can tell you that, and the modification potential is off the charts. Put this in your veins, and there’s no telling what would happen.”

  “Could you make more of it?” Seth asked.

  Gesturing with the vial for emphasis, Ahmad said, “No one can make this. It doesn’t exist; it can’t exist with the technology we have.”

  Liane moved forward, her strange eyes on the vial. “Is there enough for an injection?”

  Ahmad shook his head. “I barely had enough for my tests. There’s trace enough for you to make a chemical match if you ever find more, but no more than that.”

  Liane looked at him, her voice soft, “What do you think it would do?”

  The dealer grinned at her, face alight at the mere thought. “I think this could give you the perfect genetic modification. Who knows? Perhaps you’ve stumbled onto the Titan Strain and you don’t even know it.”

  “You think such a thing exists?” asked Liane.

  “Look around you, little girl,” said Ahmad with a smirk. “A few hundred years ago and we didn’t have a cure for the cancers ravaging our race. When it comes to evolution, there’s no limit to what might exist.”

  They left soon after, but only after paying Ahmad handsomely for his work. They said little as they climbed out of the underground lab, but when they were out on the street Liane turned to Seth.

  “So Jeanelle found the advanced serum,” she observed, her hood pulled up against the misting rain. “That means the other victims may have found it as well. You need to check their homes again, find any modding kits.”

  “We don’t need to find the serum,” Seth said, shaking his head. “We need to find the manufacturer.”

  Liane nodded. “Since we’re not certain where to start, I think we need to question Crispin.”

  “The alpha of the wolf mods?”

  “He didn’t like that I was asking questions to the other mods about the advanced serum. Maybe that was because he knows something about it and doesn’t want it to get traced back to him.”

  Seth looked at her, his voice hard as he demanded, “Do you think he could be the killer?”

  “He has a lot to lose if exposed as a mod,” Liane said. “I think he’d be willing to commit murder to protect that secret.”

  Seth sighed, shivering in the rain. “It’s circumstantial at best, but we don’t have a better option at this point.”

  Liane turned to go, saying, “We’ll regroup soon, figure out where and when to talk to him.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she turned and disappeared into the twisting alleys of the slum.

  Seth waited for a minute, and then took off running down towards the main alley. He reached the Dragon Gate in seconds, and then dashed across the rain-damp street and ducked into the entrance of a bar. Through the dirt-streaked window, he had a clear view of the gate, as well as of Liane when she emerged moments later. Seth watched her head to the left, waiting until she was a block away before jogging across the street, dodging cars to reach the sidewalk. He slowed to a walk, following after her.

  He had the rain to thank for the fact that she didn’t notice him tailing her; she kept her head down and hood up, walking quickly down one of the main city streets. He always kept a good distance back, ducking i
nto doorways when she stopped to wait for traffic lights. After fifteen minutes, she arrived at the towering, silver skyscraper that was her home. Seth watched her enter through a side door, then hurried over to check the electronic directory next to the entrance. Her name wasn’t there, but when he scrolled through the photos, he found her face next to a different identity. Seth stood frowning down at the computer screen, rain dripping from his sodden curls and into the collar of his coat. He pulled out his phone and took a photo of the entry; confident that he would be able to find her again, he turned to make the long walk back to his car.

  Chapter 8

  Damian was alone in the darkened training arena of the Agency, his exercise clothes soaked with sweat as he practiced kicks, punches, and knife strikes on a humanistic dummy. The sensors in it announced the damage he inflicted, a crisp, female voice echoing alongside his grunts and breaths.

  Kick. “Shattered ribs, lacerated liver . . .”

  Punch. “Severe head trauma, unconsciousness . . .”

  He drew a knife and stabbed it into the back of the dummy. “Spine severed, paralysis from the shoulders down.”

  From his nearby training bag came the electronic beeping of a phone call. Damian paused in his attack, walking over to retrieve the device and breathing hard as he answered, “Yes?”

  “Your next assignment is ready,” said a male Administrator. “In recognition of your recent success, you’ve been tasked with a matter of great importance to the Agency and the Party itself. Activate speaker for projection.”

  Damian put the phone on speaker, setting in on the table as a small hologram was projected from it. A photo of a grey-haired man with a goatee emerged, and the Administrator said, “Your target is Tomas Richta, the ambassador from the United Germanic States, who will be visiting London in a week.”

  Damian said nothing. He recognized the name and knew enough of Richta’s politics not to wonder why the man had become a target. The Germanic States had fought against Britain in the Third World War, and Richta had long made baseless accusations regarding the Libertas Party. Just last week Damian had seen the man on the news railing against the British Prime Minister, throwing around terms like ‘war criminal.’

  Truly, the only remarkable thing was that the ambassador hadn’t been assassinated earlier.

  The voice of the Administrator went on, “Richta will meet with officials at the Party headquarters and then walk to a nearby courtyard for a photo-op.” Three-dimensional models of several buildings replaced the photo, with a small group of animated people walking between them. One was highlighted in red, glowing faintly as the voice said, “He needs to be handled while he’s standing alongside the Party escorts. They may be wounded, but not seriously.”

  “It will be difficult,” Damian observed, moving to get a better angle of the projection.

  “That is why we selected you for this assignment. Your Agent holds top marks in sniping.”

  “I’ll need communication to the Party members.”

  “Acceptable.”

  “Liane wants the new Arctic Warfare rifle as well; I’ll need to expedite that request.”

  The Administrator gave an annoyed sigh, but said, “Acceptable. We will deliver it as well as the details to your office.”

  The projection flickered, and then vanished completely as the call ended. Damian turned back towards the dummy, realizing that he was still holding the practice knife in his hand. Flipping it to grip the blade, he hurled it at the dummy. The knife slammed into the dummy directly between the eyes, the force of it so great that the figure toppled heavily to the ground.

  Damian stood still for a moment, the corded muscles in his arms tensed as he fought to regain the iron control he’d always possessed. Soon; soon he would be the one handing down orders, and not taking them. Just a little bit longer . . . He rotated his head, willing the tension out of his shoulders. Then he turned, picked up his bag, and headed out to tell Liane of their next task.

  || | || | | || |

  After much debate amongst assistants and PR managers, the photo-op between Richta and the Party members was scheduled for noon following an overly cordial round of morning meetings and before a luncheon at a local banquet hall. The media, always eager for something to fill in the twenty-four-hour news cycle, followed the short procession of Richta and the Party members from the moment they left the headquarters. The reporters shouted out questions and shoved microphones towards the group, who tended to simply smile benignly and give short answers. Spectators, happy for a distraction, followed as well from behind the police escort. Amongst them was Damian, his dark eyes following Richta. When they were within a block of the photo-op location, he put in his ear-piece and dialed Liane.

  Atop the apartment building opposite the photo-op, Liane tapped a finger against her earpiece and said, “I’m in position.”

  “Good,” said Damian, drifting with the crowd. “We’re on our way now. How are conditions?”

  “It’s windy, but it shouldn’t be a problem,” Liane said, stretching out across the cement roof near the tripod that held her rifle. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she slid her arms into position around the gun and looked through the scope. The clear sight of the photo-op platform came into view. It was strewn with hothouse flowers in red and white, providing a perfect target for her. Liane shifted without looking away from the scope, trying to get as comfortable as possible. The black body-armor didn’t make it easy. She had done plenty of sniping missions, enough to know that the slightest discomfort would increase exponentially within minutes. Inside her leather gloves, her palms had begun to sweat in anticipation.

  She could see the crowd now and scanned it through the scope until she spotted Damian. He glanced up at her, and then made his way to a side-street from where he intended to oversee the mission. Liane focused her aim on Richta, tightening the butt of the gun against her shoulder as the politician climbed the steps to the platform.

  On the ground, Damian stood pretending to browse on his phone as he asked, “How is the positioning?”

  “I need the Senior Cabinet member to take a step to his left,” she murmured.

  Damian switched channels on his com, ordering, “A step to your left.”

  On stage, Cabinet Member Rothschild adjusted his stance slightly, his bright smile at the crowd never faltering.

  Liane’s view to Richta was now unobstructed. She settled into her grip, carefully lining up the shot. But before she was ready to fire, Richta began gesturing out to someone in the crowd, motioning for a pretty woman in a powder blue suit to join him. The woman laughed and obliged, walking up to stand just behind her husband. The cameras clicked away, the media loving every moment of it.

  Liane looked through her scope once more. Her shot was still there; the woman was standing just far enough that she wasn’t in the way, nor in danger of the bullet passing through her. But Liane hesitated. She kept seeing the faces of the murder victims’ families, hearing their tears as they’d spoken of their dead loved ones. If she pulled the trigger, Richta’s wife would be doing the same, and it would all be because of Liane.

  “Do you have the shot?” Damian asked, his voice hard now that the moment had arrived.

  “Yes,” Liane said softly.

  He turned away from the square, beginning to walk towards his car. “Then take it.”

  She looked out from behind the scope, then back again, before saying haltingly, “His wife is right beside him . . . she’ll see everything . . .”

  “That’s not your concern,” he said, pulling his coat closed against the wind. “Take the shot.”

  “I don’t . . .” Liane took a breath, then blurted out, “I don’t want to.”

  Down in the alley, Damian’s stride slowed and then stopped. He had reached his waiting car, ducking into the driver’s seat and closing the door. When
he finally spoke, his voice was low and venomous, as if he wanted to shout but was fighting not to. “I don’t care what you want. You’re under orders; we both are.”

  “I don’t want to,” Liane repeated desperately, though she still kept a tight grip on the rifle as she looked through the scope.

  Damian’s voice rose as he rapped out, “If you don’t do it, then we’re both terminated. Now unless you want to die instead of him, take the goddamn shot!”

  Down on the podium, Richta’s wife flinched as several drops of liquid hit her face. She brushed them away in irritation, worried for her makeup in the rain. Then she saw that her fingers were smeared with red. She turned, her mouth open in horror, as her husband toppled forward to the ground with the back of his head a mess of blood and matter. Her hands froze into claws on either side of her face, and she began to scream.

  Liane turned away from the pandemonium, unable to stand the sound of the screams. She quickly stowed her rifle in the open carry case, then tossed the strap across her body. She was down through the elevator shaft just as quickly, and out on the street in a matter of minutes, her trench coat tied tightly to hide her armor. People were running towards the sound of screams, and police cars with wailing sirens raced past her. Few took a second glance at the blonde girl, and those that did only wondered what had happened to so upset her.

  She reached the nearest safe-room, an underground chamber concealed within the foundation of an office building. The door opened at her touch, revealing a short flight of stairs that led to a low, sound-proofed room. In it stood a few tables alongside weapon racks and lockers; her civilian clothes were waiting for her in one of them. Liane walked mechanically into the room, her rifle case thrown to the floor before she collapsed on a bench in front of her locker. She sat staring blankly at the floor, wondering why; why she hadn’t argued more with Damian, why she had simply done as she was told, and why the screams of Richta’s wife were still haunting her.