The Titan Strain

by Virginia Soenksen

  “What are you doing?” cried the scientist, trying to stop only to be forced towards the door by Seth. “What are you doing?”

  Liane turned, and the utter rage in her eyes made the man shrink back. “I’m sending a message. Seth, get him outside.”

  Seth yanked the man by his white coat, wordlessly complying. Liane waited until they were gone, then continued splashing the flammable liquid around the lab. When she had reached the door, she tossed aside the container, taking one last look at the lab. Picking up a butane torch from the nearest table, she ignited the flame and tossed it towards the puddle of acetone on the floor. The liquid burst into flame, racing like a tidal wave across the lab until it was almost completely engulfed. She waited, making sure that the flames had reached the storage room containing the vials of the Strain. They began to burst from the heat, the serum sizzling as it touched the fire.

  Turning her back on the devastation, Liane headed back to the van.

  Seth and the scientist were standing beside the van, faces slack as they watched the fire spread behind Liane. The scientist looked on the verge of tears, flinching back from Liane as she approached.

  Liane motioned them both into the van, ordering, “Let’s go. We need to get out before the fire reaches the garage.”

  The scientist went into the back of the van with Liane, who held a gun on him as Seth drove them quickly out to the entrance ramp. The hatch rose automatically, triggered by the sensors in the driveway, and the van emerged once more into the ruins.

  Seth drove beyond the fence before Liane ordered him to stop. She slid the door open, pushing the scientist out. He stumbled, limping on his wounded leg as she said hollowly, “Go; wait for the Agents and firemen to arrive.”

  The man wasted no time, running unsteadily off into the wilderness.

  Seth twisted in his seat to look at her, confused. “Why let him go?”

  “His death wouldn’t have mattered,” she explained. “He’s just one of many who work here. Besides, I’m tired of killing.”

  The look Seth gave her was slightly pitying. “When the Agency learns about this, you’ll be doing much more of it, I’d wager.”

  She motioned for him to move to the passenger seat, which he did wordlessly. Liane drove them back down the road, veering off over uneven ground to reach to where they had hidden his car. She parked the van, hands gripping the steering wheel and eyes fixed ahead.

  Seth was the one to ask, “What now?”

  “Now you run,” she said tonelessly, not looking at him. “Damian has put a burn order on you. You need to call your friends and family first, tell them to get out of the country. Then you get as far away from London as you can. Russia’s an option. Can you speak the language? My Russian is terrible, Damian always says so—”

  “I’m not running away!” Seth shouted. “Not to bloody Russia—not anywhere! I’m staying here and helping you!”

  She did look at him then, and the raw, unmasked pain in her eyes made Seth fall silent. Quietly, she said, “There’s nothing you can do. I have one more task to do, and then I’m going to go home and wait for Damian to come for me. When he does, I’m going to take out as many Agents and Handlers as I can.”

  “That’s suicide,” Seth said, agonized. “Come with me.”

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head. “You’re not going to become collateral damage in my fight. You’re going to run, and get beyond their reach, because I’m asking that of you. If I have to die, at least I get to die knowing that you got away.”

  “I won’t—”

  “Please, Seth,” said Liane, quietly sincere. “You’ve been the best friend . . . the only friend I’ve ever had. You set me free when I didn’t even know I was chained. Do this for me.”

  Seth went silent, mouth opening and then closing as he struggled for the right words. Liane jerked her head towards the vehicle outside, saying, “Go on.”

  Slowly, clearly unhappy, Seth eased out of the passenger seat. He stood there with his hand on the door for a moment, then closed it and walked over to his car. Liane didn’t watch him go; she didn’t think she could. Teeth sunken into her lower lip, she turned the van and headed back to the city.

  Chapter 16

  Dawn the next morning was hidden behind heavy clouds, and sheets of rain pummeled the concrete and glass of the city. James O’Brien, the leading news anchor for the United Kingdom Network, was soaked and irritable by the time he walked into his office. He muttered obscenities as he yanked off his overcoat, shouting at a passing intern, “Bloody hell, Anna, where is my coffee?”

  The girl cast a frightened glance at him, hurrying away. “Right away, sir.”

  James sat down at his desk, still muttering as he pulled his inbox closer, riffling through its contents. There were the usual memos and invoices, but there was also a large, padded envelope lacking a return address. Only his name and office address were on it, written in deliberate block letters. He slit open the corner, dumping the contents on his desk. A small vial tumbled out, making a tinkling sound as it hit the wood but not shattering. James picked it up, frowning down at the medical label and seal. He turned to the letter and thumb drive that had come in the envelope, reading over the note and then plugging the drive in. He watched the video that appeared, his eyes growing steadily wider. When it was finished he seized the vial, drive, and letter, shoving them back into the envelope and running out of the office.

  The head producer of the UKN was just sitting at his desk with a mug of tea when James burst into his office. The anchor’s face was florid, his eyes bright with excitement.

  “Whatever you were going to run as the headline at six, drop it,” said James as he held up the envelope. “The story of the century just broke.”

  || | || | | || |

  Seth didn’t know where to go when he went back to the city. Nothing seemed real. Twenty-four hours ago he’d just been normal, worrying about his job, his rent, his mother living alone . . . Now the things he was worried about were far larger than he’d ever thought possible. Secrets that he had no business knowing, and no way to fix. It wasn’t fair, when he’d only ever wanted to stop a series of mysterious murders, impress a beautiful, strange girl . . . If she’d never come into his life, he wouldn’t be in this ruddy situation to begin with.

  His jaw tightened. No, that wasn’t fair to blame Liane. She’d done nothing but try to help him, and her own discoveries were far worse than his. It was still difficult for him to believe what she’d told him about being in danger, but the first thing he’d done after she’d driven away was to call his mother and tell her to disappear.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can,” he’d promised after talking down her protests. “Just take what you need and get on a plane to the continent. Take only what you can carry.”

  “Bubbale, you’re scaring me,” she’d said, the worry in her voice more upsetting than anything else. “What’s happening?”

  “I can’t tell you. You’ve got to just trust me and leave as soon as possible.”

  He didn’t stop until she promised that she would do as he said. Before he’d hung up, he told her that he loved her, pushing aside the thought that he might never see her again.

  Though he knew Liane wouldn’t approve, he drove back to Shoreditch. Maybe he could get there before the Agency, save a few things. His father’s inspector’s badge, photos of friends that he’d lost, maybe even some food for the road . . .

  As he turned down the street of his flat, he found himself stopped by a roadblock. A young officer was standing in front of it, directing people towards a detour. When Seth neared him, he leaned out of his car window, rain splattering his face as he held up his badge and asked, “What’s happening up there?”

  “Some building exploded,” the kid said, water streaming from the brim of his uniform hat. “They think it
might have been a leaking gas main in some coffee shop; blew up half the block. They’re searching for survivors now.”

  Seth’s eyes drifted past the roadblock. Amongst the fire trucks and ambulances, he saw a small fleet of expensive black vans parked along the side of the road. A chill ran down his spine, and he slowly turned the car away, fighting not to speed out of fear.

  Seth struggled to focus as he drove. It helped to list off the things he needed in his head. New ID; a passport and card for now and, if possible, a modification on his tattoo. Transportation; maybe a cycle, something small and easy to hide. Money enough to pay for travel out of the country.

  He headed to the nearest ATM first, head down under his hood to hide from the cameras. He scanned his forearm then entered his pass code, but a red box appeared on the screen, reading:

  **Account Frozen**

  “You sons-of-bitches,” Seth whispered, backing away from the machine. His head was swimming. Only after he’d returned to his car did he realize that there one place in the city that the government might not have touched.

  The rain became a downpour when Seth walked through the Dragon Gate to Chinatown, soaked to the bone and shivering. It took him a little while to find Ahmad’s pawnshop, and he got lost once before finally stumbling into the dusty little store.

  The same teen was there acting as a lookout, smacking on gum and leaning against the back wall. Before Seth could open his mouth, the youth vanished into the back room and a moment later Ahmad walked out through the beaded curtain. The dealer gave Seth a knowing smile, commenting, “I thought you might be back here, officer. One thing I know; the beautiful ones always lead men to ruin.”

  “I need your help,” Seth admitted.

  “I don’t give anything for free, friend,” said Ahmad, flashing a grin. “Well, aside from charming smiles.”

  “How about a trade? I have a car I need to unload. I need new ID, transport, and the rest of the cost in cash.”

  “A car’ll get you ID and transport,” Ahmad said briskly, reaching under the counter. “You don’t need to worry about the cash; she left plenty for you, even after my holding fee.”

  Seth took the heavy envelope, feeling slightly dazed. Ahmad jerked his head towards the back, saying, “Come on. You’ll be a whole new man by the time I’m done.”

  When Seth left the shop an hour later, he had a new name on the passport in his jacket and a forearm stinging and bandaged from the laser modifications. Now, though, scanners would recognize him as Elliot Merchant. Seth Laski, at least electronically, no longer existed.

  He went from shop to shop, buying clothes, food, and trading his old phone for a battered burner cell. As he left the electronics shop, adding a new computer tablet to his bag, he spotted a crowd of people gathered outside. He felt a momentary rush of panic, but quickly realized that they weren’t looking at him; they were looking at the display case of screens. The feed showed a stiff, older man with a heavily made-up face sitting behind a desk, and Seth drew closer to better catch the sound.

  “We continue to report on the shocking news recently relayed exclusively to the UKN,” the anchor said. “The video that we are about to show you has not been edited or altered in any way, and the UKN was only made aware of it thanks to a brave, unnamed citizen.”

  The screen faded to show some of the footage that Seth had seen on the video file in Genentech Laboratories. They were distant shots, ones that showed Liane doing superhuman leaps and taking impossible shots, but not her face. Over the clips, her voice said, “What you are seeing is footage of me in training. My skills, speed, and strength are due to genetic modification by the serum known as the Titan Strain. I was dosed with this serum, without my knowledge, on orders of the Libertas Party. They experimented on me and made me into a living weapon.”

  Images of Nikolai Banbridge and Tomas Richta filled the screen, and her voice went on, “I killed these men on orders from my superiors. What I didn’t know was that they died in order to keep a secret.”

  The images changed, showing over a dozen images of smiling, normal people. Seth recognized Rhys Croft, Jeanelle Shastri, and Crispin Hughes amongst them. Liane’s voice went on, “These mods—these people—all used the Titan Strain, and because of that they were murdered. The Libertas Party condoned every single one of these deaths.”

  Old footage of the mod arrests and the Docklands riots filled the screen. “You also have the Party to thank for genetic modification in general. They developed it, lost control of it, and then made it illegal in an attempt to hide their tracks.”

  The screen changed again, showing the shadowy silhouette of Liane from the waist up. A blue light illuminated her from behind, blocking out all of her features aside from her long hair and slim build.

  “And to those of you who are responsible for these acts, I have only one thing to say to you. You made me what I am, and I am going to use that. I am going to rain down destruction upon you, and I won’t stop until either you’re gone or I’m dead.” Her voice hardened even more, and she challenged, “If you have the stomach, come and face me. I’m ready.”

  The screen went blank, and then the image of the news anchor reappeared, saying grimly, “There you have it; starting allegations from a mysterious accuser. Stay tuned for a detailed analysis of the sample of the so-called Titan Strain that this brave young woman sent along with her damning confession . . .”

  Seth stood still, even as the other observers began to drift away, chattering furiously with one another. He thought of Liane sitting in her flat, preparing to face the entire Agency on her own. He thought of her strict orders to run, and his mother heading, terrified, to an unknown destination.

  I can’t be a hero, Seth thought miserably. I don’t even know how to be a survivor in all of this.

  Lowering his head, he walked away through the narrow alleyways of Chinatown, with escape his only wish.

  || | || | | || |

  Across the city in his flat, Damian emerged from the bedroom, hair still wet from the shower and his tie undone and hanging around his collar. The containment unit was still searching for Liane, but he’d needed an hour to regroup and clear his head.

  He’d reached Genentech just before dawn; in time to watch the place consumed in flame, though too late to catch Liane. Damian had stood looking into the fire, wondering where he had gone wrong with her. In the end he’d pointed the blame at Seth Laski. They’d been the perfect team until he had appeared. They would be perfect again after Seth—after the problem—was removed. Like a glitch in a program, Damian would eradicate him and the system would normalize once more.

  In his flat he poured himself a glass of nutrient shake, drinking it down as he turned on the screen. The UKN was running a breaking news segment, anchor James O’Brien sitting with an officious-looking man.

  The anchor leaned towards the camera, saying, “Dr. Garrett Easton, one of the leading geneticists in the country, joins us this morning. Thank you for joining us, doctor. You were given access to the sample of the serum that was sent to the UKN along with the exposé that has shocked the country. Tell us your findings.”

  The doctor settled in his chair before answering, “Well, James, in layman’s terms, this serum is nothing short of miraculous. It offers an almost unlimited capacity for genetic modification . . .”

  Damian slowly set down his drink, seizing his computer and pulling up the UKN’s webpage. The banner across the top of the page proclaimed in large letters “Secret of the Strain: Damning exposé accuses the Libertas Party!”

  Under the headline was Liane’s video streaming on loop, while beside it was a still from the video showing her in silhouette with the words “Friend or foe?” below it.

  Damian couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t think. He stared at the video, watching it once, twice . . .

  Across the room, the geneticist was sa
ying, “I think the only question now is how the Libertas Party will respond to these serious accusations. I don’t know if there is any way for any political organization to survive this kind of attack.”

  Damian seized the remote and threw it at the screen with a roar of rage. The screen shattered, the image of the news anchor blurring and fading into static. Chest rising and falling as he fought to get a hold on his anger, Damian could think of only one thing. Containment; stopping Liane before she did anything more to harm the Agency, before she ruined all of his carefully laid plans, before she destroyed the power base he was so desperate to possess . . .

  When the phone rang, he picked up his phone and snarled into it, “I know about the damn video—”

  “Sir,” said the lead tech Supporter excitedly, “We’ve got her location. Street cameras caught her entering her apartment building an hour ago.”

  Damian went quiet, and from the tinny sound of the video on his laptop, Liane said, “. . . come and face me. I’m ready.”

  Into the phone, Damian said, “Order double the usual containment team, and I want the area surrounding her building evacuated in less than an hour. If she wants a fight, then we’ll give her one.”

  || | || | | || |

  Liane sat on the white couch in her flat, looking out of the windows as the rain streamed down over the city. She wished it wasn’t raining, that it was a few hours later in the day. It was stupid and pointless, but she found herself wishing that she could have seen the sun set one more time.

  She had been exhausted when she entered her home, her side aching from the bullet wound. The first thing she had done was to clean and dress it again, and then to give herself a full dose of the pain-killers and uppers she had bought from Ahmad. Only when they started to work, when she couldn’t feel the aches anymore, did she dress in her black body armor and begin her preparations.

  Now she was finished, and there was nothing to do but wait.