The BETA Agency

by Maxwell Coffie

  King sank his blade into the Puppeteer’s thigh. The psychopath screamed, and then, he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

  “Go to bleak. You don’t know muck about what Fey wants, so don’t you dare speak about her like you know her,” King hissed, twisting the blade, making the Puppeteer scream again. “And she’s not dead. More than anything now, I wish she was right here with me, so she could gut you with her blades herself.”

  The Puppeteer laughed, coughed, and wheezed. “Not dead?” he cackled. “What’ve you been sipping, King? Need me a taste of that.”

  King dug Aiden deeper, and the Puppeteer screamed louder. I looked away.

  But the Puppeteer’s screams just degenerated into wild laughter again. “Please, I have to know: who told you she’s not dead, King?” he asked, bloody drool trickling from the corners of his mouth. “Someone on your team’s been fibbing,” he sang, and then lowered his voice, “Or maybe, everyone on your team’s been fibbing. Naughty boys and girls.”

  Now, King looked a little hesitant. Quickly, he recovered, and yanked his blade out the pulpy flesh. The Puppeteer howled from the pain, and then chuckled. “Buddy, I would know whether your girlfriend is dead or not. I’m the one who flaming killed her.”

  “You’re lying,” King cried, and hit the Puppeteer across his face.

  “Grabbed a saw,” the Puppeteer laughed. “Took it to that gorgeous body of hers.”

  “Shut up!” Another smack.

  Now, I was feeling uneasy. I looked at Po and Kay. Po’s expression was plain as a slate, but Kay had looked away. Something was wrong.

  “Look at your teammates.” The Puppeteer’s laughs were growing louder now, more piercing. “Tell them to look you in the eye, promise you that your precious bat isn’t a rotting corpse now.”

  “Shut up!” King hit the Puppeteer again, but this time his blow had less resolve, more desperation.

  The Puppeteer stopped laughing. “She called your name, you know,” he whispered, his eyes dark. “She called your name just before I took her li—”

  A dagger flashed through the air, and buried itself square in the middle of his forehead. The Puppeteer blinked in surprise, as crimson life oozed down the bridge of his nose. “You haven’t told him,” he whispered. He grinned, as the blood crawled over his lips, colouring his teeth. “Now, I understand why she’s here. This…” he croaked, looking at me, “this is going to be fun. See you soon Evergla—” His words ended in a sigh, and his lips ceased.

  He was gone.

  I turned to see Po’s hand outstretched. She was panting; her expression steely, her posture limp. “He talks too much.” She straightened up. “We don’t have to listen to his tripe.”

  “Is it true?” King asked.

  Po froze. So did me and Kay.

  “Is what true?” Po asked.

  “Po, I swear to Light,” King began, and stopped. He took a deep breath, and settled his angry, pained eyes on her. “Tell me: is what he said true? Is Fey…” He swallowed. “Is Fey dead?”

  I could almost hear the hum of the light bulb.

  Po gritted her teeth, and looked away.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “When did that happen?”

  “Five years ago,” Po said, simply. “After the Aftermath Op.”

  “Aftermath Op?”

  Po had gone rigid. Her movements, minimal. Only her lips flapped up and down, and the voice that came out of them was robotic, like she had been practising these words for years:

  “The Breakpoint Op was assigned to the Beta Agency on Sixthuary 16th, 6060. Initially, our team was tasked to track down and eliminate the inter-dimensional terrorist known as the Ripper, renamed the Puppeteer. On Premuary 21st, 6061, the Beta Agency pinpointed the location of the Puppeteer’s base of operations: an unnamed isle located on the northeast Barren Waters of the Hiti world.”

  “I remember the Breakpoint Op, Po,” King snapped.

  Po ignored him. “We proceeded to the isle immediately. But we were detected shortly upon arrival, and the Puppeteer sunk the island with an elaborate fail-safe spell. Soon after that, we lost radio contact with Agent Watters.”

  Now, King looked a little dazed. “I—“ he stuttered. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Watters did not check in during the carrier rescue,” Po continued, the pain in her eyes barely apparent. “Nor did she check in afterwards. By the daybreak of the 22nd, Agent Watters was officially pronounced missing. A directive for her safe return was passed: the Aftermath Op. Her bio-tracker was activated, and we traced her to an underground bunker in the Mel-ra region of the K’har world. It seemed that the Puppeteer had somehow abducted Agent Watters, and transferred her there as a hostage.”

  Po stopped suddenly, and swallowed. It was at this point that her eyes fell.

  “And?” King pressed, his voice trembling. “Finish it, Po.”

  “She was already dead, okay?” Po snapped. There were tears in her eyes. “She was gone.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Every fibre of my body was filled with dread. I looked at King. He looked like he couldn’t breathe.

  “And,” he finally managed, “where was I?”

  “Right there with us,” she said. “For both the op and the rescue mission.”

  Absolute silence.

  “Why?” King mumbled. “Why do I not remember that?”

  Nobody answered him.

  “The psyche facility—,” he said, almost to himself. “I wasn’t there for a mission.”

  “You were there because you wouldn’t remember,” Po said. “No matter how many times we told you, in two or three days, you’d forget that Fey was gone. You kept leaving for Hiti, saying you had to find her, saying you had to tell her you were sorry—I don’t know what for. Eventually, S.I. grew tired of waiting for you to snap out of it, and they tried to apprehend you. You injured eleven agents, killed one. And that was how you ended up in the psyche facility.” She paused. “I’m the one who finally put you down.”

  Another unbearable stretch of silence.

  “Sol, I’m sorry,” Po said.

  “Did you know about this?” King was looking at me now.

  I was taken by surprise. “What? No. I swear.”

  I looked at his pained expression, I knew he didn’t believe me. I was about to plead my case, when some of the rubriq on the Puppeteer’s chest suddenly lit up.

  “What the—“ Kay muttered.

  His torso was like a billboard, as specific rubriq symbols lit up to form Auroran letters: Thank you for visiting the Puppeteer Show.

  “That’s sick,” Po whispered.

  We ask all valued patrons, the letters said, to leave the premises. The lights died, and then flickered back: Grounds close in… The letters were replaced by two large digits: 60…59…58…57…

  “It’s a timer,” I said, horrified.

  “Move, move, move!” King yelled.

  We flitted the muck out of that place. We were barely out of the ground, when we heard an explosion behind us. Kay grabbed Imp, just before the earth began to sink in. Even as I flashed across the ice-littered grounds, I could feel the solidness beneath my feet beginning to implode. We didn’t stop flitting till we were in the parking lot outside. Then, we watched as the Rai Sing arena collapsed, and disappeared down a bottomless chasm, leaving nothing behind but a thick cloud of dust.

  “Flaming pitch-muck,” I swore, as I panted. “What is that guy’s problem?”

  I realized that I was still holding the Puppeteer’s notebook; the only surviving piece of evidence. Then, I also realized that my instruments had sunk along with the arena. Muck.

  King looked at Po. “You should have told me what happened to Fey,” he said.

  Po sighed. “King, it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “Well you should have told me anyway!”

  Silence.

  “I’d rather be locked up, than lied to,” he said softly.

  He t
urned around, and walked away.

  CHAPTER 60

  Nobody spoke on the way back to Aurora. King wouldn’t even look at me.

  I was grateful when I could finally say goodbye (Kay was the only one who said it back), and hop into a taxi.

  I only realized how truly fatigued I was, after the taxi had dropped me off in front of my apartment building. I was rummaging through my purse for my key card, when I heard a vehicle coming to a stop behind me.

  When I turned around, the Director was standing in front of a taxi.

  “Good evening, Miss Everglade,” she said. “You know, after an assignment, you are supposed to return to base to be debriefed.”

  “Am I?” I said. “Must have slipped my mind.”

  “No matter. I am not the boss of you anyway. Not anymore.”

  I blinked. “Are you saying—?“

  “That as of right now, you are discharged from the Beta Agency, yes.”

  “Oh.” Of course, I wasn’t surprised. But an unexpected sadness came over me. “I guess Po told you,” I finally said, “About King.”

  “She did.”

  “Is he going to be alright?”

  “He jumped out of the hover carrier on the way back to the base.”

  I gaped. “What?”

  “He had a parachute. The team is currently trying to find him. They may never succeed; not if King does not want to be found.”

  “Great Light,” I muttered.

  “He will be fine.”

  “Is he—” I hesitated. “Is he going to forget everything Po told him again? About Fey?”

  The Director shrugged. “It is a possibility. Ninety-seven percent, to be exact.”

  “So then, what was my point of joining the team?” I asked, dispirited. “I didn’t change anything.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  I frowned. I hated when she was cryptic.

  “Three per cent,” the Director said. “The point was the three per cent, Everglade. And that was good enough for me.”

  I knew I should have felt better. But I didn’t.

  “You did your job the best you could,” she said. “And you did it well. I have deposited a bonus amount of credits into your account.” She bowed slightly. “Thank you for your assistance, Everglade. It has been a pleasure.”

  The passenger door to the taxi slid open, and she took her seat.

  “You know, we never did find out why the Puppeteer was killing innocents in Crystal Lake city,” I said, as her door slid shut.

  She gave me a small smile through the window. “You are the detective.” And with that, her taxi drove off.

  “Am I?” I mumbled.

  As I watched the taxi turn around a corner, it occurred to me that I had no way of contacting the team again. No cell-comm numbers, no addresses, nothing. I was completely cut-off. I felt a creeping melancholia. Then, I took a deep breath, shrugged it off, and entered the building.

  When I stepped into my apartment, DEB greeted me with an overly enthusiastic, Welcome back, Arra.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked, because already the apartment felt empty.

  Katrice is attending an Illuminist service down at the local temple.

  I blinked. “Katrice is doing what?”

  Attending an Illuminist service down at the local temple. Would you like me to contact her, Arra?

  “Um, no, that’s alright. Thanks.”

  I really needed to spend some time with Kattie. Ah well, I thought. I was going to be home for a very long time anyway.

  I went to my bedroom, and buried myself underneath the sheets. I did not expect to sleep—and I didn’t. I stayed where I was till the sun slowly flickered out, and left behind the cold bright moon.

  As I rested, I lost myself in my own thoughts—memories of the last few hours, the things nightmares were made of. Eventually, I got thirsty and decided to get a drink of water. I ambled to the kitchen. On my way back, I noticed that Kattie’s bedroom door was open, and her nightlight was on. I hadn’t heard her returning.

  I knocked on her door. “Kattie, you up?”

  “Come in.”

  I went in. It had been a while since I had entered Kattie’s room. Still, I wasn’t surprised by the dark purple drapes and hologram posters of corvi. “Don’t you have learning tomorrow morning?” I asked, as I plopped myself next to her.

  “It’s already morning. And: no, tomorrow is a Solsdae.”

  “Man of the Sun,” I read off the cover of her book. “What is that: a fantasy novel?”

  “Supplementary Illuminist scripture,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  “At first I thought the title was just figurative. Did you know they believe that there’s an actual man living in the sun?”

  I nodded. “I did.”

  “What do you think?”

  “If you’re asking me whether I believe that the Great Light is going to ride out of the sun on a mythical bird of flames, then no. Not really. But what do I know? Admittedly, my capacity for the bizarre has been stretched significantly in the past few weeks.”

  “It does not have to be true.”

  “No?”

  “Well, I don’t think so. Increasingly, I’m coming to believe that religion is less about being right, than it is about feeling free,” she said. “Free from worry. Letting go. Forgiving self. Moving on. Even if the deity really is just an elaborate imaginary friend.”

  I smiled. “Moving on. A friend of mine’s been trying to get me to do that for a while now. Still don’t think I’ve succeeded yet.”

  “I actually think that you look happier right now. You seem less strained, more at peace.”

  “Do I?”

  Kattie nodded. “Whatever you have been doing, wherever you have been going—” She paused. “Whoever you have been spending time with, they are making you better.”

  “Oh? Well, I won’t be spending any more time with them so, hopefully this change lasts.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Do you want to cry?”

  I chortled. “No, but I could do with a hug.”

  She sat up, and moved her arms mechanically around me. I drew her in, and held her tight.

  “My arms will always be available for physical comfort, Arra. I have never said it, but I do love you.”

  After a while, she tried to pull away, but I didn’t let her.

  I wanted the moment to last a little longer.

  CHAPTER 61

  At daylight, I was emptying out my travel bag when I came across the Puppeteer’s little black notebook.

  “Dammit,” I muttered, realizing that I could have given it to the Director when she came by.

  I flipped through the pages of foreign letters, and stopped at one in particular. In Auroran letters, he had scribbled R.H.C, a date, and a time.

  The date was Tenuary 14th, about a week before the first ‘Ripper’ murder in Crystal Lake. I frowned at the initials, and then my heart skipped a beat. What if? I thought.

  I grabbed my tablet off the bedside cabinet, and scrolled through my page history. I found a list of the only health centres in Aurora that still printed paper calendars, and scrolled down to the only name that started with ‘r’.

  The Royal Health Centre.

  Heart racing, I entered ‘Royal Health Centre’ into a search engine and found their corporate site. I did a little reading, and sat back, stunned.

  The Royal Health Centre had one of the best cancer treatment centres in all five worlds. Their premium service included live-in nursing, special meal-plans, dedicated experts, and treatment accessories such as paper-printed calendars.

  I had found them. I knew where the Puppeteer had been receiving treatment.

  “Arra?” Kattie’s head came around my door. “I was going to fry some eggs. Do you want something?”

  “Yeah,” I said, giddy with excitement. “I need a sounding board. Sit down.”

  She came ins
ide and sat on my bed.

  “Hospitals always require ID before treatment, don’t they?”

  Kattie stared at me.

  I sighed. “Obviously, I know the answer to that question, Kattie. Just humour me, will you? I usually did this with Evon.”

  “It depends on the kind of treatment,” she said.

  “Thank you. But something like cancer would definitely require identification.”

  Kattie nodded. “Consent forms, insurance, prescription records.”

  “A hospital would never knowingly treat a cancer patient it didn’t know. So at the same time, it could never not know whom it was treating.”

  Kattie was looking at me like I had lost my mind. “Are we playing some game I am not aware of?”

  “No, it’s this case I was working on before I was suspended. Recently, some friends of mine found a hospital file that we suspect belonged to the offender, but it was labelled ‘Patient X’.”

  “Patient X? That is how unidentified patients are labelled in hospitals. But any doctor would know not to carry out cancer treatment on an unidentified patient.”

  “Unless the state claimed the patient, and provided consent,” I said. “But this is an infamous criminal we’re talking about. No government official is going to unwittingly claim him without a thorough background check, including a DNA analysis.” I stopped, a little apprehensive. “I didn’t want to come to this conclusion, but—”

  “Somebody at the hospital knew exactly who he was, and helped him to skip protocol and hide his identity whilst he received treatment,” Kattie said. “An administrator, or a member of the board. I thought that was the obvious conclusion.”

  “You don’t know who this criminal was. That’s a very serious allegation.”

  “The abettor might have been under duress,” she offered. “What hospital are we talking about here?”

  I hesitated.

  “Whom could I possibly tell?” she said.