She had tried it, but only once.
The Agency dormitory had been her home throughout her years in the Program. Every trainee was given a small white-and-chrome bedroom near their Handler’s, empty of everything save a narrow bed, chair, and a closet full of regulation clothing. It was just a place for sleeping; having anything of a personal nature was discouraged. Liane learned that early on because a few weeks after her recruitment she hung up a cheap printout of pre-war London on the wall next to her bed. She’d liked looking at it, marveling at how much green had once grown amongst the
buildings. But the print had lasted barely a day; when she
returned to her room that evening, it was gone, the lingering smell of bleach telling her that Supporters had stripped it during their regular cleaning.
The one personal item the Supporters wouldn’t touch were
tablet readers, so every week Liane would go to Damian’s room with a list of the titles she wanted him to upload. Most of the time he would give the list a cursory glance at most, but one day he read through her requested uploads and paused before giving her a searching look. “A history of the war?”
Still unused to his scrutinizing gaze after a month of
training, Liane nervously twisted her fingers into the hem of her shirt as she said, “The instructors won’t answer all of my
questions about it in class.”
“There’s good reason for that,” Damian said, leaning back in his chair. “You don’t need to dwell on the past when your duty is to protect the future of this country.”
“But I want to know why it all happened,” Liane protested. “Why the country needs protecting…”
Damian’s dark eyes flashed in irritation. “You need to
remember that what you want doesn’t matter; it’s what the Agency wants that does.” Turning his attention back to his laptop, he said, “I’ll upload the other requested books tonight. You’re dismissed.”
After that, Liane couldn’t help thinking about why the
request had been refused. It nagged at her every day, during trainings, lessons, and downtime. Frustration eventually drove her to the library within the Agency, a small, cluttered room
usually utilized by Handlers as they prepped for missions and
reconnaissance. Trying to be inconspicuous, she’d walked up and down the spotless Plexiglas shelves of books, eventually finding the same history book she’d been denied. She knew she didn’t have the clearance to borrow it, but there wasn’t a visible sensor on the spine, so Liane shoved the book into her bag and walked quickly towards the exit. Her hand barely closed on the door handle before the alarms started blaring, red lights flashing above the doors.
The guards were quick to detain her, confiscating the book and sitting her near the entrance to wait for her Handler. When Damian walked in, his face taut with rage and hands clenched into fists at his side, she shrank back in her chair. She’d never seen him so angry before, his eyes blazing as he looked at her and spat out, “Get up.”
Liane did as he ordered, trying to keep her knees from shaking under her. His hand shot out, fisting in her shirt and yanking her closer to his livid face.
“Training simulations for the next ten hours,” Damian said, his voice low and harsh. “And you’d better believe I’m going to program them at the highest difficulty level. I don’t care if you end up crawling out half-dead when it’s over; this is the last time you disobey my orders.”
Back in the Chinatown alley, Liane gave a small shudder, trying to shake off the memory of the brutal punishment. Looking down at the book, she reached out and picked it up, smoothing a hand over the cover. She was out now; no one would punish her for reading what she wanted or seeking answers to her questions.
Standing, she carried the book to the cashier inside.
When Seth emerged from the gun store, a new weapon in the holster under his arm, Liane was leaning against the alley wall and asked him, “So where are we supposed to find this
informant?”
Reaching for his mask, he said simply, “The Strand.”
The major thoroughfare of Westminster took them an hour to reach, and when they emerged along the wide street, Liane felt a mixture of recognition and unease. They were too close to the Agency for her comfort, and as they walked along, she kept getting glimpses of the skyscraper between the buildings. Visually, though, the Strand made a nice change from the ruins. After the war the street had been leveled; when rebuilt, both it and the sidewalks had been done in poured concrete with the look of white marble. On sunny days it was known to blind unsuspecting motorists, and in the rain, it shimmered like a path made of
diamonds. During the height of the reconstruction, people were quick to point out the irony of having a gleaming, glittering path cutting through the ruined city. One politician had quipped that it looked like ‘lipstick on a carbuncled old hag.’ Now, though, the buildings on either side matched the street in grandeur, so much so that the area was often referred to as ‘the Showhome’ by snarky Londoners.
Liane glanced at Seth as they walked, noting, “This is the last place I’d expect to find a mod pub.”
“Exactly,” he nodded. “Less of a police presence here; no one expects to find trouble in the Showhome.”
“But a chav like Chayse will stand out here,” she pointed out.
“Not if you stay well-hidden,” Seth said, stopping at a tiny alley between two buildings. There was a metal gate, but it swung open easily at Seth’s touch. They walked a little way into the alley, dodging windswept rubbish and debris. Halfway between the Strand and the next street, there was a narrow entrance to a basement. They walked down the steps, and Seth knocked an odd number of times on the door. A small slot opened at the top, a bouncer glaring out at them momentarily before the door opened to admit them.
Liane walked into the darkness, her eyes adjusting. They were in a small vestibule, most of which was taken up by the hulking bouncer. He jerked a finger at the sign behind him that read ‘No weapons.’ Seth took off his mask and handed over his gun, but Liane made no move to do the same. Seth prompted her, “It’s okay. We’re not going to cause any trouble here.”
“I’ll kick your ass out if you do,” the bouncer said in warning.
When Liane pulled off her mask, she was scowling but handed over two guns and five knives. She swept through the metal detector with Seth, pleased that the sharpened plasticine knife at her hip hadn’t set it off.
The pub beyond the detector was larger than one would have thought, though the lack of windows meant that it was absurdly dark. Light would have made it even more shabby and dingy,
Liane reflected, as they walked down a staircase towards the bar itself. A bartender was there rubbing at pint glasses with a cloth, and Seth approached to order something. Liane leaned her elbows against the sticky wood of the bar, taking the time to scan the rest of the room. There were a few singletons at the tables along the side, and in the back, she could see light shining down on a couple of pool tables. Arcade games stood behind the pool tables, and a tall, skinny man in an oversized, garish orange tracksuit was pounding on one, cursing loudly whenever he lost.
Liane looked down at the tonic water that Seth placed in front of her, her mismatched eyes flicking towards the spidery man as she asked, “That’s him?”
“Yep,” Seth said, equally quiet. “Noisy little bugger, isn’t he?”
Liane glanced around the room again, asking, “See any of his friends?”
Seth grinned, taking a sip of beer. “I don’t think Chayse has what you would call friends, but I don’t see any of his associates, no. And look at that; he’s headed off all by himself.”
Liane caught a glimpse of the man’s thin, pale face dotted with acne and topped by short, straw-colored hair as he strutted to the corridor in the back of the pub. Seth straightened, carrying his barely-touched pint with him as he murmured, “Ready to be a bad guy?”
Liane tossed back a sip
of water, saying softly, “Very much so.”
They headed across the pub, lingering outside the lavatory
until there came a sound of running water and footsteps headed their way. The door swung inwards, and Chayse walked out. He didn’t see Seth at first; his flinty eyes lit up when he saw Liane though, gaze trailing over her body as he drawled, “Well, you’re a bit of alright, ain’t ya?”
Liane raised an eyebrow, then grabbed his throat with one hand and tossed him back through the swinging door into the
lavatory. The pair of them followed, looking down at Chayse as he lay sprawled and stunned on the filthy floor. Seth crouched down, grinning as he said, “Hiya, Chayse. Remember me?”
The man’s eyes bulged in recognition, and he sputtered, “Laski? What the bleedin’ hell—”
Liane seized a fistful of his tracksuit jacket, hauling him into a sitting position against the back wall. Bending to look him in the eye, she said in quiet warning, “We ask the questions; you answer them. No exceptions.”
She backed off, going over to lock the door and lean against it. Chayse regarded her warily, then jerked his shirt back into place and said to Seth, “She’s a fit bird, but I like ‘em softer, Laski.”
“She’ll grow on you,” Seth returned. “And she has a temper, so let’s get to it. We need information.”
Chayse sat up taller, challenging, “You ain’t a copper no more, Laski. Way I hear it, you’ve got yourself in a mess of trouble.”
From her place at the door, Liane observed, “You’ve got vertical pupils and your skin is sloughing; reptile mod, heavy user. From the weight of the vials in your front pocket, you probably have enough serum on you to get you sentenced for dealing...which carries a death penalty, I believe.”
Seth chimed in, “Since that’s something we’re both trying to avoid, how’s about we help one another out?”
Wary now, Chayse glanced between the two of them before he asked, “What you want to know?”
“You know the rumors, obviously; the government is trying to pin the Titan Strain exposé on me.” Seth paused, letting the words sink in, then added, “Are the mods still talking about that?”
“Sure, they talk—best press we’ve ever got, innit?” Chayse returned, not even bothering to hide his hostility as he snorted, “But no one thinks it was you. We know it’d take more brains than you got, Laski—Christ!”
A can of air freshener had hit him squarely in the forehead. Chayse crumpled over, hands covering his face and swearing in pain as the can skittered across the filthy tile floor. Seth cast a glance back at Liane, who was picking another can out of the open box by the door. She flipped it over considering it in one hand, commenting over Chayse’s moans, “One question, one
answer.”
Through his fingers, Chayse muttered mutinously, “Bossy bint.”
Seth grinned over his shoulder at Liane, saying, “Told you he was a charmer.”
“Who’s she, anyway?” demanded Chayse, rubbing at the welt on his forehead.
“Oh, did I not say?” Seth asked as if he’d forgotten. “Silly me; she’s the mod who leaked the Titan Strain video.”
Chayse froze, looking up at Liane with a newfound interest. He glanced at Seth, saying, “You having a laugh?”
“Nope. She’s the one you’ve been seeing plastered across the news feeds.”
Chayse stared at Liane for a moment longer, then burst out, “Then what the hell are you still doin’ in London? You know they’re raiding day and night, yeah? Your friends at the Agency.”
Liane lifted her chin, asking, “So they’re looking for me?”
“In pubs, the ruins, clubs, dealer corners...made my
business proper fussed.”
“So sorry about that,” Liane said, sounding anything but.
Seth tapped Chayse on the shoulder, regaining his
attention before asking, “We haven’t been able to talk to many people. What’s most of the public think about this?”
“The city’s in a twist,” Chayse answered, his eyes darting to
Liane ever so often as he explained, “The toffs in the Party try to keep things quiet, but we all hear things. Seems that video’s
gotten the Minister in trouble.”
Seth frowned. “With whom? Foreign governments? Politicians here?”
“Everyone.” Chayse looked to Liane as he added, “You messed things up for a lot of people, princess.”
“And the mods?” Seth asked, “What do they think?”
Chayse laughed. “They only think about the Strain, now they know it’s real. Want to unload a few vials of that? I’d give you a good price for it…”
“It’s all gone,” Liane lied. “Destroyed in a fire.”
“Ain’t what I hear,” the dealer said. “You should sell what you can and run. From what I hear about the people looking for you...if you ain’t dead when they catch you, you’ll soon wish you were.”
Liane straightened from the wall, walking over to crouch down beside Chayse. He leaned back, warily eyeing her as she warned, “Then the next time you cross paths with the Agency, you tell them I’ll see them soon. And you let the mods know to stop searching for the Strain. It’s a lost cause looking for it.”
“At the end of the day, yeah, everyone wants an edge,” Chayse shot back. “Even a chance at one is better than none.”
“It’s their funeral, and yours too if you talk.” She stood, looking back at Seth. “I think we’re done here.”
Seth stood, looking down at the dealer. “Good seeing you, Chayse.”
Chayse muttered something hostile and unintelligible as the two left the room.
CHAPTER 7
Late in the evening, Damian sat in front of his computer screen. The report from one of his techs had arrived several minutes ago, but he was only now able to sit down and view the attachment. The video opened on his screen, a grainy black-and-white feed hacked from some mod pub in Westminster. The camera showed a wide angle of the entire front room, making it hard to pick out individual faces. It took Damian a moment to notice the figure at the bar, the short hair throwing him for a moment. Then she moved and he was certain. He watched Liane walk with Seth into the back of the bar, observing the feed with silent intensity until the pair reemerged.
Damian paused the feed, and the grayscale scene stilled. Liane stood motionless in the center of the screen, frozen as she glanced over at Seth. The video quality was better than the one culled from the rainy alleyway, and Damian leaned back in his seat, staring at the image and considering his Agent. She looked well; the damage she’d incurred during the battle at her flat had healed, and she looked clean and well-fed. Even if the hair was unfortunate, it was clear she was doing a fair job at taking care of herself. Damian found that surprising, given that the Agency was designed to teach Agents nothing about survival in the real world. Everything was done to and for them, and Damian had always cultivated a sort of learned helplessness in Liane. He’d always thought that had tempered down her independent streak, and it was disappointing to find out she didn’t need him as much as he’d always believed… But she would, and it would happen soon.
Standing, Damian picked up his overcoat and headed out to keep his appointment with the Prime Minister.
Fifteen minutes later, Damian stood on the square outside the glass and metal skyscraper, looking up at the massive structure that housed the Libertas Party. He disliked being summoned there on a good day, and right now he was dreading walking inside. But as the appointed hour neared, Damian took a steadying breath and headed through the glass doors.
It was crowded, media filling the lobby and waiting to pounce on politicians for statements. Damian headed past the lobby to the central hall, ignoring the bevy of lobbyists and officials
queuing outside of regulatory offices. With purpose, he walked up to the private elevator at the end of the hall. A guard stood sentry and scanned Damian’s forearm tattoo before permitting him to enter. Once insi
de the elevator, the doors closed, carrying Damian up to the topmost level of the skyscraper.
The doors opened onto a hallway lit softly with golden light from sconces on either side. Damian walked through it, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. He glanced at the niches set into the walls, taking a moment to appreciate the magnificent orchids growing in gold planters. Finally, Damian came to a set of heavy doors; these too were guarded, but the guards opened them with nods of recognition.
The room beyond was vast and open, more of a vaulted glass chamber than an office. The black shades were lowered,
obscuring the view of London that Damian had admired many times before. There were a few token gestures at comfort; several expensive chairs sat positioned on a rug to his right, while on his left there was a long, glossy black meeting table. All stood empty, for there was only one other person in the vast room aside from Damian.
She sat in front of him behind a gleaming walnut desk. The woman was past middle age but perfectly groomed and enhanced with cosmetic surgery. Her wavy, dark brown hair was cut to brush her shoulders, and her raw silk black suit framed a pale, refined face. Her manicured nails flit over the touch keyboard embossed in the top of her desk, every movement deliberate, graceful, and scented with the expensive orange-blossom perfume she dabbed on the skin of her wrists every morning.
Though she was often accused of having no soul, few would have ever accused Prime Minister Adrian Morrigan of having no taste.
Damian came to a stop several feet away from her desk, standing with his hands clasped in front of him. Adrian continued typing on her keyboard, wholly engrossed in the task. Damian waited, eyes narrowing as his patience faded.
At last, Adrian looked up at him, leaning back in her leather chair. The eyes she fixed upon him were deep green, ringed with long lashes expertly accentuated with makeup. Some people
described them as beautiful; one soppy reporter had likened them to fine emeralds. The comparison seemed apt to Damian, but only because her gaze was just as empty and cold.
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