The Titan Strain

by Virginia Soenksen

  “You’re off track,” she repeated, walking over to the evidence screen. Raising a hand, she traced the text of the latest daily and read, “You wrote to ‘concentrate all efforts on the dealer who supplied the victims.’”

  “Yeah, well they were all mods,” Seth said, stripping off his wet socks and tossing them into a corner. “That means they all had dealers.”

  “Not the same one,” Liane said, her hair shimmering as she shook her head. “Victim One, two, and seven were leopard mods. Victim Three through Six were reptile. Eight through twelve were wolf mods. Dealers specialize in one kind of serum. There’s no chance of any overlap.”

  Seth frowned at her. “How do you know? Who are you?”

  Liane’s eyes closed off, and she looked away towards the window. The meaning was evident; I can leave at any time.

  “Ok, ok, I won’t ask,” he said with mild exasperation. “You’ve been following the cases, clearly. So if this isn’t about a dealer, then why do you think these people died?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, seemingly reluctant to admit it. “But I think I might be able to help you find out.”

  Seth looked at her for a long moment, walking over to join her in front of the evidence screen. The green light reflected on their faces as he asked her, “I need you to tell me why. Not who you are or what you do, but why you want to help me.”

  It took Liane a minute to answer, and she seemed to carefully consider her words before she said, “These people were harmless. They didn’t hurt anyone; they didn’t do anything. They were just . . . normal. Normal people shouldn’t die.”

  A crease appeared between his eyes. “Normal people die all the time.”

  Liane turned to face him fully, her voice low and full of warning, “Not when I can help it.”

  Seth finally nodded. “Okay. I’d welcome having an extra set of eyes.”

  “Keep working the case on your end, then, and I’ll do the same on mine. I’ll come back when I have some idea of what to do next.”

  With that, Liane turned to go. He let her reach the window and raise it before he had the courage to blurt out, “I was beginning to think you weren’t real, you know.”

  She paused, glancing back at him.

  He gave his crooked smile as he went on, “Couldn’t find you in any of the databases. I thought maybe I’d met a ghost.”

  Liane turned back to the window, and as she ducked out he heard her say, “You did.”

  By the time he reached the window to look out after her, she was already gone.

  || | || | | || |

  There was a gala to celebrate the opening of the weapon exhibition. Liane and Damian met on the steps outside of the Kensington Center, him in black tie and her in a black gown that left her entire back bare. The stylists had braided Liane’s hair off of her face, the end of the braid curling gently between her shoulder blades.

  A genial museum guard scanned their arms, and then they walked into the modern, minimalist building. It was one of the first constructions built after the war and stood on the ruins of the former palace. Liane liked it; the sweeping architecture and towering ceilings never bored her, and the exhibitions were always interesting. While most of the guests stayed in the lobby to socialize, Liane and Damian moved eagerly through the galleries, champagne forgotten as they poured over the displays and wall text. There were ancient suits of armor, delicate chain mail, and numerous swords and guns.

  From behind her, Damian observed, “It’s amazing to see how humans used to kill one another. How primitive we used to be . . .”

  She looked back at him, asking, “Is what we do now any different?”

  He considered for a moment. “I suppose it’s not. Perhaps we’re still savages, just with better weaponry.”

  Liane wondered aloud, “Maybe that’s what we should try to change within the Agency.”

  Damian laughed softly. “We’re already changing the Agency.”

  He was right, of course. Even before Liane had become a full Agent, Handlers had already begun to try and replicate Damian’s technique in an effort to surpass him. They wanted their own Agents to be ranked at the top, though none had managed it yet.

  Damian seemed unusually thoughtful as he said, “In the future, perhaps the two of us will be able to change more. Perhaps one day we’ll change the world.”

  He moved on to a case of torture instruments, examining a scold’s bridle as Liane noted, “You’ll be made an Administrator soon. Everyone already talks about it.”

  Damian nodded, his dark eyes on the display case.

  Liane hesitated, and then asked, “What will happen to me when you move up?”

  “Nothing will happen. You’ll stay with me,” he answered firmly. That was as much as he would ever say about the matter.

  They went back to the brightly lit lobby soon after, drifting out onto the holographic garden. Not much grew in the city after the bombing, so digital projections and artificial scents took the place of actual vegetation.

  “I heard another victim has been found,” Liane commented, her hand on Damian’s arm. “A little girl, this time.” He shrugged noncommittally, and she went on, “Is the Agency going to do anything about it?”

  “It’s a matter for the police, not us.”

  She gazed up at him. “You always tell me I’m special, that I have skills others don’t. Why can’t I use those skills just to help them a bit—”

  Damian stopped, turning to scrutinize her. Liane fell silent, her face blank, until he said, “The police protect the country by ridding it of common criminals. We protect it by ridding it of actual threats. The two do not overlap, and we do not ‘help’ civilians.”

  Liane let her hand drop from his arm, trying to keep her frustration from showing on her face. Damian’s eyes didn’t leave her as he asked, “Why the sudden interest in these murders? People die all the time in this city; it’s never bothered you before.”

  “Because they’re mods,” Liane said. “They accepted me.”

  “That doesn’t mean you get to break our Cardinal Rules, Liane,” Damian said with a shake of his head. “Spending time with the mods is meant to be an outlet for you, not a fixation. Now no more; you have my answer.”

  Anger pulsed through her. Liane crossed her arms, glaring up at him. “I want to go home.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she went on, “You said I wasn’t here under orders. That means I can leave whenever I want. And I want to go now.”

  Damian didn’t look bothered at all. He merely shook his head, wondering aloud, “What am I going to do with you, Liane?”

  Liane looked away, silent and angry. After a moment he sighed, “Alright. Let’s go get our coats.”

  In minutes they had retrieved their coats and were sitting in the car as it drove them back towards Liane’s building. She sat glowering out of the window, ignoring Damian’s frequent glances at her. She did look over when she saw him sit up, an internal debate playing over his face before he called out to the driver, “Stop the car here.”

  Liane sat up, slightly alarmed as she noted, “We’re nowhere near my building.”

  “I know,” Damian said, gesturing out of the window. Through the tinted glass she could see a small side-street filled with bright lights, food stalls, and hawkers shouting out to passers-by. As she looked at it, Damian explained, “It’s a street fair. Have you ever been to one?” When she shook her head, he gave her a small smile. “Would you like to?”

  Liane considered her options, but eventually her curiosity outweighed her anger with him. She nodded, getting out of the car and waiting until Damian joined her.

  “We really shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, taking her elbow and guiding her across the street. “The Agency hands down orders to me, too, you know. Handlers are supposed to keep their Agents abo
ve the common herd.”

  She looked up at him, noting, “But here we are.”

  Damian smiled to himself. “Well, given our success over the past three years, I’d say that we’ve earned it. Wouldn’t you?”

  Liane said nothing, too distracted by the fact that they were passing under the first string of colored lanterns strung between the buildings. They stood out in their evening clothes, causing most of the other punters to give them a wide berth, but Liane didn’t care. Not when she was surrounded by the sounds of laughter and boisterous music, the steam of cooking food mixing with the smell of spilled beer. It was chaos and noise and color, and she loved every moment of it.

  Damian leaned over to her, asking, “Happy now?”

  Liane smiled, nodding up at him. “Can I try some of the dishes?”

  Damian looked as if he was going to refuse at first, but his resolve seemed to waver as he looked down at her hopeful face. In the end he chuckled and said, “One; you can choose one.”

  Liane made him walk up and down the street, carefully considering each of the food stalls before settling on an egg tart. Damian bought it and drew her into a nearby doorway to keep out of the flow of pedestrians. Liane bit into the tart, marveling at the flaky pastry and an impossibly sweet custard filling. She was just swallowing the last bite when she felt Damian pulling at the elastic band off of the end of her braid. He carefully undid the stylist’s work, his fingers combing through her pale hair so that the entire mass fell freely down her back once more.

  “Leave it down,” he said, deep voice slightly husky. “I prefer it that way.”

  Liane stood silent, meeting his intense gaze and feeling a strange warmth rise through her. There was something in the way he looked at her that gave her just as much excitement as the sights and sounds of the fair around them. His hand was still lingering in the ends of her hair, waiting for her to bridge the divide between them. But Liane’s thoughts drifted to a night from long ago, when she was just a trainee . . .

  In the end she looked away, asking, “What do you do when we’re not on missions, Damian?”

  Visibly caught off-guard, he answered, “Plan for our next one, study intel and new tech, train . . . it’s not that much different from what you do.”

  “And what about your life outside of the Agency?”

  Damian gave a low, bitter laugh. “There is no life for me outside of the Agency.” The bleakness of his statement seemed to dampen both their moods, and Damian finally sighed, “It’s late; we’ll walk for a little bit more, and then go home.”

  He stepped away from her, heading back into the fair. Liane let out the breath she’d been holding. The moment had passed, and she couldn’t decide whether she was regretful or not.

  The alley was far more crowded as they headed back, and in the end, Damian led her down the narrow space between the wall and a line of food stalls. Liane stepped gingerly over the standing water and food scraps, mindful of her dress. They had almost reached the car when they passed a dumpling stand. Liane stopped, looking into the back of the stall. A young man with a bare, sweat-slick chest was chopping up organs into a fine mince. Her eyes drifted over the pile of offal yet to be chopped, spying kidneys, sweetbreads, livers . . . She inhaled sharply, realization striking her.

  Damian appeared at her side, drawing her away and saying dryly, “Glad you didn’t try the dumplings?”

  Liane nodded, her mind a thousand miles away. She was quiet for most of the ride to her home. When she got out of the car without saying goodbye, Damian’s eyes narrowed in thought, his gaze following her until she vanished into the building.

  || | || | | || |

  “Seth . . . Seth, wake up . . .”

  Seth lifted his head from the pillow, his mind taking a moment to process what he saw. With a yelp, he sat up, knocking his head on the bedside lamp. Scrambling to pull up the sheet, he gasped, “The hell are you doing here?”

  Liane was crouching on the end of his bed, her mismatched eyes alight with excitement as she said, “I know why the killer is cutting them up.”

  “Wait, what? You do?”

  Nodding, Liane jumped up and went to the evidence screen. She turned it on, the greenish light filling the room. Seth got up, wrapping the sheet around his waist to hide his nakedness. He glanced at the clock, groaning slightly at the early hour.

  Liane kept her eyes on the screen, the pale green light illuminating her profile. “What body parts haven’t you found?”

  He let out a breath, admitting, “At this point, I’m not sure.”

  “I am. Vital organs. Each victim is missing at least one. Most are missing all.”

  Seth stepped closer to the evidence screen, watching as she pulled up a chart of the human body. Various organs illuminated as she tapped it, saying, “Between all twelve victims, you’re missing ten brains, seven hearts, four sets of kidneys, nine pairs of lungs, and all twelve livers. To say nothing of the eyes, skin, and intestines.”

  “Why would a killer want organs?” Seth murmured.

  “That’s what we need to figure out.” She turned towards the window, saying over her shoulder, “Tell your fellow officers and captain. Hopefully they’ll believe you and start to help . . .”

  Seth watched as she ducked out of the window frame, finding finger-holds in the wall and climbing quickly down the side of the building. He kept his eyes on her until she vanished into a nearby alley, then turned back to the evidence screen.

  Seth had worked enough murders to know there were different kinds of evil in the world. Killing mods and cutting them up; that was evil. But killing them and taking trophies . . . that was something entirely worse.

  He couldn’t decide whether that made the hunt easier or more difficult, and eventually went back to bed with his question unanswered.

  || | || | | || |

  Late the next afternoon, Liane headed for the garage near her building. Unlocking her motorcycle, she hid her face with a sleek black mask that covered her entire head. After pulling up the cowl of her jacket and attaching it to the mask, she let the cycle roar to life and pulled out onto the street.

  It took six minutes for her to reach Shoreditch, and another three to stash the cycle and scale the exterior of the loft from the alley. Seth was at the evidence screen when she ducked in through the window.

  “I have a door, you know,” he noted as she removed the cowl and mask.

  “My way’s quicker. Where does the investigation stand now?”

  “Well, my captain thinks I’m an idiot,” Seth sighed. “Especially since I didn’t have a reason behind the killer taking organs. But a few of the other officers listened.”

  “We need to talk to the ones closest to the victims,” Liane said, scrolling through a list of names on the lower part of the screen. “And ask the right questions this time.”

  Seth enlarged one of the images, that of a tanned man in a white suit with a dazzlingly white smile. “Doctor Rhys Croft, Victim One. His widow is at their home in Egerton Crescent. The woman was hysterical when we questioned her the first time.”

  “Hysterics are a useless display of emotion and a waste of energy,” Liane said with a shake of her head.

  “True, but never say that to a hysteric, especially not a hysterical woman,” Seth advised, reaching for his uniform jacket. “Do you want to come with me?”

  Liane looked at him in surprise. “Really? You don’t know anything about me, and you want me along on an official police investigation?”

  “I know that you’re a mod, that you can take care of yourself, and that you actually give a damn about this case,” he said, zipping up the front of his uniform. “That’s more than most of the other officers can claim. So yes, I’m inviting you.”

  It was a foolish and dangerous thing to do; she knew that. Agents could be tracked wher
ever they went, and she knew that Damian intermittently checked on her location. But Seth was inviting her, like they were friends . . . No one, aside from Damian, asked her to do anything. She was told, ordered. Now that she had a chance to make a decision for herself, the desire to say ‘yes’ was nearly overwhelming.

  She finally nodded and followed him out of the flat.

  Seth drove in his police cruiser, and it took them about an hour to reach the Crescent. What had once been a row of stately white row homes was now encased in a gleaming building with reflective walls that hid the occupants from view. Seth had to ring the home and show his badge to the camera before the door unlocked to let them inside. Liane stepped through the glass door, unabashedly curious to find herself on a walkway amidst an overly tended front garden. The rowhouses stood within, perfectly enclosed from the world. The air was sweet with the scent of flowers as they walked up to the front door.

  A maid ushered them inside, showing them into a gaudy sitting room. Liane prowled the room, staring at everything until a woman in severe black walked in. She was as overly tended as her garden, and just as natural in shape and form. She nodded to Seth but ignored Liane to sit down on a couch and sniff into a handkerchief.

  “Have you any leads with regards to my husband’s murder?” the widow asked.

  “A few,” Seth nodded, sitting down across from her. “But we’re really here to ask you a few more questions. There’s a good chance that what you say will help us.”

  The widow’s surgically widened eyes filled with tears as she said, “Anything that will help you give Rhys justice.”

  “Mrs. Croft, we know that your husband was a mod. Can you tell us why he experimented with a controlled substance?”

  “He just wanted to be young again,” she sniffed. “He swore to me that it was safe, that the side effects would be minimal. And now the media says he might have died because of it.”

  “Did he ever mention the mod meetings at the ruins? Perhaps someone was bothering him, following him . . .”