The Prospect (Dead Planet Series Prequel) (The Dead Planet Series)

by Avera, Drew

  “Dear Brother,

  I know you may no longer view me as your brother, but given our shared loss, I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I did not act of my own accord and to be honest I am surprised that I can piece my thoughts together enough to write this letter to you now. The assignment given to me was a test, which I unfortunately passed. I hope you realize that my failure would not have prevented the untimely death of our sweet Ambree; there was too much at stake for The Syndicate to allow such a thing to not take place.

  I wish I could feel the guilt in my heart from what I have done, but I cannot. It is not because I am heartless, but because her memory triggers an enormous amount of pain due to the programming. I have endured more than you will ever know, but I am not sorry for that burden. I am sorry because that burden ruined the life of the one I had loved most in this world.

  I am not your enemy. I am your brother, regardless of whatever happens in our future.

  My hope is you will remember that sentiment; and that you will take your pain and use it. Please remember me for who I once was and not what I have become. One day I hope that you can take comfort in the fact we share a common enemy. The one who has destroyed everything we held sacred. If there should ever be a time where we can stand together against such an abomination, I will stand beside you. There is a small part of me left in this shell of a man. I hope above all that you will see that instead of the thing that claims me now.

  Live well, my brother, until such a time that what we’ve lost can be avenged.

  Gentry”

  I folded the letter and placed it in a decorative box along with the photograph. I walked over to the bookcase and placed it there as a keepsake, the last tie that I would have to my former life. I thought quietly about what he had written to me, about our common enemy. I knew there was a time coming when I would be expendable, but before that time came, I hoped that I could be responsible for tearing down The Syndicate brick by brick, even if that meant I would become as much of a murderous bastard as Gentry.

  The following is an excerpt from The Dead Planet Series BOOK 1: EXODUS

  Prologue

  The year 4412 on Mars:

  Pain was my only friend in this dark laboratory. This labyrinth of hell has held me captive for the last two months. It wasn’t bad at first, mostly physical exertion to the point of exhaustion. I had endured that kind of training growing up playing sports, but this new part of my training was something else entirely. ‘The human mind can only endure so much torture,’ at least that is what they told me coming into this. I wish I had volunteered, at least then I wouldn’t feel as if I were a prisoner being tortured by my guards.

  “Dr. Roblin, how is Prospect Blackwell holding up?” the man in a black Agency uniform said as he walked through the door. I could not see his face but I had heard his voice before, come to think of it I had heard his voice several times throughout my time here. Wherever ‘here’ is, I’m not sure.

  “He is physically a perfect candidate, Agent Gentry. I must confess that I am concerned with his mental capabilities though,” the doctor talked about me like I was a caged animal, unable to think on my own.

  “What capabilities would that be, Doctor?” There was an air of concern in the agent’s voice, though I’m not sure why. I would think that the idea of someone who is willing to put up a fight would be an attribute worthy of a member of the Agency.

  “He is not responding well to the reprogramming. Each time we show him a picture of you he becomes discontent, almost as if he is remembering what you did to his father,” Dr. Roblin said. Just the mention of my father brought me back to remembering what had happened. I can only see it in short spans of time, my father dead in the street, Kara crying in my arms, flashing lights surrounding the scene, and finally his face, the man who murdered my father.

  Agent Gentry paced around me; even under heavy sedatives my eyes were able to follow his form. His long, tired face reflected his years of abuse at the hands of the Agency. Now as a prospect I would have the same future in store for me. My eyes closed under the weight of my heavy eyelids. It had been days since I have slept and I could feel every ounce of pressure on my body from the electrodes that stimulated my senses. I decided to close my eyes and listen as the other men spoke.

  “What do you propose we do about that, Doctor?” Gentry asked as he turned away from me.

  “Well, many prospects have become valuable agents without receiving one hundred percent of the reprogramming procedure. Given his physical strengths and mental stamina, I would say that he will pass the Agency’s standards with a minimum of seventy five percent of the reprogramming completed. That is purely an estimate; I will have to conduct further analysis to be sure.”

  “How much of his memory will he retain?”

  “As much as we allow, sir,” Dr. Roblin typed some commands into his computer. I could see the holographic display illuminate his corner of the room as I opened my eyes. “These are the areas of the brain that respond to memory stimuli. Prospect Blackwell is apparently fixated on those memories created within the past twelve months or so. I suspect that the trauma of losing his mother and father in a short period of time has caused these barriers to our programming. I would suggest overriding the safety protocols to ensure a proper reprogramming, but it is risky. If it doesn’t work then we may lose the prospect entirely.”

  “Meaning he will die?”

  “Yes, sir,” the doctor said as he tugged at his collar and swallowed hard. Agent Gentry loomed over the doctor and stared down at the hologram. The blue and green light reflected from his face as he looked back at me. Our eyes met and I could have sworn that I had seen something like remorse in his eyes. I blinked once and the look was gone.

  “If he were to keep these memories, how productive would he be with the Agency?”

  “If we can get to seventy five percent then he will perform above average, sir.”

  “Is there a way that we can target a specific memory that he is attached to?”

  “Which memory do you have in mind, Agent Gentry?”

  Gentry walked in front of me and grabbed my face in his hand. He lifted my head so that our eyes met. I was too afraid to close my eyes as he spoke, “My request is that when you are done with him, I don’t want him to associate my name or my face with the execution of his father.”

  “That is a very specific request, Agent Gentry. At best I may be able to create a cloud over that particular memory. Anything more than that is speculative,” Dr. Roblin typed more commands into the computer as he spoke.

  “Then I suppose that is the best that we can hope for,” Gentry said as he released my face from his grip.

  “Why would you want me to target that particular memory, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Because I don’t want some rookie agent armed with a gauntlet to have it out for me, that’s why. I have four years until retirement; I’d like to spend that time without looking over my shoulder. It thought it would be a good idea to put in for a transfer, just to keep things on the safe side,” Gentry said as his communicator buzzed in his pocket. I watched him retrieve it and answer, “Gentry.” He stood silently and held the communicator to his ear. I could see a vein throb on his temple; it was a visible sign of either anger or distress. I had been learning the different signs, but I still was confused by some of the emotions that sparked similar reactions. “Understood,” he said before closing the communicator and shoving it back into his pocket.

  “Another assignment, sir?” Dr. Roblin asked while looking over the computer console.

  “Yes, I’m going to be reporting to Clenist tomorrow, so I’ll be leaving you under the supervision of another agent.” Gentry looked back at me for a moment as I tried to raise my head to meet his gaze. It was futile; I did not have the strength to move at all. “Just see to it that this prospect doesn’t remember who I am, understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” more typed commands emanated from his fingertips as I
glared up to see Agent Gentry walk to the door. I could feel the cold fluid of sedative entering my bloodstream through the veins in my arms. I made eye contact with Gentry one last time, and then everything went to black.

  Chapter 1

  Five years later:

  Another assignment nestled itself snuggly into the promised chaos of my day. Multiple assignments in a single day had become something of a rarity for me as of late. Alas, good things often come to an end, and given the circumstances of my life, I’m quite surprised that the good things in life have lasted this long. My guess was that the Syndicate had a few extra thorns in their side that needed pulling today. The United Martian Syndicate, or the Syndicate as most people referred to it, has stood as the dominating power since the inception of our civilization.

  It is operated by the wealthiest men in the world, the ones who hold control over everything; the economy, health care, education, even the population of a given region is in their hands. I suppose they figured population control was just short enough of a rein to allow them control over every aspect of our humanity. It’s fair to assume that they are right; the amount of criminal activity here is negligible for a place that has established so many laws. Our society did away with any kind of historical judicial system as it was known on Earth. Now any kind of criminal activity, confirmed or circumstantial, meets its demise at the end of a gauntlet. It stands to reason that fear would be the most motivating tool at their disposal and they use it with a gleeful vigor.

  I could smell the sea salt in the air as I turned the corner on the rust colored sidewalk that drove me deeper into downtown Archea. All through the city you could see homage to our planet as each building’s exterior was constructed from the same rust colored sand, at least in some part. It was such a common design element that most people didn’t even notice, but it was my job to pay attention to small details like that. Those details are the ones that can keep a man alive in this society.

  I moved quickly down the sidewalk maintaining my usual pace. Time wasn’t of the essence, but two years of training for this kind of job taught me to constantly keep on the move, regardless of whatever situation I found myself in. I have been a policeman for just over five years, and I have found over those years that I am just another pawn of the Syndicate. The policemen stand as the second most feared organization on this planet, but we are also the most oppressed. We are not eligible for marriage, property ownership, nor are we revered as citizens. We are basically the discarded children of our society, owned by some and loved by none. Of course that wasn't always true for me. I had hopes and dreams of having a family once upon a time. I was even engaged to be married when I finished high school, but that engagement lasted three weeks. My dreams were suspended by my recruitment into the Agency, the legal name for the company that I work for.

  The one thing that every prospect learned about the Agency was that they found you for the job. Once recruitment began you were stuck, unless they determined that there was something within you that conflicted with their programming. I was certain that the resentment I held for the Agency for putting a hit on my father would have been enough to disqualify me. I was wrong, I was burdened with this job one way or the other because after all is said and done you have two choices; accept the position or accept the alternative...death.

  I had been miserable for the first year of this job and it showed on my face, the misery still does even to this day. Coming out of the programming portion of my time as a prospect had a debilitating effect on my psyche. I had been cursed with the memories of a life that the doctors wanted me to forget. Those memories coupled with the programming forced into my mind almost drove me mad. I remember being called a success, but I felt like a failure as everything in my life fell down around me. The Agency accepted the fact that I remembered my family and what I had left behind, but I could not accept it for myself, this created a lot of tension in my life, and I found it difficult to create a balance in my world of regret.

  I stand six feet tall and weigh in at one hundred sixty pounds; I’m strong and agile despite my looks. My face has become sunken in where my cheeks used to be plump. My black hair hangs longer than it should, but finding time for a haircut is not usually a priority when on the job. The only possessions I have are my uniform and gauntlet which was tailored to fit me, everything else is issued by the Agency. My apartment and furnishings are mine so long as my employment lasts. I have nothing and I am nothing. This job is the only thing that has defined me for the last five years. I have had nothing else to show for my life except for a death toll that rises on a daily level.

  I turned another corner and entered the Whelming Building through the front entrance. Mr. Whelming was a wealthy man with a lot of power in the Syndicate, at least until he started making risky decisions with his investments in an attempt to build up his wealth. Now he was a target of the Syndicate because he had brought this undue attention to himself and they have tasked me with the hit. In case I failed to mention it before, the term policeman is a politically correct term for "political assassin". There is no law enforcement agency established here on Mars. There is only the Syndicate who controls the Agency, everyone else falls in line or is quickly removed from their life of servitude.

  I passed by the reception desk on my way into Whelming's office which was guarded by two retired policemen. I noted the face of each of the men as I passed; a part of me recognized the taller of the two men. His weary face was very distinguishable, but after a few years in this line of work and dealing with the wealthy and all of their lap dog lackeys it could be easy to see a face and not remember the context for recognizing it.

  The two men knew better than to interfere with official Agency business so they stepped aside. The brief eye contact I shared with them confirmed the years of mental scarring they had experienced with thirty years of assigned murders under their belts. Retirement was the only way out of the Agency while you were still breathing, and these men had served the Syndicate well. I often thought of retirement as a fool’s reward for doing such a dastardly good job. Maybe I was the fool because I'm still doing it instead of jumping off a cliff or firing a laser into my brain. Or, maybe my compulsion to succeed has driven me so far over the edge that I have plummeted further into the darkness.

  I strolled into Whelming's office unannounced and I could see him seated at his large desk. He looked up to me and the fear in his eyes showed me that single characteristic which was shared by all of the distinguished guests on my hit list; regret.

  "Serus," he said as his face whitened. Fear mustered into a stench that I could smell from ten feet away.

  "Mr. Whelming, I believe you know why I'm here," I said. This was after all not a social call and he knew that better than most. Whelming had been responsible for many assignments that I’ve completed during my time in the Agency. For him, that time was coming to an end.

  "I swear, Serus, I can explain everything. Believe me when I tell you that it's a matter of global security!" He was trying to buy me. It was a common way that people in the Syndicate tried to prevent their demise. They either paid you a ransom or they fed you enough lies to guilt you into buying them time to escape. Neither method ever worked with me, I retained enough pre-prospect memories to understand the process.

  "Save it," I said. "You know that once a hit has been placed on you that it must be carried out unless it’s canceled by the person who ordered it."

  "I understand that, but I have an explanation for what's going on. All I'm asking for is twenty four hours to sort this thing out!" He pleaded with me like a child.

  I stood there and watched this man all but get down on his knees and beg for mercy. I was certain that he was stalling and that charade didn't make my job any easier. I contemplated which route I wanted to take. Kill him now and be done with it, or give him enough time to run and hide? I’ll admit that I don’t usually give it a second thought; luckily the right decision presented itself as a call came over the intercom in his of
fice.

  "Mr. Whelming, this is dispatching at the Agency. I just wanted to confirm your order for Dr. Kara Blackwell."

  Our eyes met at that moment when the dispatcher said my sister’s name in conjunction with a hit that had been originated by this coward! Knowing that his time was up Whelming pressed the confirm icon on the holographic display that illuminated from the base of the intercom onto his desk. As soon as his finger touched the icon the call ended and I was once again alone with my assignment, the man who had just assigned another policeman to kill my sister!

  Rage is an emotion that had been processed out of my mind during my training as a prospect. That long lost emotion splintered within my psyche as I jumped across Whelming's desk and wrapped my hands around his throat. There was something primal in my attack that defied logic. This was the reason why emotions were dissolved during our training; you never knew when an assignment might become personal. My resolve to choke the life out of him with my bare hands began wrestling with my programming; I could feel the tension of my hands ease around his neck. Whelming lay limply on his back, sucking at the air that had been deprived from his lungs moments earlier. I stood and walked away trying to gather my thoughts and calm myself down. It was very uncharacteristic of me to lose control of my emotions like that, but given the circumstances it should have been expected. I dare any man not to take the killing of his sister personally. Even those agents with a one hundred percent mind wipe learn to re associate their memories over time, especially when the death of a family member triggered their memories.

  I paced in a circle around Whelming as he sat up coughing and rubbing his purplish throat. I could see the indentations from where my fingers had been. My adrenaline lowered with my heart rate as the seconds passed. I touched the silver gauntlet on my right wrist which gleamed against the black leather of my jacket and set the laser to the highest setting, the laser’s diffuser illuminated in a bright blue beam. I stood over Whelming and set the sight into the center of his forehead. He sat there and whimpered like a beaten animal cowering before its abuser. Regret showed on his face, but I did not give a moment’s thought about mercy for this man.