The Cut Out

by Jack Heath

  ‘Noelein.’ A tall man approached. He wore a loose T-shirt and baggy cargo pants which almost covered his dirty running shoes. His hands were black with engine grease. His drooping lip and sad eyes looked familiar – it took Fero a moment to realise he was the driver who had picked him up from school.

  ‘I’m Sloth,’ he said. ‘I’ll be responsible for your training and equipment.’

  ‘You got a lame call sign too, huh?’ Fero said.

  Sloth glared at him. ‘That’s my real name.’

  Fero’s face became hot. ‘Sorry. I mean, sorry that I offended you. I’m not sorry that’s your name. I—’

  Then he noticed that Noelein was smirking.

  ‘That was cruel, Sloth,’ she told him.

  He smiled. ‘Well. Not many opportunities for a laugh around here.’ He grinned apologetically at Fero. ‘Yes, Sloth’s just a call sign. Come on in.’

  Fero followed them into the warehouse, examining the stacks of equipment. Climbing ropes lay coiled under harnesses and carabiners. Telescopic microphones hovered on spindly stands. Cars, trucks and motorcycles waited in neat rows. The lines of shelves blocked most of the warehouse from view. Fero wondered how large the place truly was, and what else its dark recesses concealed.

  The guns weren’t hidden. There were hundreds of them. Fero eyed the rows of pistols, automatic rifles and rocket-propelled grenade launchers with unease. Was he expected to use these?

  ‘I can’t give you any weapons,’ Sloth said. ‘The Besmari troops will just take them away when they search you at the border. But there’s more to being a Librarian than knowing how to shoot.’

  He pulled a pair of handcuffs and a mobile phone off a shelf. Then he snapped one of the cuffs closed around Fero’s wrist, and the other around the shelf.

  ‘Hey!’ Fero cried.

  ‘That’s lesson number one,’ Sloth said. ‘Don’t trust anybody. People will act like they’re on your side, but don’t assume they are.’

  ‘I’ll leave you boys to it,’ Noelein said as she walked away.

  ‘See you later,’ Sloth said.

  Fero tried to yank his wrist out of the cuff. It was too tight.

  ‘So, I just chained you to a shelf,’ Sloth told him. ‘How did I do that?’

  ‘You were quick,’ Fero grumbled.

  ‘Wrong. I was confident. I moved like I knew what I was doing, so you let me do it. That’s lesson two. Be confident.’

  How is this training? Fero thought. ‘Can I take this off now?’

  ‘Sure.’ Sloth handed him the mobile phone.

  Fero examined it. Clearly this was a test. ‘Am I supposed to call for help?’

  ‘No. Remember, you won’t have any backup in Besmar.’

  Fero brought up a web search and typed how to get out of handcuffs.

  Sloth laughed. ‘That’s a new one.’ He took the phone out of Fero’s hand. ‘If anyone tries to use this phone, it’ll work. If they X-ray it, it’ll look normal. But it has a quirk.’

  He pushed a tab on the side and pulled the phone into two neat halves. Inside, Fero could see the battery, the SIM card and the hard drive – a rapidly spinning disc under a magnetic needle.

  Sloth held half of the phone against the chain that linked the two cuffs. When the hard drive touched the metal, the chain snapped with a brief shriek.

  ‘What . . . how . . .?’

  ‘The edge of the hard drive is coated with cubic boron nitride,’ Sloth said. ‘It can cut through pretty much anything, so keep it away from your fingers. The battery is good for twenty minutes’ cutting time.’ He put the two halves of the phone together and handed it over. ‘Lesson three. Nothing is ever what it seems.’

  Fero took the phone apprehensively. He was no longer tethered to the shelf, but the cuff was still around his wrist.

  ‘Should I try to cut this off?’ he asked.

  ‘Leave it. We want the Besmari border guards to think you escaped from custody.’

  Sloth must have seen the look on his face. He clapped Fero on the back.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s scared the first time they go into the field. But this is a Class D mission. It’s less than two days long, and it involves no breaking and entering, no bombs, no kills. No Librarian has ever been seriously injured in a Class D mission.’

  But I’m not a Librarian, Fero thought. I’m just a kid with an unfortunate face.

  ‘Come on,’ Sloth said. ‘There’s more cool stuff to see.’

  Sloth showed him a bulletproof T-shirt, a pen that could be used to pick locks and a pair of sunglasses that could detect infra-red light. But Fero wasn’t allowed to take any of these things with him, because the Besmari border guards would spot the modifications. He got the impression that Sloth just enjoyed showing off.

  Less than eighteen hours to turn me into a spy, Fero thought, and Sloth is showing me trinkets.

  ‘Take these.’ Sloth handed him a waterproof bag containing a toothbrush and some toothpaste.

  ‘What do these do?’

  ‘They keep your teeth clean.’

  Fero wanted to scream.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Sloth said. ‘Minty breath will make you seem trustworthy. Here.’

  He gave Fero a long, faded leather coat. It was heavy, but the woollen lining would be warm. ‘The border fence is topped by razor wire,’ he said. ‘Drape this on the sharp bits before you climb over. There’s a layer of ballistic nylon under the leather. It won’t stop a bullet, but it should protect your hands. Take the coat with you afterwards. The dirt out in the Dead Zone is about sixty per cent silica and thirty per cent clay. It’s mostly the same colour as the coat. If you think someone’s headed your way, just lie down under it.’

  ‘What’s the other ten per cent?’

  ‘Grass, dead animals – and landmines, of course.’

  He led Fero over to a filing cabinet and rummaged through it. ‘Now, somewhere, I . . . okay. Here’s your passport.’

  ‘How did you get—’

  Fero saw the Besmari coat of arms on the front of the passport. When he opened it up, Troy Maschenov’s face stared out at him.

  ‘Creepy, huh?’ Sloth said.

  The face held an eerie resemblance to Fero’s own, but for the scar on Maschenov’s chin and his inhuman expression. Maschenov’s brows hung low over burning eyes. His lips were slightly parted, as though he were about to snarl like a mountain lion. Fero suddenly felt like the boy could see him through the photo. He snapped the passport shut.

  ‘His hair is parted on the wrong side,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s not. You’re used to looking in mirrors.’

  Fero resisted the urge to check his reflection in the phone’s glass screen.

  ‘That’s not just a passport,’ Sloth said. ‘The paper has been soaked in a cocktail of magnesium and eucalyptus oil. It’ll burn bright and loud. You’ll also get a lot of smoke, but not much heat. So if you want to create a panic by convincing someone that the building is on fire, this will do the trick.’

  ‘Have you got some matches?’

  ‘No need. Just tear out the page with the Russian stamp, and the friction will do the trick. You’ll also need this to get back home.’

  Sloth handed over another folded document, emblazoned with the Kamauan flag on the front. Inside was a short letter of authorisation from the President herself, complete with a taut, slanted signature. Fero got a surreal thrill as he touched the ink.

  The letter wasn’t specific about his mission. It didn’t even have his real name on it. It just said agent Cuckoo represented the Kamauan attorney-general’s department and anyone presented with this letter was bound by law to call the following phone number.

  ‘Where can I hide this?’ Fero asked. ‘They’ll kill me if they find it.’

  Sloth took the document, unfolded it and refolded it inside out. As if by magic, the document became a map of the Kamauan subway system.

  When Fero took it, he couldn’t work out how
to change it back.

  ‘The secret flap is here.’ Sloth pointed. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll never figure it out. What’s your shoe size?’

  ‘Uh, nine,’ Fero said.

  Sloth led him over to a rack of black, thick-soled combat boots and tossed him a pair. ‘Put these on.’

  Fero slipped into the boots and laced them up. They weren’t nearly as heavy as they looked and they made him quite a lot taller. But he stood unsteadily – it felt like he was rocking on his heels, even though he was trying to stand still.

  ‘There are carbon-fibre springs inside the soles,’ Sloth explained. ‘Similar to those used by sprinters in the Paralympics. It’ll be hard to balance at first, but you’ll get a forty per cent increase in running speed. Try it.’

  Fero started to jog away across the concrete, but tripped almost immediately. His forearms and knees stung as they hit the floor.

  Sloth grabbed his collar and hauled him back to his feet. ‘Take longer strides,’ he said. ‘Don’t think of it as running. Think of it as jumping from one foot to the other.’

  Fero licked his lips, crouched, and jumped. He didn’t fly any further than usual before landing on one foot, but the springs kicked in on the second stride. Soon he was bounding across the concrete at a terrifying speed, squinting against the wind. The springs made soft hissing sounds as he ran.

  He looped around, sprinting past the cars and motorcycles and guns. He was starting to feel good. Running was something he understood. It had nothing to do with terrorists, bombs, spies or viruses. Just one foot in front of the other, faster and faster until the whole world was a harmless blur.

  He skidded to a halt near Sloth.

  ‘Can I keep these after the mission?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Sloth said.

  ‘Okay,’ Fero said, disappointed.

  Sloth glanced around. ‘But if they were to go missing in Besmar,’ he said, ‘I don’t think anyone would be suspicious.’

  Fero tried not to grin. ‘Understood. Won’t the Besmari border guards realise that these are special shoes?’

  ‘Not unless they try them on.’ Sloth was rummaging through the guns, looking for something in particular. ‘If they ask, tell them you stole them from a Kamauan soldier when you escaped. Like the phone and the passport, they’re not weapons, so you’ll get them back once you’ve convinced them that you’re Troy Maschenov. You shouldn’t need them until you and Frankenstein are trying to get back into Kamau anyway. That’s when you’ll be dodging bullets.’

  Fero hoped that Sloth was speaking figuratively. ‘How am I going to get across in the first place?’

  ‘We’ll get to that.’ Sloth pulled a paintball gun off the rack.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Fero asked.

  ‘It’s going to teach you to dodge bullets,’ Sloth said. He pointed it at Fero’s chest. ‘I’ll give you a ten-second head start.’

  THE RECRUIT

  Fero laughed nervously.

  ‘Eight seconds,’ Sloth said.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Five seconds.’

  Fero didn’t waste any more time. He dashed away from Sloth, still unsteady on the springy shoes. He had only just ducked behind a rack of clothes when the first shot was fired. A red stain exploded across the wall.

  ‘You might feel like I didn’t give you much time to prepare.’ Sloth’s voice floated closer. ‘But in Besmar, you won’t even get ten seconds.’

  Fero’s whole body throbbed with terror. He knew a boy who was blind in one eye because he’d taken his goggles off during a paintball match. ‘I need a helmet!’ he cried. ‘Paintballs are dangerous!’

  A shot smacked into one of the jackets hanging above his head, showering him with neon blue spray. Fero tumbled over backwards. Heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet and kept running.

  ‘Lesson four,’ Sloth called. ‘When you’re outgunned, stay quiet.’

  Fero raced through aisle after aisle of weapons he didn’t know how to use. He saw no body armour, riot shields, or anything else he could protect himself with. The bulletproof T-shirt Sloth had showed him was nowhere to be seen.

  After turning a corner, he found himself in an aisle that looked like a stationery store. The shelves were filled with binders, staplers, rolls of tape and reams of paper. Fero suspected none of these objects were what they appeared to be, so he didn’t touch anything. He stopped, and listened. Feet shuffled in another aisle. Fero wondered how long this test was supposed to take. Would he have to wait until Noelein came back to save him? Or just until Sloth ran out of ammunition?

  Neither possibility appealed to him much.

  He couldn’t hear Sloth any more. Perhaps this meant they were listening out for each other. Or perhaps—

  Fero yelped as a paintball whipped out from between the shelves, rocketed past his face and burst somewhere behind him. He dived sideways instinctively, dodging a second shot.

  ‘Now you’re getting it,’ Sloth said.

  Fero fled into the gloom, ducking around microphone stands and mobility scooters. At this speed the springs made clacking sounds, but he didn’t want to slow down until he was far away from Sloth.

  I’ll hide, he thought. This place is huge. Sloth doesn’t have time to search everywhere. I’ll hide until Noelein comes back.

  But surely that wasn’t the point of this test. If all Sloth wanted was a game of hide-and-seek, he wouldn’t have needed the paintball gun.

  Fero skidded to a halt beside a small round table and a pair of flimsy garden chairs. He tapped the metal gingerly. Nothing exploded. Perhaps this was just normal furniture.

  Grabbing the support post beneath the table, he held it up sideways like a giant shield. It was heavy, but he could carry it. And while the iron mesh of the tabletop was thick, there were just enough holes to see through.

  Now he needed a distraction.

  He picked up one of the spindly chairs with his other arm and hurled it into the air. It flew across the aisle and crashed into a filing cabinet, making even more noise than Fero had hoped for. He crouched behind his shield and waited.

  Sloth rounded the corner only seconds later, paintball pointed towards the sound.

  Fero charged.

  Sloth heard him coming. He spun around. Saw Fero. Aimed. Crack! A paintball struck the tabletop. A fine mist of green paint filtered through the grill.

  Fero didn’t slow down. He hurtled towards Sloth like a knight in a jousting match.

  Another two shots hit the table. Fero ignored them. It took all his concentration just to stay balanced, running so fast with the heavy table under his arm.

  Sloth was too smart to keep firing at the shield. A paintball exploded on the floor between Fero’s feet, and he made a startled hop before resuming his wild sprint, holding the table a little lower.

  Fero cried out as the next shot struck his shin, electrifying the long nerve that covered the bone. The pain made him stumble, but he didn’t fall.

  Through the grill he could see Sloth sidestepping, trying to get out of his path. Fero changed his trajectory and channelled the last of his energy into his aching legs. His arms burned under the weight of the table.

  Half a second before impact, Sloth tried to dive aside. The table clipped his feet, and he crashed gracelessly to the floor. Fero tripped and let go of the table. He covered his face as the ground rushed up to meet him.

  The concrete bashed against his elbows and knees as the table rolled away down the aisle. Fero didn’t pause to assess his injuries. The paintball gun lay on its side, halfway between him and Sloth.

  He scrambled towards it on his scraped palms. Sloth was already moving, reaching out with one desperate arm.

  Fero got there first. He snatched up the gun and pointed it at Sloth’s face. He’d never held a gun before, but the motion felt frighteningly natural.

  Sloth raised his hands, and smiled.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said.

  Fero didn’t lower the gun. ‘That reall
y hurt,’ he said, breathing heavily.

  Sloth glanced at Fero’s paint-spattered leg. ‘I don’t doubt it. You’ll have some very convincing bruises when the Besmaris examine you.’

  ‘You shot me. I don’t—’

  ‘You’re supposed to be speaking in Besmari,’ Noelein said.

  Fero whirled around. She was standing beside a row of sawhorses. He wondered how long she had been watching.

  ‘How did he do, Sloth?’ she asked.

  ‘As you said,’ Sloth replied. ‘He can run, he can dodge, he can improvise under pressure. But in Besmar there will be more opponents, and they’ll be using real guns.’

  ‘Is he ready?’

  Sloth looked Fero up and down, and nodded. ‘He’s ready.’

  Fero didn’t feel ready. He felt like a condemned man. Was this really all the training he was going to get?

  ‘Follow me, Cuckoo,’ Noelein said. ‘You’ve learned to be a Librarian. Now you have to learn to be Troy Maschenov.’

  ‘You were born in Premiovaya, Besmar,’ Noelein said, ‘where your mother still lives. Her name is Jeel Iaga Maschenova. Your father died when you were four. Now repeat that back to me.’

  ‘I was born in Premiovaya,’ Fero said. ‘My mother, Jeel Iaga Maschenova, still lives there. My father died when I was four.’

  They were back in Noelein’s office. She had removed the map and covered her desk with photographs. She pointed to one of them – a woman with large eyes and a pointed chin. ‘This is Jeel Maschenova. She’s a museum curator. You haven’t seen her since you joined the Bank when you were ten.’

  She had already told him that ‘the Bank’ was a code name for Besmar State Security. Agents were called ‘Tellers’. It sounded childish to Fero, but he supposed it meant that agents could talk in public places without attracting eavesdroppers. It was strange to think of Besmar as having museums – he pictured it as a post-apocalyptic wasteland – but that wasn’t what surprised him most.

  ‘The Bank recruits agents as young as ten?’ Fero said.

  ‘Focus, Cuckoo. You were recruited by Ulrick Vartaniev.’ Noelein pointed to a picture of an old man with thinning hair and a squashed nose. ‘He used you to deliver messages, and when you proved yourself to be good at that, he had you follow suspected revolutionaries. You were partly responsible for preventing a coup in Tus. Repeat.’