The ragnarok resolution, p.13
The Ragnarok Resolution, page 13
part #3 of Genetics Chronicles Series
“Redirection . . .” Damian said, savoring the word, before nodding, “Very well. Wake her up.”
“Yes, sir,” nodded the medic, leading the way into the recovery room. Damian sat down in the chair at the bedside, worry seeping into his anger as he looked at Liane. She frowned in her sleep, bruises under her closed eyes. As the medic depressed a syringe into Liane’s IV line, Damian leaned forward, waiting for her to wake up.
She shifted on the gurney, fighting for consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. The medic quickly leaned over her, shining a light in her eyes bright enough to make her face contort into a scowl. She glanced around, blinking as she looked to Damian. Recognition shone in her eyes, and she started to sit up until she felt resistance from the restraints binding her to the gurney. She swallowed, clearly alarmed, yet fighting to control it.
“Do you know where you are, Liane?” he asked, holding her attention. The medic stood close by, the tranquilizer gun hidden behind her back as they waited to see if she would need to use it.
Liane nodded, her voice somewhat scratchy as she answered, “Med bay in the Agency. I felt sick during the gala, and you brought me here. What happened? I remember seeing things, just flashes, and bits, and then my head hurting—”
“A side-effect of your injury,” Damian cut in. “Triggered by the stimulus of the game, perhaps. You’ve experienced episodes of distress since recovering; this time was just particularly bad.”
Liane frowned, saying almost to herself, “I saw a face . . . a man’s face. I didn’t recognize him, but I felt like I should.”
Damian shrugged. “Flashes of missions, maybe.”
“Try not to focus on them, it will just make you sick again,” said the medic, moving nearer to check Liane’s vitals with practiced, indifferent ease. “How are you feeling now?”
Liane took a few seconds for a self-inventory, trying out her limbs and finally saying, “My head aches, and I’m hungry. Other than that, I feel fine.”
“Good,” the medic nodded, making notes on the tablet before gesturing to Damian. “Sir, I’ll review her vitals with you now if you would—”
“At the gala, you said something,” Liane cut in, not looking away from her Handler. “That we wouldn’t be apart again. What were you talking about? We’ve never been apart . . . have we?”
Silently cursing his own stupidity, Damian shook his head, “It’s not important.”
Liane’s eyes narrowed, and her face had that familiar stubbornness about it, a single-minded desire to get an answer. “Tell me what you meant.”
He looked back at her, considering his options and feeling as if he stood balanced on the edge of a knife. Then he made his choice, glanced at the medic, and ordered, “Give us a few minutes alone.”
The medic left the room, and after the door closed behind her, the silence seemed deafening.
Damian undid the restraints around Liane’s wrists, then sat back in his chair. “The injury to your head . . . Do you recall how you got it?”
Liane frowned, shaking her head. “Just what you told me; I fell during a mission.”
“It was a mission, but it wasn’t your mission,” he explained, keeping his gaze steadily on hers. “It was mine, my mission to recover you, following your capture by mod insurgents.”
Liane’s lips parted in shock, stunned by his words.
“You infiltrated one of their hideouts to plant surveillance devices, but the mods caught on.” Damian made certain to keep the pitch of his voice regular, making eye contact without staring as he went on, “They managed to subdue you, and then transported you to several other locations to make immediate retrieval impossible. The entire Agency tried to find you, but the mods were smart. Very careful. It took months before you could be rescued.”
Damian paused, giving her time to absorb and accept the lies before he went on, “During those months, they subjected you to the usual interrogations. When you resisted, they became convinced that your genetic advancements were due to modding and not our recruitment skills. They tried whatever they could to crack into your mind and genetic code. According to the records we found, toward the end, they experimented on you nearly twenty-four hours a day.”
Shaken, Liane said in a tremulous voice, “Then the things I saw in the game and last night; running, being sedated and alone, that man’s face . . . Is that what they did to me?”
Damian nodded, dark eyes trained on her as he went on, “There was one non-modified insurgent who headed up the tortures. The man’s face you keep seeing . . . I think it might be his.”
Liane shook her head, persisting, “I don’t remember any of this.”
“And it’s thanks to him,” Damian said, his voice hard. “When I finally tracked down your location and came after them, he shoved you off a roof. I suppose they decided a dead Agent was better than a recovered one. And you nearly did die, Liane.”
“Did you kill them?”
“The ones we could find. The man who tortured you, though—he managed to escape.” Damian leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees as he said, “I should have told you, but I worried what it would do to you to remember. It seemed a kindness, in a way, for you to just forget.”
Her eyes darted away, clearly trying to sort through everything she’d heard. “How can I stop seeing these things?”
“Focus on what’s happening right now,” Damian instructed. “On your life as it is, not as it was.”
She looked up at him, asking, “Is that why you’ve been restricting my movements? Because of what happened?”
Damian nodded. “I just wanted to protect you. I couldn’t risk losing you again.”
He thought that the words would comfort her, but instead, her mouth shook, as did her voice as she asked, “But you didn’t always think so, did you? Adrian told me that you didn’t even want me to begin with. That you only accepted the match because she made you.”
Damian straightened, regarding her as he said in understanding, “So that’s what she said to you.”
“Is it true?”
“To a point,” he admitted reluctantly. “At the time we were matched, I wasn’t ready to be a Handler—wasn’t prepared for the responsibility. Compared to my life as an Agent, being a Handler felt like a burden.”
Liane shook her head, voice mournful, “I always thought you were different. My parents may not have wanted me . . . the orphanage gave me away . . . but you chose me.” She looked up at the ceiling, the light glinting at the corners of her eyes. “Except now, I know you didn’t.”
“Only at first,” Damian said, leaning toward her once more with urgency in his voice. “We were strangers to one another. How could I have possibly understood then how much I would need you?”
Bitterness shot through each word as she said, “To carry out missions and executions—”
“No,” Damian said with a shake of his head, words low and fierce. “To talk to, to share things with—to find some scrap of humanity in these lives we lead. That’s what you mean to me.”
Liane still refused to look at him, clearly unconvinced. He sat back, letting out a sigh before he continued, “I’ve always wanted to believe that it was more than just the throw of an Administrator's dice that brought us together; that some twist of fate led us to the person who could make us whole again.” When her eyes flicked over to him, he added softly, “You’re my other half, Liane. And I wish I’d realized it sooner.”
She turned to him at last, some of the hurt fading from her expression. “Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”
Damian smiled, though there was a touch of melancholy in his voice as he answered, “You’ve always looked to me to have all the answers. I never wanted you to know how fallible I actually am.”
“Not fallible; human,” she murmured. “And you don’t need to hide that part of yourself from me. It’s difficult to relate to a machine, Damian.”
He thought of Adrian, admitting, “That’s very true.”
“Then let me in,” Liane said, easing herself up into a sitting position. “You said that we’re supposed to be starting over.”
“And we are,” Damian nodded. “I told you before that when you've recovered, you’ll become my Tactical Advisor. I think it’s time for you to take up the role.”
She raised an eyebrow, saying with an unusual amount of sarcasm, “I collapse after you finally let me out, and suddenly, you want to give me more freedom?”
“It would be beneficial to everyone. You’ll have something to occupy your mind besides the past. I’ll have a skilled, trustworthy lieutenant. And the Agency will have one of its best back in the field.”
She frowned, reasoning aloud. “Tactical Advisors need to know what’s going on in the country. If you really want me to be that for you, you’re going to have to stop with the constant monitoring, the restriction to the building.”
Though he had no intention of doing either, Damian conceded, “When it’s necessary, yes.”
Liane regarded him as if trying to sense whether he was in earnest or not. She didn’t seem convinced one way or the other, but said, “If you mean that—really mean it—then I accept.”
“Good,” Damian nodded. “Tomorrow, we’ll begin. I already have our first mission in mind.”
He motioned toward the observation window, and the medic returned to the room. Liane brushed off the medic’s assistance, however, unfastening the restraints herself. Damian sat and waited as she stood, pulling off heart monitors, sensors, and her IV line, ignoring the blood that welled up from the puncture wound. She turned to face him, standing at attention as she said, “I’m ready.”
Damian stood, reaching into his pocket. Bringing out a handkerchief, he took her hand and swabbed the blood away. His eyes rose from the wound to her face. “Making up for lost time?”
She shrugged, “Just tired of being helpless. I’ve done enough of that, it seems.”
Damian lifted his chin, appraising her as he asked, “And what do people like us do when we feel helpless?”
Liane answered without hesitation, “What we were born to do; kill enemies.”
Damian smiled, his voice almost savage as he said, “That’s my girl.”
CHAPTER 15
Outside one of the many houses of justice in Berlin, armed guards stood preparing for the nightly transport of prisoners. The first several groups contained routine offenders. They shuffled out from mass sentencings to the vans that would carry them to the mines to serve out their labor term. The guards watched with little more than boredom as, one by one, the standard vans pulled away into the darkness beyond the lights of the watchtowers. Finally, only one van remained, manned by two officers in full combat gear with smooth black masks hiding their faces. They stood at attention beside the van, tensing when a voice announced over the loudspeaker, “Mods kommen aus!”
The change was instantaneous. More guards, most of them holding the leashes of large dogs, appeared to flank the walkways, while the guards in the towers leveled their rifles on the doors to the building. The air thickened with anticipation, with fear, as the doors opened to reveal a dozen prisoners in bright yellow jumpsuits. Manacles bound their wrists, and their ankles were chained as well. A heavy metal collar encircled each neck, a thick chain connecting each collar to that of the next prisoner. Each of the mods looked frightened, the light reflecting off of their changed eyes as they shuffled forward toward the waiting van. The officers motioned impatiently toward the mods, pushing them up the ramp when they didn’t move fast enough.
As the last mod stepped inside, one of the officers mashed down a button on the van’s exterior, closing the doors which locked with a groan of hydraulics. One of the prison guards, his dog straining on the leash, drifted closer to ask the waiting officer, “You’d better be careful with this load. Dangerous criminals, all of them.”
“No worries,” said the officer, inching toward the passenger door. “We know how to handle mods.”
The guard tilted his head, saying, “You know, sometimes mod transports go missing . . . Difficult to find anything once its outside the city. Sometimes bodies show up, sometimes not.”
“Yeah?” the officer said, hand gripping the weapon at his side. “Does that happen often?”
“When it does, no one worries over it,” said the guard. “Saves the States from having to house these animals.”
“We’d better get going, then,” the officer said. “And we’ll see if this lot makes it to the mines.”
The guard laughed, breath misting in the air. “Gute Reise!”
The officer gave a few half-hearted chuckles that died the moment he closed the door to the cab of the van. As soon as the driver climbed in and shut her door, he muttered, “You were right, Mariel; they’re killing mods between here and the labor camps.”
“Good thing we caught this transport in time,” she said, an edge of nervousness in her voice. She drove forward, adding, “Disable the tracking software.”
Seth pulled a small scrambler out of his pocket, plugging it into the port in the dashboard of the van. The indicator light glowed, illuminating the cab green and whirring as it fried the internal navigation system. The light flickered out, leaving the air smelling faintly of burnt circuits.
Seth reached for his mask until Mariel chastised, “Leave it on until we’re beyond the city.”
He made an irritated noise, scratching at his neck and complaining, “These things itch. I’ve never liked wearing them.”
“Well, then maybe you shouldn’t have ended up with your face plastered across the newsfeeds,” returned Mariel, a smile in her voice. “Hold tight; I’ll drive as fast as I can.”
The van sped through the city, clearing the checkpoint at the outskirts before heading into the darkness of the surrounding wilderness. Seth ripped off his mask as soon as he could, his face flushed and curly hair askew. When they passed a familiar sign, he pulled out a phone, saying into it, “Neil, we’re nearly there.”
“Hurry up,” said Neil from the other end. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”
“Five minutes,” Seth said, then hung up.
The van turned off the main road, bumping awkwardly down a gravel path. The milky light of the van’s headlights illuminated the group of mods waiting for them. Neil stood front and center, scowling and trying not to shiver too much.
As Mariel parked, Seth stepped out into the cold and headed to the back of the van. The mods of Black Sun came to join him, shining industrial flashlights toward the doors as Seth wrenched them open. The mods within all jumped and turned within their individual cells, blinking into the fluttering lights with fearful faces. Seth climbed up with bolt-cutters, and the first mod shrank back from the wire mesh, pleading, “Tu mir nicht weh . . . Please, don’t hurt me.”
“Relax,” Seth ordered, starting to work on the padlock. “Neil, we’ll need caustic on these cuffs.”
Neil jumped up to help, working alongside Seth in silence. Occasionally there came a plea or question from the mods, but most of them seemed too frightened to say anything at all. Finally, the last manacles clattered to the floor, and Seth motioned for the mods to follow him out of the van. The waiting mods of Black Sun murmured greetings, while the freed prisoners stood shivering in their thin jumpsuits.
“Right,” Seth said once they’d all jumped out, “All of you got arrested for modding and sentenced to heavy time. That’s only provided you make it to the mines alive. Based on our intel, if we hadn’t intercepted the transport, it’s safe to say that you’d all be dead now.”
“Who are you people?” called out a reptile mod from the back of the crowd.
“He’s Seth Laski,” said a girl near the front. “I remember seeing his photo on the newsfeeds.”
“That’s right,” nodded Seth. “I’m with Black Sun now. It’s a group made up of mods like you.”
“What do you want with us?” asked another mod.
“To give you a chance,” Mariel called out. “The only reason mods are being arrested and killed is because those in power want to keep modding for government operatives. Black Sun wants to change that equation.”
A sullen wolf mod near the front demanded, “How?”
“By forming the army that can stop them,” Seth answered. “The world since the Third World War has been divided into those who have all the power and those with none. Before, it was different. People had a say, they mattered. And if they won’t give us those basic rights without a fight, then that’s what we’ll give them.”
“We can’t win,” protested one. “There aren’t enough of us.”
“There never will be, not if we don’t start sticking together,” Seth said with conviction. “You can walk away from here if you want. Try to get out of the Germanic States and keep running. Or you can stay here and stand for something. It’s your choice.”
The girl who had recognized Seth stepped forward to join him, as did more than half of the remaining mods. A few, including the wolf mod, stayed back. Seth nodded, gesturing to his compatriots as he said, “We’ve brought food and supplies to help you. Wherever you go, be safe.”
Neil and the others handed over black duffel bags, along with a few sparse words of encouragement. The reluctant mods left quickly, some heading back to the road while others ran off into the wilderness. Seth watched them until he was certain they’d gone, then turned back to the shivering mods waiting for his orders. “Right, we’ll get you to headquarters. We’ve got extra coats and boots; there’s a long walk ahead of us . . .”
It was well after midnight by the time the group arrived at the citadel. Seth held back as the mods walked inside, watching with faint satisfaction as the Black Sun veterans welcomed the newest recruits.
Mariel sidled close to him, murmuring, “Nice work. Every mod we can bring to our side will help.”
He shrugged, faintly moody as he answered, “Yeah, but for how much longer are we going to wait here before actually doing anything?”
